Mark of the Beast (16 page)

“If you dump an organ, say the kidney, in the juice, it disappears in a matter of minutes. In layman's terms, yes, total evaporation.”

“Wouldn't you see blood or particles floating in the solution?” Nsi asked curiously.

“Right now, there is only a slight discoloration, but I believe that in enough solution, or a higher concentration, that color would probably disappear.”

“You mean,” persisted an uncomprehending Nsi, “you can literally dump someone into that solution—and poof?”

“Yes, poof,” answered Marion, pulling his glasses up slightly with his right middle finger.

“Lee, the congressman is looking for you,” a voice said through the open French doors.

“I'm sorry. I'll be right there,” Nsi apologized to the intruder.

“Enjoy yourself, we'll talk some more,” Nsi whispered to Moheri.

Walking through the crowd, clapping at the congressman's remarks, Nsi made his way to the podium. “Isn't he wonderful?” said Dr. Nsi to more applause.

“I would like to thank everyone again for this wonderful occasion,” Nsi remarked. “Please, there is plenty to eat in the dining room, and those of you who would like a picture taken with the congressman, the setup is in the sun room. Also, don't forget to stop at the office anytime. That's the door to your left. Monica is patiently waiting. No amount is too large.”

The crowd laughed.

“Monica will have all the information you need.”

 

4

“I
SAW YOU IN
the newspaper yesterday,” smiled Marge Fisher, with the same sexy smile she had used in the past to charm Dr. Nsi. Marge, the former head nurse at four-wing-three, a cardiovascular and surgical step-down unit at Indiana University Hospital in Glen Park, was now the head nurse in the operating room.

“You collected about a hundred thousand dollars for the congressman; that's phenomenal.”

“Yes,” responded Nsi, half paying attention while adjusting his surgical cap, which he then tied around his head.

It was 6:30
A.M.
, and Nsi's patient was prepped for major quadruple bypass surgery.

Nsi had already talked to the patient, changed into scrubs, and was in the midst of his final preparations. He left the operating room to wait for the anesthesiologist's final induction of the patient.

Standing outside at the hallway that led directly to the employees' parking, sipping a cup of coffee, Nsi was accosted by Nurse Fisher.

“That surprised me, too,” Nsi agreed. “I didn't expect that many donations.”

“Dr. Nsi, I know this is the wrong time, but I really need your help,” Marge said, commencing her begging.

“What is it now?” asked an irritated Nsi.

Marge always picks the wrong time to ask for favors, and most of her requests revolve around money, thought Nsi.

“Don't say it like that.”

Ms. Marge Fisher, a blond, petite, forty-six-year-old, had been romantically involved with Dr. Nsi for two years, a secret they had shared. Ms. Fisher was a recently divorced mother of a seventeen-year-old high school girl who had been in and out of trouble with the law.

Recently arrested and charged with possession and intent to distribute, her daughter was again arrested when she was caught smoking marijuana with some friends in the high school parking lot. Since this was her fourth major offense, bail was set at $45,000.

Ms. Fisher had arranged for detoxification and counseling for her daughter and was about to sign the agreement when this recent incident happened.

“What do you actually want me to do?” asked Nsi.

“I would like to bail her out so that she can get the help she needs.”

“I agree with you, go ahead.”

“You know I don't have that kind of money,” Fisher replied, fiddling with her fingers.

“What makes you think I do?” Nsi asked, teeth clenched, barely audible.

Gifts that started innocently as lunch money of twenty dollars here and there had moved up to $1,500 for trips.

Six months ago, Nsi, in a desperate move not to leave any traces, paid cash for Marge's new Volkswagen Jetta because the same daughter crashed the only car they had left after the divorce. Ms. Fisher had pleaded that she had no other means to commute to work.

“Didn't I just buy you a car … free … six months ago?” Nsi reminded her.

“Yes, and I'm still very grateful,” replied Fisher. As she looked up at Nsi, a tear dropped from her left eye.

“So when is this gonna end?” Nsi persisted.

“When is what gonna end?” asked Fisher, wiping away tears.

“What do you mean what…? This, this … crazy idea of constantly asking for money?” Nsi grimaced angrily.

“Who was it who said ‘if you need anything, just let me know'?” Fisher fired back. “Aren't you the one who promised to help me whenever I'm in trouble, or have you forgotten what you said at the La Quinta Inn?”

“When did I make such a promise?” Nsi asked with a disgusted look as he peeped down the hallway to be sure nobody was listening.

“Oh, so now you're playing possum?” Fisher's jaw dropped.

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Look, Nsi, are you gonna help me or not?” Fisher straightened her scrub coat.

“I have to think about that,” Nsi replied while walking away.

“Please, don't take long.”

“Dr. Nsi, we're ready for you.” The anesthesiologist came out of the operating room. He glanced at Nurse Fisher and was about to ask—

“Thanks, I'll be there in a second,” Nsi interrupted.

Without saying another word to Ms. Fisher, Nsi headed straight to the sink to scrub and gown for the operation.

Unlike most of his surgeries, complications started soon after the operation. The patient had excessive fluid retention and needed two extra days of intubations. If it weren't for the aggressive daily vigilance of the anesthesiologist and the chief cardiology resident, the patient would have coded and possibly died.

This was not the kind of outcome associated with Nsi, and he blamed it all on Ms. Fisher. Another complication like this, and another patient might actually die. Ms. Fisher had to be stopped, Nsi convinced himself.

Four days after the surgery, Marge phoned Nsi. “I heard about Mr. Charles Edward, your patient who nearly died.”

“I have you to thank for that,” Nsi replied, still worried about that surgical complication.

“What did I have to do with it?” It sounded like Marge was smirking on the other end of the phone line.

“More than you know.”

“Sorry. You're the surgeon, and you take the responsibility.”

“The question is, how many more bad outcomes are in the wings for me because of you?” shouted Nsi over the phone.

“Listen, let's stop arguing; I have some good news.” Marge realized she had never heard Nsi this angry before.

“Hmm … what good news?” asked Nsi, as he took an audible deep breath over the phone.

Nsi was hoping that she would finally move to Arizona. Marge had hinted, at the height of her divorce, that she was contemplating moving to Arizona with her daughter just to get away from it all.

“They have lowered her bond to $35,000, but I must pay it in two weeks or else she goes to jail,” Marge voiced with a happy tone.

“How did you manage that?”

“I met with Attorney Terrence Lacrosse, from Dyer, and he was instrumental in lowering the bond. I really need this money. I am willing to do anything, including making monthly payments until it's all paid off.”

Why Terrence Lacrosse? Nsi wondered. Isn't he that notorious lawyer who made his career suing doctors and collecting huge sums of money? Is she sending me a message? Nsi's thoughts began racing. If I don't comply, will I be next? I didn't do anything but sleep with her and all of a sudden she's demanding huge sums of money. The end result of all this is not gonna be pretty. Last year's case … what was that patient's name? Yes, when Mrs. Thompson died seven hours post op, that was clearly my fault.

The family, however, had accepted the death as natural after he had talked to them extensively. Marge knew the family well and she was also the scrub nurse on the case.

Something had to be done quickly before this whole thing got out of hand. “Okay, I will get back to you in about a week,” Nsi finally responded, after what appeared to Marge as an unusually long silence.

“Oh, thank you so very much; you will not regret this,” Marge said, patting her flushed cheek.

“I didn't say I was gonna give you the money.”

“I know, I know, but thank you, anyway.”

She hung up, and momentarily Nsi thought he heard a second click just before he hung up.

Is she taping our conversations? Nsi wondered.

Driving home that evening down the crowded and construction-laden Indianapolis Boulevard in Schererville, Indiana, Nsi decided that Marge had to be dealt with immediately. Arriving home, he went into his private office, locked the door, and then made a call to Marion.

“How is the M&M juice coming along?” Nsi asked.

“I think it's now at a concentration that even the bones will melt and disappear,” Moheri said.

“I guess the next step is a test, don't you think?” Little tiny perspiration beads appeared on Nsi's forehead.

“Actually, yes, I was planning on using one of our rhesus monkeys as a test animal.”

Without hesitation, Nsi suggested, “I may have someone we can use as a test subject.”

“Someone … like a person?” Marion asked.

“Yeah,” Nsi said, letting out a loud heave.

“In that case, all I need is an address,” Marion said.

 

5

M
ARGE WAS WORKING LATE.
Today, the surgery schedule stretched until almost 8:30
P.M.
The last case was an emergency quadruple bypass surgery that took four and half hours. After the case was over, and the operating room cleaned out, the operating room nurses and technicians dressed and left for the day. Marge, instead, opted to work in her office to finish next week's assignments. When Marge finally looked up again, it was 10:30
P.M.
She needed to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow she was scheduled to meet with Attorney Lacrosse at eight o'clock in the morning to go over the terms of her daughter's bail.

Rushing out of the east end exit of the hospital, near the surgical wing, close to the employees' parking spaces, Marge did not notice the man standing hidden behind a dark blue sport utility van.

She had made these late-night short trips to her car several times before, and always waved off the security guard behind the surgical suite waiting room desk whenever he offered to escort her.

“Are you Marge Fisher?” the man asked. He was dressed appropriately, in a business suit without a tie.

“Yes, can I help you?” Marge replied.

“I was supposed to give you this.” He showed Marge a package in his hand.

The pleasure was all over Marge's face as she approached to accept the package that she thought was the money from Dr. Nsi.

The blow was so severe, Marge thought she was having a stroke. She didn't know where the blow had come from. Within seconds, she was unconscious.

*   *   *

Wild Bobby's Auto Demolition Shop, located north off Route 30 in Lynwood, Illinois, was a sprawling area full of old demolished cars, including cars that were recently involved in accidents. The shop's main building, at the southeast corner, could not be located easily by a newcomer because it was in the most wooded section of the entire facility. It housed the repair shop, two upstairs offices, an oven, a car wash area, and a washing room for car engines.

A big casket-like bucket in the middle of the room was clearly visible. Ten gallons of the newly formulated Moheric acid were at the corner of the room. The two assailants fitted Marge's very limp body in the big bucket. Blood was still oozing out of the crevice made by the blunt trauma to her head.

The first five gallons slowly evaporated the skin and most of the fatty tissue. After three more gallons, most of the internal organs were no longer visible, although there were many bits of particulate matter still floating.

When the final two gallons were poured in, the bones melted down like hot wax. After a few minutes, the entire solution appeared dark orange with small scattered flakes. An extra gallon was required for the entire solution to turn colorless, but it remained a little thicker than the original solution. Bobby, the owner, Dr. Moheri, and Dr. Nsi were very impressed, each one speechless. When the spectacle was over, they drove off the compound. Bobby left instructions for the security men to lock up.

 

PART

VIII

 

1

T
WO TELEVISION STATIONS IN
San Diego were still reeling from Abramhoff's and Dickerson's presentations.

“What do you think of this joint appearance thing?” Dickerson had asked afterward.

“I'm not sure,” Abramhoff had said. “Let them mull over it for a while.”

But Dr. Millons was impressed.

“Good morning, Dr. Dickerson,” Millons greeted, as they walked along the hallway leading to the cafeteria.

“What can I do for you?” Dickerson responded.

“Listen, I come in peace,” Millons said, smiling broadly. “I'd like for you to give me a fresh start. I honestly apologize for all my past sins against you.”

“That's a new one for you,” Dickerson replied.

“Sins, transgressions, callousness, call it what you may, I was all that, but I would like forgiveness from you, and I am requesting a chance to work with you on your new project.”

“Oh, now you want to work with me. I thought you loved working against me.” Dickerson continued walking.