No Cure for Murder (16 page)
“I have no doubt that Mr. Calhoun suffered a narcotic overdose…clinically that was obvious. The problem is with the laboratory evaluation.”
“What problem?” asked Jack.
“Morphine levels were extremely high…that we expected. The problem is that injected heroin is immediately converted in the blood to morphine. It takes about nine minutes.”
Warren looked at the report. “You can’t tell us whether he got heroin or morphine.”
“Not yet. We’ll have to go back to examine other tissues for heroin before we’ll know for sure.”
“How long will that take?” asked Jack.
“Six to eight weeks.”
“Have you told Chief of Police, Green?” asked Jack. “Maybe he can help speed up the analysis.”
“He’s my next call,” said Mark.
Shelly Kahn, thirty-four, looked half her age. She stood five feet two inches and with shoulder length straight black hair, she’d pass for the average university student seen walking down College Avenue.
Her two brothers were police officers, as was her grandfather and father, but she rejected family tradition by going to nursing school. All that changed when her oldest brother was killed on the job.
She’d been one of the Berkeley P.D.’s best undercover officers, but success had brought with it the notoriety that made undercover work impossible.
Shelly sat with Mary Oakes, the nursing care coordinator of the fifth floor medical unit.
“You know why I’m here?”
“The Rory Calhoun case.”
“Right. Have you noticed any other unusual deaths or complications on your ward?”
“Medicine is full of the unexpected, but something suspicious...no, I don’t think so.”
“Brier’s not real big on security, is it?”
“It’s like most hospitals. The pediatric care units have the most security, and surveillance is pretty good at night after hours, but otherwise, people have more or less free access.”
“So, it’s unlikely you’d notice strangers on the ward.”
Mary smiled. “We’d probably notice the Grim Reaper, detective.”
“Please call me Shelly.”
“Here’s the truth, Shelly. Most of our wards have free public access. If a person doesn’t cross in front of the nurse’s station or is not noticed by the staff, and nobody sees a trail of blood, he can come and go as he pleases. Anyone wearing a white coat or green scrubs is virtually invisible in a hospital.”
“On the subject of staff,” said Shelly, “do you suspect anyone...I mean by personality or behavior, that might raise a question?”
“We have all types. Hospital work is stressful and with cutbacks, it’s only the saintly that haven’t had a few nasty things to say. I include myself in that category. But, someone who’d deliberately injure a patient...nobody comes to mind.”
“With your permission, I’ll hang around for a few days. I’m not going undercover here . . . that’s too obvious and takes too much time. Once we’re sure what we’re up against, maybe it will come to that. For the moment, just tell your staff that it’s okay to talk with me.”
“Good luck. Let me know if I can help in any way. Brier’s a good hospital, as good a hospital as you can get these days. I hate to see its reputation tarnished.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
At the Hughes’s home, an uneasy truce hung over the battle lines after Sarah began seeing Lola Weizman at the Mental Health Clinic.
Sarah met her father’s none-so-subtle questions about the sessions with, “It’s private.”
Brusque answers are a hell of a lot better that the mayhem we had, Marilyn thought.
They sat in the breakfast alcove with the bright morning sun streaming through the white-curtained windows. Robert read the paper while Marilyn and Sarah watched Saturday’s version of the Today Show.
At a commercial break, Robert looked up from his paper. “What’s on your schedule today, Sarah?”
Sarah stared at her father, her lips drawn tight.
Robert raised his hands in surrender. “It’s not an accusation, Sarah, it’s just a simple question.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy...old habits die slowly. The Pro-Life people have organized a demonstration at the Emeryville Woman’s clinic. I’m going there with a few friends to add an element of sanity.”
Marilyn stared at her daughter. “I can’t believe you’re going to a Pro-Life demonstration. I thought we were all on the Pro-Choice page.”
“Hello Mother. Earth calling Marilyn Hughes. I have a flash: We are Pro-Choice, but keepin’ it real means doing something about it, not just talking.”
Marilyn stared at her daughter. “This isn’t going to upset you, is it? You’re doing so much better lately.”
Sarah smiled. “Mother, that’s so lame. This is important to me, and to my friends. Don’t worry, I’m not fragile, I won’t break.”
At first, Sarah thought the Saturday demonstrations would be all show—getting the faithful out on their day off. Later, she understood that many working women used their weekends for abortion services.
Sarah was appalled her first time. How was it possible that so much vitriol could spew forth through the fangs of people professing to be Christians? What affected her the most were the attacks on the most vulnerable, those young women forced to make the most private of personal decisions in full public view and under relentless vicious verbiage. With dark sunglasses, their heads down or covered by newspapers, young women marched like felons in a perp walk through the gauntlet of zealots eager to force-feed their faith on others.
Although Sarah’s convictions drew her to the cause of a woman’s right to choose, it was Betsy Brown’s tragedy that converted her from spiritless supporter to passionate partisan.
Betsy came to the woman’s clinic on one such Saturday with two girlfriends. Telling her two close friends about her six-week pregnancy was a snap compared to the revelation that her father and the baby’s father were the same. “I’m so scared. I shake just thinking about going to the clinic.”
“We’ll be with you all the way.”
As they walked between the screaming demonstrators, one friend on each arm for support, Betsy turned back to the street just as a rotten tomato hit her in the face. She wiped off the red foul pulp, vomited and ran back to the street to the applause of the true believers.
Two mornings later, her mother found Betsy dead in a pool of blood, the victim of a botched back-alley abortion.
The Emeryville Police, veterans of many demonstrations, drew the lines of battle, and roped off areas for the combatants. With signs and posters held high, the armies jeered at each other across the trenches while the innocent, or the damned, depending on your point of view, scurried through the neutral zone between opposing armies, trying to avoid verbal hand grenades from the smug and faithful.
After the demonstration, Sarah packed the back of the family’s Lincoln Navigator with the Pro-Choice signage. She was closing the tailgate when Carleton Dix approached with several girls from his TeenTalk group, including Kelly Cowan.
Shit!
The chaplain slid his tongue over his lips. “I thought it was you, Sarah. It disappointed me greatly to see you so willing to disregard the claims of innocent lives.”
Kelly Cowan turned red. “They’re baby killers...murderers, Sarah. How can you be with them?”
The chaplain raised his arms to the sky. “Judgment has come to this nation...innocent lives are lost every day. Judgment is already here. September eleventh proved that, don’t you see?”
I don’t want any part of this, thought Sarah. She pulled her keys from the tailgate and walked toward the driver’s door.
Carleton Dix moved to block her way.
Sarah tried to move around him. “Excuse me, Padre.”
When the minister grabbed her by the arm, holding her in place and staring into her eyes, Sarah felt her heart racing. She felt dizzy and placed her hand on the car to steady herself.
Don’t let him do this to you.
“We just want to talk with you,” said Kelly.
Suddenly enraged, Sarah shouted, “This isn’t the first time he’s laid his dirty hands on me, but it’s going to be the last.”
Like the frozen frame of a feature film, time stopped. Sarah looked around and saw the wide eyes of the crowd. She pulled her arm away. Carleton Dix paled and dropped his hands to his side.
“You little whore!” He raised his hand to strike Sarah.
“No...no...” cried a chorus of teenage voices...don’t...”
Carleton Dix slowly lowered his hand, stepped away from Sarah, then reddened with shame at his emotional outburst and loss of control.
Sarah stepped close to the minister and whispered, “I told you never to touch me, Padre. Be smart, quit while you’re ahead. I promise you won’t like my next step.”
She opened the driver’s door, started the car, and drove away.
The TeenTalk girls stared at Carleton Dix through questioning eyes, then lowered them and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The cardiac step-down unit occupied parallel corridors adjacent to the Cardiac Care Unit (CCU) and was a mirror image of the ICU on the opposite side of the building. It served as an intermediate stop on the route between CCU and the general medical ward for those recovering from heart attacks and other serious heart problems.
They moved Nathan Seigel from CCU to the step-down unit after his fifth visit in four months. Each time he returned, the staff greeted him like a long lost friend. Nathan was an alcoholic who had failed to control his drinking in spite of repeated attempts by his family, his physicians, AA, and several drug and alcohol rehab programs, including the famous Betty Ford Center.
Nathan was the paradigm for the intractability of alcoholism. Beyond the destructive effects of drinking on his professional and personal life, he developed heart muscle damage that Jacob, his doctor, and Sharon Brickman, his cardiologist, called alcoholic cardiomyopathy. The disease weakened his heart and forced its rhythm into chaotic and dangerous irregularities.
Kate Planchette, an experienced CCU nurse, greeted him. “We always enjoy your visits, Nathan, but aren’t you getting a little tired of this?”
“Katy, sweetheart, I only do it as an excuse to see you and the girls.”
Kate Planchette had never taken her good fortune for granted. She had so much, great parents, material comfort, and intelligence that she felt an obligation to make her life meaningful. She considered medical school, but chose nursing instead.
Kate married her college sweetheart, Benjamin Planchette, and within six years had three daughters. Although Ben wanted a son, they agreed that three was enough. She worked part-time during the preschool years and returned to full-time nursing two years ago.
In retrospect, her problems had been going on for years. Symptoms, so vague and fleeting, and their lives so busy, she never gave them more that a moment’s thought.
“Everybody has unexplained symptoms, Ben. Doctors don’t evaluate unless they are more serious or persistent.”
“Still,” said Ben, “you had the numbness before the last two pregnancies, and then you had the vertigo.”
“They went away each time. I feel fine.”
Ben shook his head, and then caressed her cheek. “You’re not fine, sweetheart. Something’s wrong. You’re having difficulty with the morning Sudoku puzzle.”
She stared at him. A tear ran down her cheek, then she whispered, “I know. I’m frightened. When you’re a medical professional and you live with disease each day, you wonder why you’re the lucky one. Maybe I’ve run out of luck.”
“Don’t do this to yourself. Make an appointment to see Arnie Roth.”
The rest happened in a flash. Blood tests, MRI, neurology consultation, spinal tap and finally Arnie’s diagnosis. “You have relapsing-remitting Multiple Sclerosis.”
Kate felt dizzy as her intestines contracted in shock.
She took a deep breath. “Me and the West Wing president.”
“Right, except the writer’s need for drama made things worse than it’s likely to be for you.”
“I’ve cared for MS patients, Arnie. I know what that disease can do.”
“Of course. I understand, but remember, you only see the sickest of the sick. The ones who need hospitalization. I see the good part of it, MS patients who are doing well, and I’m telling you that after many years in practice, odds are in your favor to have a normal life.”
“I can’t say the diagnosis surprises me. I don’t know if we have an increased incidence of MS or if it’s more in the public’s consciousness because of magazines and television.”
“We’ll start you on interferon. You’ll give yourself an injection once a week.” He hesitated and stared at Kate. “MS isn’t a reportable disease, Kate, but we need to consider its effects on your work.”
“My mind is fine, Arnie, but I’ll notify nursing administration.”
“That’s smart, and responsible. I’m sure they won’t have a problem. I’ll support you in any way possible.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Arnie. You’re the best.”
While experienced medical personnel eventually tired of the frustration in dealing with chronic alcoholics, the lies, excuses, and destruction of the individual and their families, the staff at Brier never abandoned hope for Nathan Seigel. He maintained a great sense of humor, treated the staff with respect, and blamed only himself for his problems.