No Cure for Murder (19 page)

As he filled his frosted mug from the icy beer pitcher, Morgan Ferris slid into the opposite seat. In his gray Armani suit, he looked just like what he was, a successful criminal defense attorney.

Tommy reached into his pocket and palmed the small brown envelope holding it close to his chest. “This is 10, 40mg Oxycontin pills...that’s $450.”

“It’s always great doing business with you, Morgan. If you want something interesting, I’ve got the real thing, ampules of Morphine Sulfate.”

“I’m in enough trouble as it is, Tommy, and I hate needles. I’ll pass.”

Morgan slipped the envelope into his suit coat pocket. “How do you get away with it? Don’t they count pills?”

“I’m careful, for sure, but it’s the Internet that makes it all possible. I buy phony oxy pills from Malaysia. They look like the real thing. It’s easy. If cancer patients or anyone else with severe pain gets a pill that doesn’t work, they just give them another or up the dose.”

“Well, be careful, Tommy.”

“I will, but you’ll always be around for me if I get busted.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The anxiety of that all-too-public conflict with Sarah Hughes encircled Carleton Dix like a wet neurosis. He recalled the eyes of the TeenTalk girls as they caught the vile implications of Sarah’s words; their doubt and his inability to hold their gazes. In his business, a hint of scandal was lethal.

One girl failed to show for her counseling session. Another gave a weak excuse. Carleton worked through the first part of the week at Brier, busy as usual, but his mind remained focused on the upcoming Wednesday night TeenTalk meeting.

It was after rush hour on Shattuck Avenue in downtown Berkeley, yet the streets remained crowded with traffic slowed by heavy rain. Red brake lights reflected off the shiny pavement.

Carleton Dix finally turned onto Allston Way, but was unable to find a parking space near the YMCA. After ten frustrating minutes, he decided to use municipal parking three blocks away. He rummaged through the back seat and the trunk...Goddamn it, no umbrella.

He rushed through the rain holding his attaché case over his head. By the time he arrived at the YMCA, his feet squished as he climbed the stairs. He entered the men’s room, peeled off his coat, then dried off with paper towels and the hot air hand dryer.

Kelly Cowan sat in the foyer outside the meeting room. “I’m so sorry, chaplain. It’s so unfair.”

He walked to the front of the room and turned to face their doubts. “I’m sorry you had to be a witness to that sorry demonstration with Sarah Hughes. She’s a disturbed young woman and I’m loath to say, an evil one too.”

Several girls raised their heads. Others still failed to meet his eyes.

“Let me assure you that my conflict with Sarah Hughes is religious, philosophical, and yes, political too. You and I have certain strongly held beliefs...Sarah rejects them. Initially, I thought she was simply a confused young woman. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Carleton arranged the chairs in a circle as usual, but after twenty minutes of his best attempts at promoting conversation and the exchange of feelings, he knew it was useless. “We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s call it a night.”

“But chaplain...” said Kelly.

“I’m sorry too, Kelly. I hope that we can rebuild the intimacy we’ve shared in the past. Without it, what we do in group is a waste of everyone’s time. We’ll try again next week. Remember Proverbs 3:29-30: Do not accuse a man for no reason–when he has done you no harm.”

Each day when detective Shelly Kahn entered Brier Hospital, the sights, the sounds and especially the smells, evoked memories of her days as a nurse. Except for the effects of losing her brother, Shelly wasn’t sure why she gave it up...she loved nursing. Maybe police work was in her genes...a true calling.

The one skill that made Shelly a great undercover agent was the comfort she felt with people and they with her. After a few days, she became one of them, entrusted with the coin of the realm—gossip.

Shelly separated the trivial, who was doing what to whom, the affairs, and the petty infighting from the substantive. The latter included deeply held conflicts between members of the staff, between staff and administration, and anyone whose behavior suggested that they might be capable of a criminal act.

“Skipping over the petty personality problems,” she smiled as she talked, “Brier Hospital has its own set of real problems. They’re what you’d expect in any large institution that functions under stress.”

“Have you got anything or not, Shelly?”

“Hold your horses, boss. I’m getting there. First, I looked into those who left Brier involuntarily; those fired for cause or those terminated under the pressure of downsizing. Nothing there. Then I looked for the oddballs, the personality problems, and especially the drug users. As you might expect in an institution the size of Brier, there’s quite a bit of recreational drug use, but nothing big time. Many staff talk about an interesting conflict between an elderly physician, Jacob Weizman and a number of nurses and physicians.”

“Jacob Weizman? He’s our family doctor...I think he’s everyone’s doctor.”

“With Weizman, it all seems personality based. I detect a hint of ageism as well. Thomas Wells, a lab technician, may be of interest. He’s had his run-ins with nurses, and finally, we have a nurse, Marion Krupp, who has had run-ins with just about everyone.”

“What about the ancillary staff?”

“It’s more difficult to get information about support personnel, but nothing stands out. Then we have professionals who come to the hospital to provide specific services, like the chaplain, psychologists, music therapists, etc. By the way, your doctor and the chaplain; they don’t get along at all.”

“If I know Jacob, he has a good reason. What about the medical staff?”

“You remember the Blue Wall that cops use to protect each other. That’s nothing compared with the White Wall used by docs. If you want me to get into that, I’ll need to talk with the Chief of Staff.”

Ira stood, indicating the meeting was at an end. “Look a little harder at the possible drug connections. With what happened to Rory Calhoun, that looks like the best way to proceed.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“I have Dr. Brickman on line two,” said Margaret Cohen as Jacob entered the office at 8:30 a.m.

When Jacob exited his office just before noon, he felt a light rain. He jammed his Bugsy Siegel fedora on his head and walked the two blocks to Brier. He kept his head down, trying to avoid the puddles of the earlier downpour. Water dripped over the brim of his hat. He swiped his card in the security reader at the hospital’s back door and entered a corridor by the pathology department.

Just then, the door opened and Mark Whitson stuck his head out. “Come on in.” He shuffled through a pile of reports. “Have a seat. We have a big problem.”

“Cut the drama, Mark,” said Sharon. “What do you have?”

“Always the soul of patience, Sharon,” he said, finally finding the reports he was seeking. “I’m talking to you guys first as a courtesy, but I’m reporting this to administration and to risk assessment.”

“Enough already,” said Jacob.

“The Lidocaine levels in Mr. Seigel were through the roof, specifically 23 micrograms per milliliter.”

Sharon leaned forward. “Bullshit! That’s impossible. Our dosing protocol, adjusted for the weight of the patient, should have produced a therapeutic level of 1.5 to 5. The level of 23 is twice the lethal dose. It must be a mistake.”

“No mistake, Sharon. I drew the postmortem blood myself from the veins in the lower abdomen and directly from the heart. When I saw the levels, I had the same reaction; it’s a mistake. I sent the blood to two other reference labs who confirmed these findings.”

Jacob paled. “My God! How is this possible?”

“Logically, I can think of only two possibilities,” said Sharon. “He got too much Lidocaine or his body was unable to get rid of it for some reason.”

Jacob scratched his head. “He was on medication that might make him more sensitive to the Lidocaine, like a beta blocker or a stomach acid reducer, but these levels are just too high to be anything but a mistake in administration.”

“Not so fast, you two,” said Sharon. “Our CCU nurses make up dozens of Lidocaine infusions each day. It’s cookbook. I can’t believe anyone could make such an error.”

The digital clock just flashed to 6:04 p.m. when Bruce Bryant, Brier’s CEO, admitted the group to his office. Following the call from Mark Whitson, Bruce had called Warren Davidson, Jack Byrnes, Al David, the hospital attorney, and Ira Green. Ira asked Shelly Kahn to join them as well.

As they settled into place, Bruce looked out his street level window spattered with rain, the plants, and trees swaying in the strong wind gusts. He made the introductions, and then scanned the group. “We’ve got a problem...maybe more than one. Mark called today with disturbing findings.”

Mark reviewed the circumstances surrounding Nathan Seigel’s death and the lethal Lidocaine levels. “Sharon Brickman thinks it might be a mistake. I’m not buying it. Our worst nurses or pharmacists couldn’t have provided this lethal dose by error. I think death was the result of a deliberate action, a premeditated murder.”

The room remained silent until Ira Green said, “Hold on for a second. Only the Medical Examiner can make such a designation.”

“I’m not talking legalities here, chief,” said Mark. “I’m giving you my medical opinion. Sharon Brickman’s trying to see if it was an error of some sort, but she’s kidding herself.”

“We’re already dealing with the massive narcotic overdose in the Rory Calhoun case,” said Ira. “Shelly Kahn’s investigating. Tell them what you’ve discovered so far.”

Shelly grabbed her notes. “We have no doubt that Mr. Calhoun received an overdose of a narcotic that would have killed a normal person. His long history of narcotic abuse and the Methadone maintenance saved his life. We’re still not sure if he got heroin or something else.”

“Have you identified any suspects?” asked Warren.

“No,” said Ira, “but this Lidocaine overdosage puts the investigation on another level.” He paused to scan the faces, then continued, “My mind keeps asking the same questions: do we have other unexplained deaths, and is Brier Hospital dealing with a serial killer?”

Bruce slumped back in his chair. “My God!”

“My God is right,” said Ira. “Is it possible to write-off deaths as natural when they were anything but?”

“Of course it’s possible,” said Warren. “Since the managed care, HMO era, our patients are older and sicker than ever before. Absent anything suspicious, death in this group of patients is considered natural or the result of their underlying medical condition.”