The Wrong Man (5 page)

‘Be still, doc,’ Bishop said as he gripped the man’s throat and took the key chain from his hand. ‘All I want to know is when
the truck’s arriving.’

‘Truck?’

Bishop tightened his grip against Cook’s weak struggles, ignoring the dull pain in his stomach. It seemed the good doctor
here had been lax with the
painkillers. ‘Brendan, you see Alvin over there?’

Cook nodded, unable to speak.

‘I hear all it took was a pencil.’ He put the keys down, pulled a pen from Cook’s top pocket and waved it in front of the
doctor’s bulging eyes. ‘Get the idea? Now the truck bringing new medical equipment. Tell me what time it’s due.’

Cook’s left eyelid
began to twitch. ‘Three o’clock. Please don’t.’

‘Good.’ He replaced the pen and searched the man’s pockets, pulling out a sleek Cobra walkie-talkie from the coat and placing
it on the floor along with the man’s Motorola cell phone.

He felt a flare in his side and silently thanked the Three Bears. He knew the warden didn’t like to take chances and had
figured
he’d lock this whole section down in readiness for the delivery truck’s arrival. Which meant anything less than severe internal
trauma would have gotten Bishop ejected back to his cell along with all the other patients who could walk. And for this to
work he needed to be right here in the hospital ward. At least he’d gotten his money’s worth, even if they’d thought
him crazy
when he’d hired them a fortnight ago. Maybe he’d send them a bonus if he ever got out of here; the Aryans’ counter-offer must
have been hard to resist.

Picking the lock on the cuffs hadn’t taken him long. Embedded inside the stone Buddha icon had been a small metal shaft, and
after some serious jiggling he’d finally popped the cuff open.
He’d practised a few times and then relocked them so Cook wouldn’t
get suspicious. When
the doctor was checking on Alvin, Bishop simply freed himself again and waited.

‘You got an itemized invoice to check against the delivery, Brendan?’ he asked.

‘In my office upstairs.’

‘Yeah? Which one?’

‘Room 1–12.’

Still
clutching Cook’s neck, Bishop went through the man’s wallet. Inside he found a driver’s licence, two credit cards, an
ID card from Alexford Medical, an expired Blockbuster membership card and some cash. Three twenties, four tens, and six singles.
And a strip of unused rubbers in the zipped section.

He released the medic and stood up. Cook stayed where he
was and massaged his neck.

‘Up and at ’em, Brendan,’ Bishop said. ‘It’s my turn to play doctor. Start with the coat and shoes.’

Still rubbing his throat, Cook pushed himself up. He struggled out of the white coat and slowly started to untie his shoelaces.
Took them off and threw them to Bishop. Then he shakily unzipped his pants and slipped them off.

Bishop pulled his white hospital gown over his head, picked up the pants Cook slid over and put them on. They were short in
the leg and baggy at the waist so he tightened the leather belt. Then he reached down for the bills and stuffed them in one
of the pockets. He felt as though he’d earned it. Once Cook finished taking off his shirt and tie, he just stood there
shivering
in his briefs until Bishop threw him the gown.

As Bishop finished dressing he nodded at the walkie-talkie. ‘How often do you have to check in on that thing?’

‘Every hour on the hour.’

Bishop pulled on Cook’s white coat and said, ‘I’ll need that shiny watch, too, then.’ Cook huffed and undid the strap and
tossed it over.
‘You know what I’ll do to you if you’re lying,’ Bishop said, attaching it to his wrist.

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No, just incompetent,’ Bishop said. ‘So it’s Carmody on duty tonight?’ He’d recognized the Texas drawl coming through the
walkie-talkie earlier.

‘Right.’

‘And he likes to hear about your lady friends, huh?’

‘He’ll realize you’re not me.’

‘He won’t be able to tell the difference,’ Bishop said in a pretty good imitation of Cook’s whine. Pleased with the result,
he added in his own voice, ‘Want me to bring out the pen again?’

Cook shook his head and sighed. ‘Yeah, he likes to know about my latest pick-ups.’

‘So where’d you go last
night?’

‘707, on Elmshire.’

‘Yeah, I know it,’ Bishop lied. ‘And what was the young lady’s name at the 707?’

Cook stood there and considered his options. Then he said, ‘Girl called Leona. She’s got a thing for doctors.’

‘I bet she has. See what you can remember when—’ Bishop glanced over Cook’s shoulder at the doorway. ‘You hear something?’

As Cook turned to look, Bishop slammed his elbow into the side of his head. The doctor grunted once as he tripped over his
own feet and slumped to the floor in a heap.

Bishop looked down at the unconscious man. ‘Guess I was mistaken.’

Bishop withdrew the empty syringe from Cook’s arm and dropped it in his side pocket. As he checked the man’s pulse, he felt
a glimmer of satisfaction. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. So far, everything was progressing as planned.

With the high propofol dosage he’d just been given, Cook would be out for the next four
hours, at least. Bishop checked the
time on his fancy new Citizen ProMaster. 02.43. Quarter of an hour.

He raised Cook’s head from the pillow and pulled free the rubber band that held his hair in place. As he entwined it in his
own, he double-checked the cuffs that held one hand to the railings. He’d attached Cook’s other wrist to the bed with duct
tape he’d found in the supply room, pulling the stiff white hospital sheet over the arm in case anyone glanced at the bed.
He made sure it was still good and tight.

He looked briefly at the still unconscious Alvin, then left the room and locked the door with the third key he tried.

Two rows of twelve beds lay stretched out before him. Only three held
patients and they weren’t moving much. To his left he
could see the barred gate and the electronically monitored corridor. Beyond that, another barred gate and another corridor.
And then another. Every time a gate opened an electronic signal was transmitted to the surveillance room in the main building
and a short, sharp alarm would go off. Like an over-sized rat maze,
until you reached the front entrance to the building.

The night duty guard, Carmody, would now be sitting in his cubbyhole just outside the final corridor watching video feeds
as Cook made his rounds. Bishop could only hope his likeness to Cook was good enough for closed-circuit TV. Even so, he still
made sure his head was down as he passed through the ward.

To the left of the exit was another barred gate in front of a short hallway. It held no surprises as Bishop had already unlocked
it to get
the propofol. He’d also taken a minute to check the medical equipment room and the large storeroom in back. In the opposite
corner of the ward, a steel door led to the stairs to the offices above. Bishop kept his walk
casual and his head down as
he approached it in full view of the three cameras covering the room. He was grateful for the minimal lighting.

Playing the role of Cook was a refreshing change after three years of monotony. All that planning and waiting was beginning
to pay off. If the stakes weren’t so high, he’d probably be enjoying this. But he held himself
in check. There was still plenty
more to do.

This was only his second visit to the infirmary but he remembered everything perfectly. The first was less than a year into
his term when he and seven others had been admitted for acute food poisoning. As he lay in the drab ward, Bishop had noted
the substandard conditions and the lack of proper medical
equipment. And an idea had hit him. As his body recovered, his mind
went into overdrive. It memorized every detail, like kids do before their SATs, and he’d returned to his cell the next day
with a new kind of hunger. One that, after three weeks of poring through law books, resulted in his filing a class action
suit against Greenacres for inadequate hospital conditions
and supplies. At the same time, Bishop also began growing his hair
long, so he’d be able to match it to Cook’s when the time came. So far, it seemed to be working.

Bishop took the key chain from his pocket as he drew near the steel door. It held fourteen keys, seven of which he had yet
to identify: five Yales that looked like office keys and two larger ones.
Aware of the cameras watching him, he inserted one
of the larger ones into the lock and turned it clockwise. Fifty–fifty chance of success. To allow himself room for error he
pretended to check the soles on his shoes as he turned it.

The lock clicked and the door opened.

Ahead of him a thin hallway led to some concrete steps with a camera at
the turn. As he climbed the stairs he pretended to
wipe dust off his trousers, keeping his face down and his pace slow. At the top was a corridor lined with doors and lit by
two dull fluorescent tubes.

The door opposite said 1-7. Bishop stepped out and turned right with his head lowered, stroking his beard. He stopped at the
door which read 1-12
and tried one of the Yale keys in the lock. Nothing happened. He picked another key and tried again.
The tumblers moved.

Inside the room Bishop pressed the light switch and took in Cook’s
small office area. One long barred window overlooked a poky room with three large file cabinets along the opposite wall. On
the desk was a PC long past its sell-by date,
a printer and two trays full of paperwork. He sat down and pressed the on switch
for the PC.

As it warmed up he opened each of the drawers and found a flathead screwdriver tucked away at the back of the last one.
Thanks, Brendan
. In Bishop’s situation you didn’t ignore gifts like that and he placed it in his coat pocket. In the same drawer, he then
hid the
used syringe, the propofol ampule, and Cook’s deactivated cell phone.

Bishop riffled through the papers in the first tray. Halfway down the second tray he found invoice sheets from Medax Medical
Supplies in New Jersey. The covering letter was on the company letterhead, but the other nine stapled sheets weren’t. Bishop
allowed himself a small smile. He’d gotten
this far through planning. But planning, no matter how intricate, often relied
on gifts of opportunity. Finding the itemized invoice on plain paper was going to make things that much easier.

The screen lit up without a password prompt and Bishop found the Word icon and opened it up. He detached the staple from the
corner of the sheets and read through each
one. Page nine was the one he wanted and he placed it on top.

Turning back to the monitor, he opened up a new document and started typing.

‘Still sore, doc?’

The voice snapped Bishop’s mind back into focus. He checked the diver’s watch before picking up the walkie-talkie. 03.05.
He took a breath and closed his eyes. The voice was William Carmody’s. No, not William. Bill. But Bishop didn’t know what
Cook was sore about.
Expect the unexpected, like always. And
then deal with it
.

He opened his eyes and pressed the transmit button. ‘Hey, Bill,’ he said in his new whiny voice. ‘Sore?’ he prompted.

‘Right.’

That was a big help. So two possible meanings. But thinking about it, only one, really. ‘What can I say?’ he said. ‘She was
a wolverine.’

Carmody laughed. ‘Must have been if she’s
got you frazzled. That’s twice I’ve had to call first. So what was her name, son?
Come on, give up some details.’

What had Cook said? ‘Leona. About five-three. Ninety, ninety-five pounds. Short, dark hair and the cutest ass you ever saw.’

‘Nice. From that place you like on Elmshire? What’s it called?’

‘Right. The 707. You not been yet,
old man?’

‘You’re forgetting we ain’t all young, free and single, doc. Hey, you sound funny.’

If only you knew
, Bishop thought. ‘That would be the sleep deprivation. I’m about dead on my feet after last night’s activities.’ Bishop paused.
‘Hey, what about the delivery truck? Is it still on schedule?’

Carmody gave a chuckle. ‘I’ll let you
know when it arrives, and don’t change the subject. Keep going.’

Bishop sighed and pressed transmit again. Carmody was buying it but he wasn’t clear yet. ‘Well, she had two friends with her
and any one of them would have made you seriously question your marriage vows.’ Laughter at the other end. ‘But I knew which
one I—’ He stopped when he heard the distant sound
of a phone ringing.

‘Pause button, doc,’ Carmody said.

Bishop waited. Just looked at the cursor flashing on the screen for two minutes. Then three. He scanned the previous few lines
of text onscreen then continued typing for several more minutes.

The radio squawked. ‘Game on, doc. Truck’s coming through the front gates now
with Richards riding shotgun to direct him to
the rear entrance. You coming down?’

That definitely wouldn’t be a good idea. Not yet, anyway. He thought for a second and picked up the radio. ‘He’ll be here
for at least an hour unloading, won’t he? Can you escort him to the storeroom for the first couple of trips, Bill? After that,
he’ll know the way
and you can just let him in and out. There are only three inmates left on the main floor and they’re harmless.’

Carmody’s voice hardened. ‘You lose the use of your legs all of a sudden?’

‘You should always listen to your doctor, Bill. Seriously, Alexford Medical are on my ass to get a month’s worth of paperwork
finished by tomorrow, but I’ll be down
in thirty to check on what he’s brought in so far. Make sure everything’s kosher.’

Silence from the radio. ‘Tell you what,’ Bishop continued, ‘I’ve got a little movie of Leona on my cell that’ll make you blush.
It was going to be just for me, but I’d be glad to share it when I clock off at six. Interested?’

After a five second gap, Carmody said,
‘What’s on it?’

Hooked and cooked. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just a solo performance from Leona as she readied herself for me while she thought
I was in the bathroom.’

‘Oh, you dirty, dirty dog,’ the guard said. ‘Okay, son. Later.’

Bishop put down the walkie-talkie and looked over what he’d written. Then he turned the printer on.