The Best of Reader's Digest

by Editors of Reader's Digest

  If only his employers had known. But privacy concerns kept his personal medical history out of sight.

  A few months after the basement suicide attempt, Cullen landed his eighth nursing job, this one at St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He worked there two years but quit abruptly in June of 2002, after he was questioned about a stash of unopened heart medication found in a needle-disposal bin. Concerns over the number of deaths on his shift prompted a police investigation, but a forensic pathologist and an investigator from the state’s nursing board could find no concrete evidence.

  Next, Cullen moved on to a hospital in nearby Allentown, where he was considered so odd that he was “weeded out” after 18 days, according to a hospital representative. By now he had been fired from four institutions, often under a cloud of suspicion over medication errors and unusual patient deaths. Relatives of victims, like Helen Dean’s niece Sharon Jones, can’t understand why investigators failed to pin any crimes on Cullen. “We know who did it, when he did it, and how,” says Jones, adding that catching Cullen back in 1993 would have saved many lives.

  Instead, Cullen kept working—and killing. After the Liberty Nursing Center fired him, personnel there notified the state Department of Health about the medication error. But no one bothered to call the police. Nor was the nursing home required to pass along its concerns to other hospitals that called for job references. Hospitals today (like other businesses) risk being sued if they make negative comments about former employees. As a result, even when a hospital grew alarmed enough to notify authorities, Cullen’s misdeeds were not passed along to subsequent employers. No one was getting the big picture.

  That picture was becoming increasingly grim in September 2002 when Cullen started work at Somerset Medical Center in Somerville, New Jersey. It was his tenth and last job.

  Health care technology had changed considerably since Cullen first donned a nurse’s uniform. At Somerset, the hospital used a high-tech computerized care system called Cerner that allowed health workers to punch up a patient’s medical and drug history at a terminal within seconds. Another computer system, Pyxis, tracked drug disbursements. Pyxis worked like a cash register: By typing in data that included a patient’s name and a nurse’s ID number, a drawer for a particular drug would slide open.

  Working the night shift as usual, Cullen became adept at circumventing the system to withdraw unauthorized drugs. Sometime during the evening of June 15, 2003, he ordered digoxin for one of his patients who had not been prescribed it. After picking up the drug, he tried to cover his tracks by canceling the order on the Pyxis computer. Meanwhile, he went into the Cerner system and accessed the records of Jin Kyung Han, a cancer patient who was not under his care.

  The next morning, Han went into cardiac malfunction and was found to have high levels of digoxin in her system. She recovered after an antidote was administered, but died three months later.

  Then, during the night of June 27, Cullen played his deadly game again—withdrawing digoxin for one of his own patients, canceling the order, and accessing the medical records of a heart-disease patient who was not his own. That patient, a Roman Catholic priest named Florian Gall, died the next morning. His body contained lethal amounts of digoxin.

  At that point hospital officials could hardly ignore the situation. They alerted the New Jersey poison control center, but allowed Cullen to keep working while investigating other possibilities, including whether Han’s condition could have been caused by an herbal tea she drank. Before long, Dr. Steven Marcus of poison control became convinced that someone was deliberately poisoning patients and notified the state health department.

  Health officials began an investigation, but still Cullen kept working. On August 27, a patient in his ward received a nonfatal overdose of insulin, yet the hospital never reported the incident. (Somerset was later fined for that failure.) When another patient died after a suspicious drop in blood-sugar levels that could only have been caused by an insulin overdose, the hospital finally called the county prosecutor’s office.

  * * *

  Belatedly, the hospital fired Cullen—on October 31, after discovering he had falsified employment history on his job application. The prosecutor’s office, meanwhile, kept up its investigation. “The hospital’s computer system made it pretty easy to track him,” says Somerset County prosecutor Wayne J. Forrest. “We caught him red-handed by his ID number.” On December 12 they arrested Cullen as he drove away from a Somerville restaurant.

  When the police pulled him over, Cullen went quietly. As he had 10 years earlier when accused of the Pennsylvania break-in, he readily admitted to his crimes. Although initially charged on just two counts—murdering Reverend Gall and attempting to kill Han—Cullen said he had killed as many as 40 patients during the course of his career. If true, that would make him one of the worst serial killers in U.S. history.

  And one of the most enigmatic. According to Forrest, Cullen claimed that the overdoses were mercy killings. But many of his victims were not mortally ill—or even in pain. Beatrice Yorker, director of the School of Nursing at San Francisco State University and an expert on killer nurses, says such a motivation is rarely an honest one. “These people are sociopaths mostly interested in getting their own needs met,” she says. “I liken them to firefighters who set fires. Often what they need is power and control or excitement and attention.” Unfortunately for Cullen’s victims, it took years for the people around him to pay that attention. “I ask myself, What was I missing?” says Jeanne Hackett, Cullen’s former colleague. “I can’t imagine where that evil could be inside someone I knew and cared about.”

  We may never know what made Cullen a killer. As investigators in seven counties huddled to sort through the Cullen case, relatives of possible victims wondered what to do next. Several lawsuits against hospitals have been filed, and bodies long buried are being exhumed. In April 2004, New Jersey Governor James McGreevey signed a law that requires health care facilities to report all serious medical errors to the state. But Cullen’s mobility across state lines suggests the need for stronger federal monitoring as well.

  * * *

  In April 2004, Cullen pleaded guilty to killing 13 patients and attempting to kill two others in Somerset County. He also confessed to the murder of Ottomar Schramm, and charges for his crimes are still pending in other counties. In return for his plea and for agreeing to cooperate with authorities, Cullen will be spared the death penalty and will instead spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Among Cullen’s confessions was the 1993 murder of Helen Dean. Sharon Jones attended the plea hearing and sat less than four feet from the man who murdered her aunt. “He remembered right down to the time of day and the dosage he used,” she says. One thing Cullen didn’t do was make eye contact. “As he passed by in front of us, he had his head hanging down, cocked a little bit to one side,” Jones remembers. “He took a quick look and then turned his head back again. He looked completely blank of emotion.”

  Jones says that while getting justice brings some satisfaction, it does little to take away the pain she still feels. “My aunt was like a second mother to me, and someone other than God made the decision that she should no longer be on this earth. Why did he pick her? That’s the thing you always wonder.” For Helen Dean and perhaps as many as 39 others, their loved ones can only hope that someday Charles Cullen will tell them why.

  Originally published in the November 2004 issue of Reader’s Digest magazine.

  Charles Cullen is currently serving a life sentence and is incarcerated at New Jersey State Prison in Trenton.

  PHOTO OF LASTING INTEREST

  The Surfer

  Legendary surfer Bernard “Midget” Farrelly graces the Makaha, Hawaii, waves known as Shore Break in 1968. “This photo is all about the contradictory notion of control and surrender,” says Karen Rinaldi, a surfing enthusiast, author, and the publisher of Harper Wave. “It lives with me everywhere I go.” Photograph by Leroy Grannis/M
+B Gallery, Los Angeles

  Humor Hall of Fame

  Cartoon by P.C. Vey

  “In my day, Virginia was for people who were just friends.”

  My mother and father were driving when she was pulled over by the police. Mom was in a hurry and told the officer so. “I understand, ma’am,” he said. “But I have to ticket anyone over 55.” Mom was beside herself. “That’s discrimination!” she shouted. The officer explained calmly, “I meant the speed limit.”

  —TAMARA ENCKE HOLLADAY, UTAH

  After my mother suffered a bout of serious headaches, we persuaded her to visit her doctor. While we were in his office, the doctor asked, “Have you been seeing any flashes of lights or auras?” “I don’t know,” Mom said. “I didn’t have my glasses on.”

  —JUDY KELLEY CONWAY, ARKANSAS

  I’m at the age where I can’t take anything with a grain of salt.

  —MATT WOHLFARTH, COMEDIAN

  Grizzly Attack!

  by Peter Michelmore

  A romantic hike turned into a fight for their lives.

  Dale Johnson and his girlfriend, Rhonda Anderson, were hiking along a narrow trail leading to Trout Lake in Montana’s Glacier National Park. It was early afternoon last October, with shafts of sunlight streaming through the trees, and Dale, 31, led at an unhurried pace.

  “Not far now,” he encouraged Rhonda, 27, who was a step behind. A trim, pretty woman in T-shirt and shorts, she wore a pink bandanna over her light-brown hair. Her beaded earrings were a gift from her lean, dark-bearded companion.

  The couple had been chatting back and forth, their voices ringing through the silent woods, but now, in tune with the hushed tranquility around them, they had grown silent. As they approached a bend in the trail, Dale stiffened. He caught a movement in the brush ahead, and in the same instant he heard a guttural growl. To his horror, two bears, cinnamon brown, came snorting straight at him. His heart pounded. Grizzlies!

  From the corner of his eye, Dale saw Rhonda jump behind a tree. But he stood rooted, frozen with fright. The bears were in full charge, their fur rippling in fury.

  Don’t run! was Dale’s one thought. To the grizzly, a runner is prey, and the bear will give chase at speeds no man can match. Dale’s mind seized upon a desperate ploy. Make yourself bigger. Bluff them. Leaping, yelling, waving his arms, he confronted the charging bears. Immediately, one veered off into the woods, but the other—400 pounds of unrestrainable savagery—bore down upon him.

  Snatching a stick as long as a broom handle and as thick as his wrist, Dale brought it down on the bear’s skull. At the same time he let out an unearthly scream. When the club shattered, Dale rolled to the ground and curled into a ball. Park rangers always advise people to assume a cannonball position if attacked. It is supposed to indicate to the bear it is not under threat.

  Face in the dirt, Dale wiggled his backpack higher. You’ve got to protect your neck. He felt the sharp rake of claws across his back. Suddenly all sensation was lost in the sound of his screams. Only Rhonda, watching from behind the tree, would remember the terrible moments that followed.

  * * *

  “It’s a seven-mile round trip to the lake,” Dale had said when they parked their station wagon and set off about an hour earlier.

  A sign at the trail head warned that they were entering bear country. But being from the nearby town of Whitefish, Rhonda and Dale were well aware that the park was home to black and grizzly bears, and they were ever watchful.

  Park rangers always advise people to assume a cannonball position if attacked.

  Noise was the best protection against a surprise meeting with a dangerous grizzly. Usually Dale wore a small bell on his pack for added security, but he had forgotten it this day.

  Rhonda noted the time, 1 p.m., and remembered that bears were mostly spotted in the early morning or late afternoon. They’ll all be sleeping at this hour, she thought. At any rate Dale and Rhonda knew that bears preferred to keep their distance. It was rare for a grizzly to make an unprovoked attack.

  * * *

  When Rhonda saw the grizzlies, her instinct was to climb a tree. In panic, she grabbed for a branch, but there wasn’t one within reach. Paralyzed with terror, she saw the bear claw Dale’s shoulders, then close its great jaws over his left arm, wrenching it from side to side, biting through muscle and bone. In anguish, she thought, He’s being killed! Do something!

  An image crossed her mind: her neighbor’s fierce Labrador. Once he had come snarling at her when she was taking out garbage. She grabbed the metal can and held it in front of her, fending off the animal. “Don’t, Buster, don’t.” At the command of her voice, the dog backed away.

  Shucking her backpack, she held it out as a shield. Advancing on the hulking grizzly, she cried, “Bear! Go away!”

  Startled, the giant dropped Dale’s arm and looked around. With lightning speed, it charged Rhonda. She reeled back. In a blur, she saw the grizzly’s lips pulled back over huge teeth and four-inch claws the color of amber. The teeth sank into her pack, and claws slashed her right wrist. Blood spurted from the wound as she fell to her knees and screamed.

  Hearing Rhonda’s cries, Dale came out of his daze just in time to see woman and bear, face to face, inches apart. “Bear! Bear!” he shouted, determined to lure the grizzly away from Rhonda. The attacker’s head snapped around. With a rush, it turned once again on Dale.

  “Get down!” he yelled at Rhonda. We have no defense, he thought, We have to play dead!

  An instant later Dale was in the air, being shaken violently, the bear’s jaws locked on his buttocks. Claws swiped at his shoulders. Flooding adrenaline had numbed him to pain, but Dale knew his body was being savaged. If he doesn’t stop, it’s all over for me.

  Rhonda had heard Dale’s cry to get down, but she could not abandon him. Grabbing her tattered pack, she advanced once more, yelling for the grizzly’s attention.

  This time the bear attacked on its hind legs. Towering over her, its claws ripped into her neck. Mouth open, the bear clamped its jaws on her upper left arm, teeth crunching hard to the bone.

  Somehow Rhonda kept her feet, toe to toe with the bear, not conscious of pain, but of rising fury. Setting her jaw, she pounded a fist into the animal’s stomach. In an instant, she was flung to the ground. Rhonda expected jaws to close on her, but the grizzly dropped to all fours and loped off into the trees.

  * * *

  Dale struggled up from the ground. His left arm was crushed at the elbow, the forearm laid open to the bone. From the feel of his buttocks, he knew the bear had bitten out a chunk of flesh.

  Rhonda managed to remove the sweatshirt tied about her waist and bandage her wrist. Her neck and shoulder wounds oozed blood.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this nightmare,” Dale said. He vowed to himself that her life would not end in misery on a trail in the woods.

  “We have to make it back to the car,” he said. “No one will come for us.”

  Hooking her pack over her undamaged right shoulder, Rhonda led off down the trail. She didn’t lack for confidence. From motel maid and fast-food waitress, she had moved on to a good job as an examiner in a real-estate-title office. Now her concern was for Dale. His wounds were deep, and they had to walk three miles. But she didn’t question his determination.

  In ten years, Dale had parlayed a degree in electronics from a small college in his native Oregon into a position as co-owner of a company that specialized in computerized aerial photography. Seeking out a spot where they could couple business with the sporting lifestyle, he and his partners moved the firm to Montana’s Flathead Valley.

  Walking behind Rhonda, Dale kept shouting to spook any bears that might still be nearby. The pain in his arm intensified. He felt lightheaded and realized that surrender to shock would be the end. As a veteran hiker and climber, he knew that he was at the edge of his limits.

  Then Rhonda saw the creek she remembered was near the trail head. Her watch read 2:32 p.m.—32 m
inutes since the attack—when they reached their station wagon.

  “We made it this far,” said Dale, his voice labored. “The next part can’t be as hard.”

  But his face was creased with pain, and Rhonda knew she had to take over. Tugging the keys from her pack, she unlocked the door and eased behind the wheel. “I think I can drive,” she said.

  Rhonda had no strength in her left arm to hold the wheel while shifting with her right, so Dale changed gears as Rhonda worked the clutch. Crouched dizzily at the wheel, she tried not to run off the road.

  After several miles, they came to Lake McDonald Lodge. It was closed for the season, but Dale spotted a pay phone and shouted for Rhonda to swing into the driveway.

  Mercifully, there was a dial tone, then a 911 operator on the line. “We need help,” he said hoarsely. “We’ve been mauled by a bear.” The operator took down the location and notified Glacier Park headquarters.

  Ranger Charlie Logan reached the lodge within minutes, and a highway patrol car soon delivered a nurse, who set up intravenous lines. By 3:30 p.m., the battered hikers were beginning their ambulance ride to Kalispell Regional Hospital.

  * * *