by Kelli Walker
Ironically, also the time my unfailing career as the best surgeon in New York City died as well.
Maybe there’s still time to be a police officer after all.
Rocco - One Week Later
“If you’ve been living under a rock this week, let GBR News catch you up. Last Wednesday morning, the renowned serial killer known as Skylar Lane took party in an all-out brawl that escalated when a security guard in the maximum security center he was being held at fell asleep against the ‘release’ button.”
“Yes, Bryan. And when the serial killer became loose in the prison, he became injured in the brawl. According to his autopsy report released this morning, Skylar Lane suffered from a clean break in his top right left rib that punctured his lung, causing him to bleed into his internal organs, as well as a stab wound to his abdomen. Other battle wounds included bruising to over forty percent of his body, small lacerations under his lip and in his upper arm that required stitches, and several dislocated joints.”
“And adding to Amanda’s statement, Skylar Lane was in critical condition when arriving at New York Regional very early Wednesday morning. He went into surgery with renowned general surgeon, Dr. Charity Jones, and died on the table less than two hours later.”
“While there are rumors flying around about possible foul play on Dr. Jones’ part in surgery, Mr. Lane’s autopsy report shows no signs of foul play. Just a man who was badly beaten and was found with a great deal of cocaine in his system. No word on how Mr. Lane obtained cocaine while in prison, and Dr. Charity Jones has refused to comment after contact this week.”
I sat there in my office, staring at the news story. Every hour, on the hour, every time they could smash it in between the political turmoil of this country and some war we were fighting in again. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I was glad that sack of shit was dead. I’d been counting down the days until he cooked underneath the needle of that serum for months. Skylar Lane took the life of my cousin during his rampage in the city. Left her dismembered in the woods, scattered throughout a six-mile radius. The man made me sick. His death couldn’t have been sweeter on the tip of my tongue.
I grinned every time I saw his picture come up on the television with ‘Deceased’ stamped over it. Men like that didn’t deserve to exist in the world.
“We need to talk,” Matthew said.
My eyes panned over to my partner as he walked into my office. His eyes darted over to the television screen before he shook his head, then he muted the television with my remote. I quirked an eyebrow at him. He looked tired. A bit worn down.
“Does your boss not give you enough vacation time?” I asked.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Dick. I got an email in my inbox for a new client our H.R. Department passed up to us. You really need to take a look at it,” Matthew said.
My eyes flickered over to my computer screen before I toggled the mouse.
“What’s it about?” I asked.
“I want you to look at it without my opinion first,” he said.
I clicked the fresh email at the top of my inbox and it downloaded the contents of the file H.R. sent to me. The file came alive on my screen, and the more I read the more my eyes widened.
“When did you get this?” I asked.
“Got shot to me about an hour ago. I reached out and confirmed what was going on before I shot it to you,” Matthew said.
I went silent as I read through the material. Threats. Emails. Typed letters. Death. All of it, associated with Skylar Lane. The notes sounded deranged. They talked of a love. A bond that could never be broken.
You took him from me. I’ll make sure you understand how that feels.
Skylar Lane was a godsend to this world. You kill a God, you pay the price.
He was in your care. He trusted you. And you betrayed him.
There were even voice messages for me to listen to. Granted, the voice had been altered beyond belief. It would take a couple of days for our tech department to peel back the layers and get to the root voice. But the two voice messages were just as ominous. Just as threatening, without actually detailing anything. The devotion in the voice was present, though. Whoever was talking about Skylar Lane obviously had a personal connection to them.
Or at least, a perceived personal connection.
I scrolled back up to the top of the file and looked at the picture. The name. The basic information I had skipped over the second I saw Mr. Lane’s name in the body of the evidence presented to me. The blonde hair. The brown eyes. The dollop of freckles peppered across her cheeks. I looked back up at the muted news broadcast and saw the same picture. The same woman with the white coat on.
Doctor Charity Jones.
“Are you going to talk at all? Because it’s never good when you go silent,” Matthew said.
“Who submitted the application for protection?” I asked.
“According to our intake department, a friend of hers as the hospital did, Rocco,” he said.
“It says in her file that the first threat she got was an email to her hospital account.”
“I already looked into it. Her contact information for New York Regional is right there on the website.”
“Where did these voice messages come from?” I asked.
“Her office phone at the hospital. They didn’t get personal, according to what she told intake, until the typed letter arrived at her home.”
“Everything she received was at her place of work until that letter?”
“Yep. That letter happened two days ago, she reached out late last night. I already ran down everything. It all looks legit,” he said.
I looked back up at the news station and grabbed the remote. I unmuted it and listened as the station continued to dig up more crap to spew on the television. How long Charity Jones had worked at the hospital. Her perfect record for surgeries until Mr. Lane’s death. How rumors of foul play were flying around despite the autopsy report. The hospital even made an official statement saying they were formally investigating the surgery and the methods Dr. Jones used to operate on Skylar Lane to make sure all was done to try and preserve his life.
Preserve his life.
The idea made me sick.
“While we have an official comment from the hospital, there is still no official statement from Dr. Jones herself. But once there is, GBR News will be the first to bring it to you,” the newscaster said.
“What are you thinking?” Matthew asked.
I reached for the remote and turned off the television.
“Two things. One, whoever is threatening this doctor clearly thinks she’s responsible for the death of Skylar Lane,” I said.
“And two?”
“I’m taking the case personally.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Respond to the email and let H.R. know I’ll be out on the job. You’ll be at the helm until we can get this case wrapped up. No one else goes under because of this psychopath. Including the woman who was put in an impossible situation,” I said.
“Are you sure this is a good idea for you to do this? Maybe I should take this case,” Matthew said.
My eyes hardened onto his face. “I’m fine. I’m taking the case.”
“You always taught me not to take cases I could possibly get emotionally hooked to. You’re already personally involved.”
“And the man I was personally involved with is dead. I’ll celebrate that later. Right now, someone else’s life hangs in the balance because of that man’s sick legacy, and I won’t have any of it. He’s dead, and the havoc he wreaked needs to stay dead with him.”
“I take it there’s no point in trying to talk you out of this?”
“Rundown. Go.”
Matthew sighed. “Okay. My gut is telling me that whoever is sending these threats is a fan. Possibly someone who might have visited him while in prison. In which case, we’re looking at a person who is mentally unstable as well. Like he was.”
“It could also be someone he was connected with on the outside. A family member of some sort. We need to look into both avenues, and I need to prepare myself to get over to Dr. Jones’ place,” I said.
“The family member avenue would make sense. That kind of grief on a mother or a father could possibly break them. Spiral them in some way.”
“And your former suggestion make sense as well. I’ve heard about serial killer fan clubs and shit like that. People who get together and obsess over the crimes and the life of these types of men. That leaves us with a broader window, though. Books have already been written on him. They’re used in classrooms. Criminology departments. We’ve got a lot to whittle down in a small amount of time, because the escalation of how personal these notes are is rapidly increasing.”
“I’ve already reached out to local police and they’re working on the case. Want to partner with them?” Matthew asked.
I looked over at my business partner. “Until they move too slowly. Then, you know what to do.”
“Got it, Rocco.”
“The only thing we know is motive. Which helps us out a lot. Whoever is sending these notes is angry that Skylar Lane died in her care. It’s all hands on deck with this one, Matt. We need to figure out who’s threatening this doctor and finish Mr. Lane’s legacy once and for all. No one else will die because of this man. Not on my watch.”
“I’ll get the voicemails down to our tech department and have another team try to pluck anything they can from the emails sent to her desk at work,” he said.
I grabbed my coat and headed for my office door, preparing myself mentally for this case. I had to keep a cool head on my shoulders. I had to keep my head in the game. No befriending the doctor. No personally getting to know her. Hell, no talking to her at all if I could help it. Protecting her and figuring out who was behind all this shit were my main priorities.
Besides, it didn’t end well the last time I took a case personally. I talked too much. Got too close. Became blindsided with feelings and shit.
It got a little too… personal.
That couldn't happen again.
“Hey Rocco,” Matthew said.
I turned around as I stood in my doorway, watching him grin at me.
“You don’t give me enough fucking vacation time.”
I chuckled to myself. “Well, let’s get the streets of this city cleaned up again, then we can all take some fucking vacation. My boss is a slavedriver, too. Sleep would be a welcomed adventure.”
After I wiped that bastard’s name from the news stations for good.
Charity
“You did what?” I asked.
“I looked into hiring you some personal security,” Reese said.
I stared at her as if she had grown a third head.
“Look, the things you’ve shown me. Let me listen to. They’re serious, Charity. I made some calls, did some research. Asked me husband for some advice.”
“Jax knows!?” I exclaimed.
“The things you sent me aren’t good. I mean, that letter came to your house a couple of days ago. It’s getting personal. You’re not safe. So, yes. Jax knows. And he recommended me to a company that specializes in personal security. I gave them a call. I didn’t pose to be you or anything, so don’t worry about that,” Reese said.
“Don’t worry about that? You think that’s what I’m worried about? I showed you those things in confidence, Reese. I didn't think you’d go out and disperse them to other people.”
“You need someone watching out for you. These threats are serious. Some sicko really thinks Skylar Lane died by your hand, and we all know that’s not true. That man had enough drugs in his system to melt the lining of his stomach. He bled into his stomach from his stomach. There’s nothing you could’ve done about that.”
“Reese, this wasn’t your call. I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t need some stuck-up, hulking bodyguard following me around everywhere,” I said.
“When I submitted the application with the things you showed me, they said they would pass it up the chain. Whatever that means. But for you all you know, Charity, someone is hand-delivering these things. It wasn't like that letter had a damn return address on it. They know where you live. That’s dangerous right now. Especially with the news not shutting up about this.”
“Reese, this is insane. I didn’t do anything, and yet I’ve got the hospital opening up a formal investigation, I’ve got news reporters following me everywhere I go. I’ve had to change my cell phone number just to keep them from calling, and now my best friend and the only person I trust has gone and handed off all of my information to some company behind my back!”
“You aren’t safe right now. I’m worried about you,” she said.
“Then worry about me like a normal person would. Send up some prayers. Send me good vibes. Don’t go behind my back and try to hire me some asshole of a man to run around behind me and nitpick my every move,” I said.
“Do you really think that’s what a bodyguard does?” she asked.
“It’s what a man does. And I don’t need a man in my house.”
“It sounds like you could use a man somewhere else,” she murmured.
“You know what, Reese? I’m perfectly okay taking care of myself. I’ve got a flashlight taser in my purse and a gun in my home. If someone busts in and tries to kill me, I’ll shoot ‘em myself.”
“Wait, you have a gun?”
I sighed heavily. “I’m a single woman in New York City. Yes, Reese. I have a gun.”
“Dr. Jones? You’re needed in room 411.”
“I’ll be there in a second,” I said.
“If they accept your application, would you just give them a shot? TaylorMade is apparently a big company in the world of personal security. If they call, just give them a shot. For me?” Reese asked.
“TaylorMade? Sounds like a sweater company,” I groaned.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she said.
I grabbed the file from the male nurse’s hand and started my journey to room 411. I didn’t like the fact that Reese went above my head to try and find me something I didn’t need. I looked over the file as my walking slowed down, coming to a stop in the middle of the hallway. I furrowed my brow as I looked over all of the symptoms put in front of me, along with the elevated fever and the lack of being able to hold down food.
“She’s twenty four?” I asked.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Fever of 99.5. Can’t hold down food. Had a seizure this morning?” I asked.
“That's why they brought her in, yes.”
“What kind of seizure? It’s not documented on here.”
“A clonic seizure.”
“And you know this for sure?” I asked.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Are you sure the lack of holding down food isn’t a loss of appetite?” I asked.
“Why? What are you thinking?”
“Because if someone is making her eat while she’s not hungry, that could explain the vomiting. And if that’s the case--.”
“Then she’s got meningitis. On it. I’ll schedule a lumbar puncture and inform you of the results.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it,” I said.
I passed the file off before even getting to the room and started back to the nurse’s station.
“One of those cases today, huh?” Reese asked.
“Sometimes, you just have to put the symptoms together and use some common sense,” I said.
“Speaking of common sense, I really think you should give TaylorMade a chance.”
“Oh, you mean the sweater shop?” I asked, grinning.
“Charity.”
I leaned against the counter, my eyes connecting with my friend’s. “I get it. I get where you’re coming from. And I know you’re worried about me. But, I don’t need the protection. They’re leaving notes. Voice messages. Emails. Nothing else. Just stuff to scare me off. And I’m not letting anyone scare me off.”
“Are you sleeping well at night?”
“Well, no. But I don’t sleep well every night for one reason or another.”
“Are you carrying your taser around the house with you?” she asked.
“What? You don’t?” I asked playfully.
“Are you refusing to get up in the middle of the night for fear something’s in the dark?”
“Again, doesn’t everyone do that?”
“You don’t, Charity. But even as I mention it, your face is paling. You don’t feel safe in your home, do you?” she asked.
I sighed as I hung my head towards the desk.
“You’ve been put in an impossible position, Charity. The world is talking about you. No one would know how to handle this situation. Not even the unfailing Charity Jones. I know you’re strong. I’ve known you for years. But even this is a little too much for you. I see it in your eyes. In the bags underneath them. In the way your hands jump every time your computer dings with an email and every time you jump when your phone vibrates in your pocket. You’re scared. And it’s okay to be scared. Because this hospital is scared for you. I’m scared for you.”
I felt tears of exhaustion crest my eyes as Reese massaged my neck.
“Just accept their help if they call you and label it as comfort. Having someone watching out for you whose sole job is to keep you safe will help you sleep. Help you eat. Help you get to work without being exhausted to the bone. Believe it or not, you can’t do everything. No one is equipped to handle everything.”
“And here I thought I was doing a damn good job of it,” I said.
“The police will figure out what’s going on, and in the meantime you can hire a piece of mind.”
I drew in a deep breath and nodded.
“Fine. Okay. If they call, and they offer their services. I’ll look into it,” I said.
“Promise me, Charity.”
“Fine. Okay? I promise.”
I felt bad for snapping at her, but I was at my wit’s end. In the span of a week, my entire life had toppled head over heels. And I had no one I could talk to about it. I felt a tap on my shoulder and was relieved to turn around and see the doctor taking my place. Relieving me of my grueling shift. I quickly briefed him on the cases I had coming in, including the patient who possibly had meningitis. I couldn’t get out of that hospital quickly enough, but the second I stepped out into the open, my heart rate skyrocketed. My hands shook. I white-knuckled the handlebar of the subway before racing up the stairs, trying to dodge funny looks and the camera phones people were whipping out. I didn’t stop jogging and running and sprinting until I slammed myself into my home, sweat dripping down my brow.