Do No Harm

by Christina McDonald

  * * *

  THE CRAMPED meeting room on the top floor of the police station was freezing, the air-conditioning turned up to max even though it was December. Nate, Lieutenant Dyson, Chief O’Neill, and a handful of cops and detectives sat around a table listening as Mayor Walker spoke in tight, clipped tones. The mayor was a petite, wiry black woman with a Colgate smile, a cropped salt-and-pepper Afro, and eyes of steel. She seemed enraged rather than appeased by the news that Santiago Martinez and Violeta Williams had been killed with the same drug.

  “Let me get this clear.” Her icy gaze swept the room. She smoothed her severe navy suit. “We have an unknown quantity of pills and fentanyl missing, likely somewhere in our community, plus a soaring opioid death rate that could be linked to these dealers. We have a known drug dealer turned informant who was murdered a week and a half ago; and now this Violeta Williams died from the same fentanyl approximately one week ago. How do we not have a firmer hold on this case?”

  Nate cleared his throat. “We’re trying to find out where the fentanyl is coming from and how it’s being dispersed into the community. When I spoke to the pathologist, she said that overdose deaths from opioids are at an all-time high, and more frequently they’re laced with fentanyl. We found oxy laced with fentanyl at Mr. Martinez’s house, so we’re working on the theory this is all connected.”

  “Any hard evidence?”

  Nate’s gaze flickered to the chief, who was scowling, then to Lieutenant Dyson, who looked too hopeful for Nate’s liking. “Nothing yet, ma’am.”

  Mayor Walker gave him her most withering glare and stood abruptly. “Find out where the drugs came from. And do it fast. The media are having a field day with this. Voters are getting angry.”

  Walker was up for reelection next year. A worsening opioid epidemic would cripple her campaign.

  “And organize a press conference. People need to be reassured.” Her piercing gaze landed on Nate. “I don’t think I need to explain what it would mean for future funding if we can’t stop the drugs flowing into our town.”

  Her meaning was crystal clear: Solve this murder and stop the flow of drugs into my town or that promotion you want is just a pipe dream, bud.

  * * *

  NATE HELD the door for Kia as they headed down the stairs to their desks. They were quiet, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Nate was already logistically trying to organize the press conference Muriel Walker had foisted on him.

  The press conference and the added pressure from the mayor meant more time away from Josh while he was sick, less time helping Emma. But the only other option was to recuse himself. He couldn’t do that.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Nate stopped at a vending machine next to the front desk. He nodded at the duty officer and fed some change into the machine, waiting for it to thrust out his Snickers bar.

  “Hey, did you check the video surveillance at the hospital clinic?” Kia asked.

  Nate unwrapped the Snickers and took a bite, speaking around a mouthful of nougat and chocolate. “I tried. I checked the computer it should’ve been stored on, but there was nothing there. Looks like they never even started recording.”

  Without it, building a case against Julia would be hard. Even though the pills had been found in her purse, a clever lawyer could claim a pharmaceutical rep had given them to her or that someone else had put them in her bag. But he couldn’t tell Kia that without compromising his case.

  “You know, Julia was at home that night. I checked her home video surveillance log. She entered the house at six thirty and was there all night. There’s no way she could’ve taken those pills the night in question.”

  Nate grunted, still chewing.

  “Maybe someone put those pills in her purse,” Kia suggested.

  “She’ll have to prove it.”

  He knew he sounded flippant and rude but couldn’t help himself. He was too on edge lately, stressed and testy, a far cry from his usual sunny self.

  “You okay, Nate?” Kia asked.

  “Never better.” He finished his Snickers and moved toward the roll-call room, where the staff were given their orders every morning. The daily board, hanging crookedly on the far side of the room, summarized the criminal activity and arrests for the past seventy-two hours.

  Kia sighed, knowing not to push him, and hurried to catch up. “I went out to Violeta’s yesterday. Did you know she and Ben have a son?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Cute little guy, Lucas. Violeta’s mom was with him. She wouldn’t let me in. Actually, she wouldn’t even open the door for me—kept it on the chain. I thought it was weird, so I ran her in the system. She’s a model citizen. Not even a driving ticket on her record. Her husband, though, now deceased, was killed by police in a drug bust when Violeta was a kid. I don’t see her talking to us anytime soon. If we want any more information about Ben, we’ll have to find him ourselves.”

  “Do you think Ben lives there?”

  “Maybe. Only way to find out for sure is to get someone sitting outside the house, though. And we don’t have resources for that.”

  “Do we have anything else matching Ben to either Martinez or Williams?”

  “Not from the scene,” Kia said. “Hair and fiber analysis at Martinez’s came back with Williams’s hair. Her fingerprints were there too, so she was definitely there. But so far nothing matching Ben. I’m not sure he was ever in that house.”

  He thought about the numbers he’d seen on Martinez’s refrigerator. “I found a piece of paper on his refrigerator with some numbers on it. Two sets of three digits. Can’t figure out what they could go to. The crime guys didn’t find anything that needed a combination, so I’m not sure what they’re for, or if they’re important at all. Let me know if you can think of anything.”

  On the far side of the roll-call room they exited a door into the detectives’ area. Someone had halfheartedly decorated the cubicles for Christmas: a few strings of red and silver tinsel, an artificial tree with a handful of gold baubles. In Nate’s cubicle was a large box, sealed in yellow tape.

  “What’s that?” Kia asked.

  Nate peered at the label. “It’s the files on Ben I requested from Seattle.” He slit the box open and began unpacking folder after folder.

  “Holy shit.” Kia gaped at the files. She lifted one file and flicked through it. “Battery. Dealing. Possession. Dealing. Don’t people ever learn?”

  “There are the baddies and the goodies in the world. I think Ben’s made too many bad choices to ever really change.” He handed her half the stack of folders. “Here, you start on those.”

  Kia separated the files into neat piles on her desk, her movements quick, determined. Nate pulled a flip chart over and together they built a timeline for Ben. Once they’d finished, Nate read it out loud.

  “So Ben first got busted for doing drugs when he was fourteen. Looks like his father hired a fancy lawyer and got the conviction dropped.”

  Kia snorted. “Helps having a big-shot doctor for a dad.”

  “He got caught joyriding, stealing, was arrested and released for fighting at school. Then his parents were killed in a car accident. Shortly after that, he got caught selling homemade MDMA to an undercover. Turned out he was using basic lab equipment and old chemistry manuals to make drugs in the woods behind his foster parents’ house. MDMA. Heroin. He got sent straight to juvie.”

  “Christ. He was a teenage Walter White,” Kia said.

  “Yeah, but when he got out he started doing drugs as well as selling them. He was in and out of jail, using and dealing. He ended up owing money to one of the Mexican gangs. He started selling oxy for them to pay off his debts but got caught with enough in his possession to be booked as dealing after someone tipped off the Seattle PD.”

  Nate flipped through a few more pages. His mouth dropped open with a little pop.

  Kia tilted her head at him. “What?”

  Nate was too stunned to answer. She grabbed
the top sheet from the file and read the name of the source who’d turned Ben in to the Seattle PD.

  “Holy shitballs!” Kia’s eyes gleamed. “Emma turned him in? Her own brother!”

  Nate read the rest of the file in his hand. Ben had been caught and sent to prison six years ago, shortly after Nate met Emma. And she’d never said a word. In fact, she’d told him just a few days ago that she hadn’t seen Ben since she was in medical school.

  Emma had lied to him.

  If Ben knew that Emma was the one who’d tipped off the Seattle PD, she could be in real danger.

  Kia turned over the paper she held and shook it at Nate. “Ben Hardman and Santiago Martinez were bunkmates at the Washington State Penitentiary.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. This was the link he’d been looking for.

  “Gotcha, Ben.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “DON’T WORRY. JOSH IS FINE,” Moira said. The sound of smoke hissing between her teeth came down the phone line. “He’s sleeping and that’s the best thing for him right now.”

  I pressed my cell phone tight against my ear as one of the doctors pushed past me into the shared staff office.

  “Okay, thanks, Moira. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Josh had been sick since starting his lymphodepleting chemotherapy yesterday. He’d spent most of last night vomiting, but instead of being with him right now, I was here at the clinic, taking care of other sick people I didn’t really care about.

  I hung up and slid my phone into my pocket, returning to the desk space where I was jotting notes from my morning patients.

  The brightly lit office bustled with activity, doctors moving in and out, writing notes, opening cupboards, grabbing quick cups of coffee. It wasn’t the most peaceful environment to work in, but I liked the sense of belonging I felt around my colleagues.

  I looked at the patient file I had open on the desk. Alice Jones, who’d arrived nearly two weeks ago with the bad back, hadn’t shown up for her follow-up appointment yet. I rifled through the notes from the specialist. She hadn’t gone for the MRI I’d ordered either. But that made perfect sense if she and her husband had been trying to get oxy from me.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I looked up to see Dr. Calvin Harper smiling down at me.

  “That would be great, thank you.” I put my pen down and stretched. Nate and I had taken turns with Josh all night, and I was exhausted.

  The morning had been crazy. Back-to-back immunizations, flu shots, another case of the strep throat that was going around, a few routine diabetes checks, a little girl with a suspected broken bone in her heel whom I’d sent over to the emergency room. Primary care physicians were the gatekeepers of the medical world. We regulated access to specialists and collaborated with various organizations to act comprehensively for the good of our patients.

  “No problem, darlin’,” Dr. Harper said.

  I knew I shouldn’t take offense. He called everybody “darlin’.” It was one of the phrases he’d brought with him from the South when he’d moved here last year. But I didn’t feel like being patronized.

  He poured coffee into two mugs and set one in front of me.

  “Thanks, schmoopy.” I smiled and lifted the cup in a mock cheers. Fair’s fair.

  He seemed surprised but chuckled, no offense taken.

  I sipped the coffee, making a face. It was disgusting, thick as tar and burned. But there was no time to run down to the café.

  “Can you believe it about Julia?” Dr. Harper shook his white head. Julia called him Colonel Sanders behind his back, and I had to agree. “How silly! I thought the girl had more sense than to go stealing drugs from her office. I reckon her career is over now.”

  “Lots of people have done terrible things for good reasons,” I argued. “Look at Edward Jenner. He invented the smallpox vaccine and saved millions of lives, but he performed medical experiments on children and babies. Or Jonas Salk. Same thing. He developed a cure for polio and saved millions of children from death and disfigurement, but he performed medical experiments on his own kids.”

  “Now, hold your horses there.” Dr. Harper looked surprised by my argument. “Jenner’s experiments worked. So did Salk’s. They were for the greater good.”

  “Sure, but they still tried untested theories on babies and children. The experiments worked, so we think of them as medical heroes. If they hadn’t worked, Jenner would be an evil villain who gave a bunch of random kids smallpox, and Salk would have paralyzed or killed his entire family.”

  Dr. Harper stroked a hand down his white beard. “That sort of mind-set has been the impetus behind many a cruel medical and social experiment. It could easily result in deliberate deafness to suffering.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Brittany peeked her frizzy head through the office door and asked if I would see one of Dr. Wallington’s patients.

  “It’s an emergency walk-in, and Dr. Wallington isn’t back from his honeymoon yet.”

  I glanced at my watch. Josh had his second dose of lymphodepleting chemo in just a little bit, and I couldn’t be late.

  I felt the tension grow in my temples and massaged them with my fingers. It was my duty as a doctor to help if a patient was in need. I could still make it to Josh’s chemo appointment before the drip went in.

  “Sure, put them in exam room four.” I slugged back the last of my coffee and dragged myself to my feet.

  Dr. Harper put a hand on my arm. “Forgive me for saying, darlin’, but I think it should be noted what a commendable job you’re doing. As a doctor and as a mother. I know your boy is sick. It can’t be easy.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I agreed. “He started chemo yesterday.”

  “Ahh.” Dr. Harper bobbed his head in understanding. “And you wish you could be with him.”

  “Of course. I feel completely helpless.”

  “You are incredibly strong.”

  “Any parent could do what I’m doing. When your kid’s sick, you go to the appointments, get them treatment, do whatever you can to pay for it. This is just normal parenting to the one millionth degree.”

  He patted a gentle hand on my arm. “That attitude is exactly what makes you an excellent mother.”

  Up at reception, I grabbed the patient’s file from Brittany.

  “Thanks for doing this, Dr. Sweeney,” she trilled in her too-high voice. “The patient is in room four.”

  As I started to open the file, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I lifted my head slowly, skin prickling with alarm. My mouth went instantly dry, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, as my eyes met a pair of familiar ones.

  It was one of the girls from Ben’s van. The teenager with the patches of lighter skin on her face and hands.

  I watched as the puzzle pieces slotted into place right there on her face.

  She recognized me.

  * * *

  SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.

  I rushed down the hall, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst through my ribs at any moment. I staggered into the staff bathroom and locked the door, a cruel, angry fist squeezing my chest.

  I greedily gasped for oxygen, breath hissing in and out too fast. I turned the tap on and splashed at my face. Panic ramped up my breathing, the room revolving around me.

  Sweat prickled over my skin. I peeled my lab coat off and tossed it to the floor, slumping onto the toilet and dropping my head between my legs. Stars danced across my vision. She knew who I was. Would she turn me in?

  A tap came at the door.

  “Dr. Sweeney? Are you okay?” It was Brittany.

  I inhaled, trying to catch my breath. My whole body was trembling.

  Brittany knocked again.

  “Be right there!” I squeezed out.

  Focus, I told myself. Breathe.

  My cheeks were flushed when I looked in the mirror, strands of dark hair escaping my ponytail.

  I smoothed my hair back and washed my hands, letting the cold w
ater slide over the insides of my wrists as I took long, slow breaths. Finally I collected my lab coat off the floor and pulled it back on, taking a deep breath.

  I can help you. I belong here. I will save you. I don’t sell drugs illegally.

  Brittany was waiting when I opened the door, her overplucked eyebrows arched high in concern. “Are you okay, Dr. Sweeney? You looked like you were going to be sick.”

  “Oh.” I pressed a hand to my cheek and forced a smile. “I’m a little overtired, I think. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You have a lot going on. Here.” She handed me the file I’d dropped in my hurry. “It’s for your next patient.”

  “Thank you.”

  I took the file and watched her disappear down the hall. After a minute I followed, peering cautiously around the corner at the waiting room. A tacky plastic Christmas wreath hung on the door. A small, limp tree with too many baubles stood next to the magazine table. A handful of kids on iPads. Frazzled moms soothing fussy babies.

  But the girl was no longer sitting where I’d seen her.

  I scanned the room again. There she was—in the corner next to the door, whispering frantically to a dark-haired, acne-ridden teenage boy. The patches of lighter skin around her eyes and mouth were stark against her shiny black hair. Her hands were blotchy with pigment, her fingers long, her nails ragged, as she gestured toward the reception desk.

  I saw her mouth moving: That’s her!

  She saw me then. Her almond-shaped eyes—an unusual shade of amber—widened when they collided with mine.

  The air shimmered between us, an electric tingle that vibrated with unspoken words. My stomach hollowed. Horror and fear caught in my throat, made my legs wobbly as my heart thundered in my chest.

  We moved at the same time: I strode toward her while she grabbed the boy’s arm and tugged him out the door. I crossed the reception area, careful not to appear too urgent, and threw the door open.

  But they were already disappearing into the stairwell.