by Gary Birken
Pondering the shambles of her life, Morgan raised her eyes and gazed over at her diplomas and certificates.
“Dr. Hale’s on line one for you,” came Kendra’s voice over the intercom.
“Thanks,” she said, reaching for the phone.
“Hi, Morgan. I just wanted to let you know that I called Will Johnson. I explained to him what’s going on. He’s expecting a call from you.”
“I guess that means Bob hasn’t softened his position on me undergoing counseling.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Hardly surprised, Morgan asked, “Do you have his number?”
Eileen read Will’s number to her twice.
“I’ll call him as soon as we get off.”
“You sound a little down. Is everything okay?” Eileen inquired.
“Except for my professional life being in a free fall, everything’s fine.”
“Have a little faith. Meet with Will a couple of times and I’m sure things will turn out fine. Just try and keep an open mind.”
“I’ll try,” she assured Eileen with a sigh.
“Good. Call me after your first session.”
Morgan thanked Eileen and promised to keep her in the loop. Still feeling the full effects of humiliation regarding what lay in front of her, Morgan switched lines and dialed Will’s number.
A man answered after two rings. “Hello.”
“Is this the office of Dr. Johnson?” Morgan asked, wondering if she had dialed the wrong number.
“It is.”
“My name is Dr. Morgan Connolly. I’m calling to make an appointment.”
“This is Will, Morgan.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I assumed . . . I mean I thought I was talking to your medical assistant.”
“I like to answer my phone. If I can’t get to it, my voice mail picks up.”
“If this is a bad time I’ll be happy to call back later.”
“Now’s fine.”
“I’d like to arrange some time to meet with you.”
“When would be a good time for you? Eileen told me your schedule’s pretty tight.”
Taken aback by how accommodating Will was, she answered, “I can always change my schedule, so anytime that’s good for you, works for me.”
“In that case, how does the end of the week sound? I’m taking my wife and kids sailing Friday but if you could come over in the late afternoon—say at around four.”
“That will be fine,” she told him, thinking to herself that the sooner she got started with this thing, the sooner she’d be finished.
“I’m in Davie. I use my guesthouse as an office.” Morgan used the same piece of paper to write down the directions to his home. “Park in my driveway and then follow the footpath between the house and the garage to the back. You can’t miss it.”
“I assume Eileen mentioned that the administration is insisting that I speak with you. I agreed, but I’m probably doing it for all the wrong reasons.”
“Maybe that’s a good place for us to start. I’ll see you Friday.”
Wanting to kick herself for making such a dumb comment, Morgan said good-bye and hung up the phone. “Round one to the psychiatrist,” she muttered, shaking her head.
CHAPTER 49
As soon as she hung up the phone, Morgan reached for her can of Coke.
Swiveling her chair around, she looked at a photograph on the top shelf of her bookcase of her father and her at a Florida Panthers hockey game. She still thought about him frequently, but the reality of being without him was becoming easier to accept with each passing day. Her eyes drifted down to the lower shelves of the bookcase. Every text she had purchased since her first day of medical school was in mint condition and arranged by subject.
Morgan reached for a notepad and a pen. Mindlessly at first, she began doodling—a habit she had picked up in high school whenever she was in the throes of a tough problem. After she had filled the top of the page with tiny squares, triangles, and other senseless symbols, she wrote down every word of the note Gideon had left in her father’s office. Studying the words individually, she drew a box around certain groupings. Retracing the lines over and over again, her eyes became transfixed on the phrase the third of three. It was still the part of Gideon’s cryptic note that intrigued her the most.
“Three what?” she muttered before filling her lungs fully. “Three mistakes? Three operations? Three family members?” Nothing seemed to make any sense. On the last line of the page, she printed the numeral 3. She then wrote a second 3 next to the first, but the number thirty-three didn’t seem important. Morgan then reprinted the numbers, this time spacing them apart. After considering the number for a few seconds, she absently drew an oblique slash between the two digits. Before she raised the pen from the pad, her eyes widened.
“It’s too obvious,” she whispered, tapping away on her blotter with the tip of the pen. But she couldn’t force herself to dismiss the notion purely because of its simplicity. “The third of three could be a date—it could simply mean the third of March.” Although the date struck a familiar chord, she couldn’t attach a specific significance to it. Morgan reached for the phone and dialed the private line of her father’s office.
Annalisa answered.
“Hi, Annalisa, it’s Morgan. I wonder if you could check on something for me?”
“Sure.”
“How far back do you keep records of my father’s schedule?”
“I’d say about five years. Ever since we computerized the office.”
“If I were interested in a specific date, could you tell me what his schedule was for that day?”
Morgan anticipated the hesitancy in Annalisa’s voice. “I guess so . . . but—”
Not wanting to field a salvo of questions, she said, “It’s important. I’d really appreciate your help.”
“What’s the date?”
“March third.”
Annalisa laughed, leaving Morgan a trifle bewildered. “I don’t need a computer to check that date, Morgan. Your father was out of town just like he always is the first week of March.”
Morgan’s confusion vanished. “His time-share in Costa Rica. I can’t believe I didn’t remember.”
“It would have taken a nuclear war for him to have missed it,” Annalisa said with obvious affection. “There wasn’t any room left in his office for all those pictures of him fishing.”
Morgan exhaled. “Thanks for your help, Annalisa.”
“When are we getting together for dinner?”
“My schedule’s been horrible, but I’ll call you. I promise.”
Morgan replaced her phone on the cradle. She thought about her father’s yearly trip to the same plush resort on the west coast of Costa Rica. About eight years ago, he and his four friends had decided to make it a father-daughter event and she had gone along. Even though she had always despised fishing, it had turned out to be a terrific week and one that she had always cherished. Because they were all lifelong friends, Morgan knew the men her father traveled with quite well.
Thinking about the day her father was killed, she spun her chair a half turn to her right. Her mind then focused on Gideon’s curious preoccupation with her. Morgan pushed her chair up to her computer and rolled out the keyboard. She woke up the machine and then signed on to the hospital’s secure intra-net. The first thing she did was bring up the emergency room physician’s shift schedule for March. She checked it twice. She hadn’t worked on the second or the third.
Admitting it was a shot in the dark, Morgan checked the schedule again—only this time for March of the previous year. The schedule flashed up. Crossing her arms in front of her, she sat back in her chair—her eyes glued on the monitor. She had worked the evening shift on the third. For some reason, the date nagged at her.
All at once, she was filled with an uneasy feeling. A few moments later, an unnerving chill flashed through her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
She quickly switched
screens to her patient encounter log. The record indicated every patient she had treated during that shift. Scrolling down through the alphabetized list, she stopped midway through. Her eyes locked on the screen, reading the names of Jason and Andrew Kaine over and over again. The stark image of one of the most painful and upsetting experiences she had known as a doctor leapt into her mind with the same precise clarity as if had happened an hour ago.
For months afterward, every time she treated a young man with a fever and a rash, her blood ran cold. But at the moment, the deaths of Andy and Jason were not the only thing plaguing her. The vivid recollection of her conversation with Mason Kaine and what followed filled her mind. It was two days later when she was called by one of the assistant administrators. He had received several calls from Kaine threatening everything from a formal complaint to the state to going on television. The administrator assured Morgan the problem would be handled by the Risk Management department and the director of Patient Relations. When several weeks went by and Morgan had heard nothing further, she assumed Mason Kaine had come to his senses and realized she was not responsible for the deaths of his sons.
Now, eighteen months later, she suspected she was wrong. The more she thought about Gideon’s note, the more she warned herself not to jump to any conclusions. It was possible that the third of three had nothing to do with March third, and that Jason and Andy’s deaths on that day was a pure coincidence. But as much as she tried to convince herself, she couldn’t dismiss the notion that Mason Kaine had never given up the ghost and that he could quite possibly be the one who murdered her father.
CHAPTER 50
Ben and Morgan exited the back of her building and headed for the pool area.
“I still can’t believe Bob’s forcing me to speak with a psychiatrist.”
“He’s trying to cover his ass. I would advise you to do the same.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is.”
“Easy for you to say.”
They walked over to a couple of slatted chaise chairs and sat down. It was a mild afternoon with a sparse breeze coming off of the ocean.
“Something tells me you didn’t call me over here to discuss Bob’s insistence that you see a psychiatrist.”
“I think I figured out what Gideon meant by ‘the third of three.’”
“Interesting,” he said, slipping on his sunglasses. “I’m all ears.”
For the next few minutes, Morgan gave Ben an account of everything that had happened the night she took care of Andy and Jason Kaine, especially mentioning her strange encounter with Mason Kaine.
“The man insisted on knowing every detail of the care his sons received. He even asked me what antibiotics I had given them. For a while, he tried to act unemotional and businesslike, but it was obvious his anger was mounting. I tried to make him understand his sons had a deadly disease and there was nothing more I could have done to save them. That’s when he started to get angry. The harder I tried to make him understand, the angrier he got. Finally he stormed out of the ER—but not before threatening to take me and the hospital down.”
“Those were his exact words?”
“Verbatim. It’s not the kind of thing you forget.”
“Was that the end of it?” Ben asked.
“Hardly. I reported the incident to the administrator on call, who referred it to the hospital attorney and Patient Relations. Over the next couple of months, Kaine called the hospital repeatedly trying to set up a meeting with Bob Allenby. His request came with a list of demands. Not only did he insist on a public apology, he also wanted me dismissed from the medical staff for gross negligence.”
“Did he sue?”
“No. The hospital continued to placate him from arm’s length. Eventually, he stopped calling.”
“It sounds like he cooled off and decided to get on with his life.”
“Or maybe he became so overwhelmingly frustrated that he cracked and decided to look for justice in a different way.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. He had no gripe with your father,” Ben pointed out.
“Not directly, anyway.”
Ben paused for a few moments. He cupped his chin between his thumb and fingers as he spoke. “So you’re suggesting Mason Kaine is Gideon and that he killed your father to get even with you.”
“Before you dismiss the idea as ridiculous, just think about something for a second. I don’t have any children. If Kaine wanted me to feel the same devastating emotional trauma he had suffered from the loss of his sons . . . well, it’s possible he would have gone after my father instead of me.”
“What are you basing this theory on?”
“The science of psychiatry. It’s a well-described phenomenon that an overpowering and unremitting grief reaction can drive an otherwise normal person to act in a bizarre manner.”
“You’re not just talking about boys behaving badly—you’re talking about homicidal insanity,” Ben said.
“Just hear me out. We know that Kaine was consumed with anger over the deaths of his sons. He hits a stone wall looking for retribution from a hospital administration that’s doing nothing more than politely appeasing him. Becoming more enraged, and with no resolution to the conflict, he has a psychotic breakdown and decides to take matters into his own hands, which—”
“Which led him to believe that he was some kind of modern-day avenging archangel?”
“Maybe that’s why he signed the note Gideon,” Morgan suggested.
“I think Gideon was just a regular angel.”
“I’m being serious, Ben.”
“There’s just one hole in your theory. Do you remember telling me you suspected there was a connection between your father’s death and the Code Fifteens?”
She agreed with a nod.
“Assuming you’re right—why would Gideon . . . or Kaine . . . a man who hated you so much that he killed your father, feel the need to murder innocent cardiac patients? What would be his motive? Why would he want to sabotage an open-heart operation? Even if he could pull it off, which is highly unlikely, why would he do that?”
“You’re asking me to explain the actions of a deranged individual. I can’t do that . . . not yet, anyway.” Morgan’s intense gaze suddenly drifted down. “And, by the way, I don’t think it would be as hard as you think.”
“What wouldn’t be?”
“Tampering with the open-heart medications. Have you ever been in the heart surgery suite at three in the morning?”
“Not lately. But it sounds like you have.”
“It’s empty and pitch-black. I did a hypothetical walk-through.”
“When was this?” he asked.
She glared at him. “What difference does that make?”
“What were you going to offer up as an excuse if you got caught?”
“I didn’t have a plan B. What you should be asking me is what I found out.”
“What?” he inquired with a noisy sigh.
“That it would be no big deal for somebody dressed in OR scrubs, especially if they had a hospital ID, to inconspicuously find his or her way back into the cardiac surgery suite, fill the nitroglycerine bottles with protamine, and sneak out again. The whole thing would take about three and a half minutes.”
Rather than debating the plausibility of Morgan’s hypothesis any further, Ben decided to try a different approach.
“You mentioned to me that Bob Allenby and the hospital board are really feeling the heat from AHCA regarding the Code Fifteens.”
“That would be an understatement,” she said.
“I’m just wondering what the board’s reaction would be if they learned that their chief of Emergency Medicine told AH-CA’s investigative team that her father’s death and the recent rash of Code Fifteens were being intentionally perpetrated by a psychotic killer who called himself Gideon?”
“Your point being that I should do the politically correct thing and roll over and play dea
d.”
“I’m not saying you should abandon the problem. I’m simply suggesting you tap on the brakes a little. You have your career to think of.”
“Give me a little credit for having some political instinct. As long as I stay outside of the hospital, I’m sure I’ll be okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean exactly?”
“I was thinking about going to see Jason and Andy’s mother. I know where she works.”
“In the first place, she probably won’t speak to you. In the second, even if she does, she’ll tell Kaine and get him all fired up again,” Ben countered.
“I don’t think so. They’re divorced.”
“How would you know that?”
“It’s public information.”
“So now you’re spending your days in the courthouse going through divorce records?”
“Of course not. I had somebody do it for me.”
“Have you talked to Detective Wolfe about all this?”
“I called him yesterday. He listened politely and told me he’d look into things and get back to me.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“No comment,” she told him.
“It’s obvious you’ve made up your mind. Just be careful,” Ben warned. “If there’s anything I can do to help you . . .”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“On a lighter note,” he began. “There’s a special production at the Broward Center next week. It’s called Fifty Years of Broadway. I know how much you love Broadway musicals so I thought you might like to go.”
She looked at him with affection. “I’m shocked. I had no idea you were a patron of the arts.”
“I’m not a graduate of the Paris Conservatory, but I enjoy a good musical from time to time.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Name one.”