by Gary Birken
A millisecond later, the tank slammed into the outside of the MRI tube, where it remained stuck for a split second before being violently sucked into the tube. The horrible sound of the tank careening off the walls of the MRI resonated around the room like a gunshot in a box canyon.
Mel bolted back to the control console. He tapped the touch-screen command that moved the table holding Mister Hazelton out of the tube. He then grabbed a towel from the shelf above him and raced to the end of the MRI tube. Without consciously knowing why, he took a short step backward at the sight of the gaping wound the tank had sliced into Hazelton’s head. Three jagged bone fragments protruded upward. Together, they framed out a fountain of gushing blood that spewed into the air before raining down on the pillowcase and leaving an amorphous red blot around Hazelton’s head.
Mel moved forward and pressed the towel hard against the wound.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Hazelton?”
There was no response. Not even a groan. Mel looked down to see if he was still breathing. His chest was definitely moving but its motion was shallow and sporadic. Trying desperately to stem the uncontrolled hemorrhage, he pressed the blood-soaked towel even harder against his skull.
Mel knew it was technically impossible to shut down the MRI’s magnet. He also knew that if he called a code blue, personnel from all over the hospital would come running. There would be instant pandemonium and, no doubt, somebody would forget about the metal object precautions. The result would undoubtedly result in a second catastrophe. He looked over at Amanda, whose terrified eyes were locked on him.
Pointing to a phone on the wall, he spoke to her in a calm and clear voice. “Pick up the phone and dial three-four-oh-three. Tell the nurse who answers that Mel in MRI said we have an emergency and that they should call a code purple.” When Amanda didn’t move, Mel repeated. “Go ahead. The phone’s right behind you on the wall. You can do it.”
Amanda nodded, walked the few paces to the phone and picked it up.
“Now dial three-four-oh-three,” he said, stealing another peek at Hazelton’s face. “Go on.”
She tapped in the numbers. “This is one of the volunteers,” she began, looking back at him. “I’m in the MRI suite and Mel wants me to tell you to . . . to—”
“To call a code purple,” he repeated slowly.
“He said to call a code purple.” She listened for a moment and then hung up the phone. “They’re coming.”
“Good,” he said, pointing to the control room. “Now I want you to go over to the control room over there and sit down.”
Amanda started across the room. She hadn’t been seated for more than a few seconds when the door flew open. Cara McCoy, the ER charge nurse, accompanied by two orderlies pushing a stretcher, raced in.
“Does anybody have any metal objects on them?” Mel yelled. They all shook their heads at the same time.
“What happened?” Cara asked, running over to the MRI.
“The patient was struck in the head by an oxygen tank,” Mel answered. “He’s bleeding like hell and he’s barely breathing.”
Cara slowly removed the towel to check the wound. “My God,” she whispered. “Let’s get him over to the ER.”
The four of them worked together to slide Hazelton out of the tube and onto the stretcher. As soon as he was secured into place and an oxygen mask placed over his mouth and nose, the two orderlies and Cara raced him out of the room.
For the next minute or two, Mel could do nothing more than simply look around in disbelief. He then remembered that Amanda was still in the control room. He looked at her through the window, invented a smile, and walked across the room.
“Why don’t you go back to the volunteer office? You did great, but I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Amanda didn’t say a word. She simply nodded and then slowly crossed the room and slipped out. Mel assumed she didn’t have the first clue what had happened, but he was sure there would be several representatives from Dade Presbyterian’s administrative and medical staff who would want to talk to her anyway.
After cleaning up the suite, Mel decided to go over to the emergency room to check on Mr. Hazelton’s condition. He spotted Cara, who was charting at the core desk, and walked over.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“Neurosurgery’s in there now. They should be taking him up to the OR pretty soon.”
“What are his chances?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, but they can’t be very good.”
Mel massaged his temples for a few seconds. “I’ve read about these types of magnetic field disasters, but I never thought . . . I mean, you never think it will happen to you. This is the worst medical error I’ve ever seen.”
Swapping an ominous look, Cara and Mel watched as Hazelton was whisked out of the trauma bay and taken to the back elevators on his way to the operating room.
CHAPTER 67
DAY THIRTY-SIX
In recent years, the upscale area surrounding Fort Lauderdale’s Las Olas Boulevard had developed into a preferred tourist destination.
Consisting of a wide array of eclectic boutiques, galleries, and multicultural restaurants, Morgan had always found the area intriguing but hardly a bargain hunter’s paradise. When she spotted a vacant parking space she pulled in immediately. Grinning to herself, she wondered if the unexpected stroke of good luck marked the end of the worst run of misfortune she could remember.
Still smiling, she stepped out of her car and poured two dollars’ worth of quarters into the meter. Satisfied that would give her enough time for her appointment, she walked east at a leisurely pace toward the Sun-Sentinel building, the home of Fort Lauderdale’s largest daily newspaper.
When she was about a block away, her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and flipped the phone open.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Are we still going flying this afternoon?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have you heard anything more about Bob Allenby’s son?” he asked.
“I spoke with Eileen Hale this morning. She told me he’s doing a little better, but he’s still in the ICU.”
“That’s something. Have you spoken to Bob?”
“We got a memo from the hospital board requesting we don’t try to contact him as yet. I heard he’s not doing too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did Eileen know anything more about the details of the accident?”
“Only that it was definitely a hit-and-run,” Morgan said.
“Hopefully, they’ll catch the guy.”
“Have you heard anything from that private investigator you contacted?” Morgan asked.
“Actually, she called me this morning. I forgot to mention it to you. She said Kaine’s acting like somebody who’s trying to disappear. All the easy things she routinely does to find people haven’t worked. She said she needs more time.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at three out at the field.”
Morgan entered the Sun-Sentinel building through a pair of glass doors that opened onto an octagonal-shaped lobby. Across the highly polished, inlaid marble floor stood the information desk.
“I’m here to see Jonathan Owens,” she told the security guard. The elderly gentleman, who had been one-eyeing it until he realized she was standing in front of him, reluctantly reached for a clipboard.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked in a crusty voice.
“Yes, I called earlier today.”
“Name?”
“Morgan Connolly.”
He picked up the phone but stopped and held it in midair. “Who’d you say you were here to see again?”
She smiled inwardly. “Jonathan Owens.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, tapping in the extension. “There’s a Miss Connolly to see you,” he said. “I’ll tell her.” He replaced the receiver. “Mr. Owens will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
Morgan moved to the
side of the information desk, but after a minute or so she walked over to the crowded café and peered inside. Out of impatience more than anything else, she began reading the huge menu displayed on the chalkboard behind the counter.
“Their food’s pretty good,” came a voice from behind her.
Morgan turned around, smiled, and shook Jonathan’s hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she told him.
“What’s going on? You sounded on the phone like the wheels were coming off.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Do you want to go up to my office, or would you rather take a walk?”
“Let’s walk.”
Jamaican by birth, Jonathan was a confident and astute journalist who had the type of magnetism, good looks, and undying optimism that most politicians would trade their souls for. If asked, after a Johnnie Walker Black or two, he would claim to be one of the few reporters in south Florida who still believed in his profession.
Morgan had first met him five years earlier when he wrote a three-part story on Dade Presbyterian’s emergency room. He quoted her several times in the piece. They also had served together on a charity board to raise money for Dade Presbyterian’s new children’s hospital that was scheduled to break ground in the coming months.
“Do you want to get some lunch?” he asked.
“I’m okay, but I’ll sit with you.”
He tapped on his abdomen a few times. “Actually, I’m trying to lose a few pounds. I’ve been skipping lunch lately.”
They exited the building, walked past the lavish Riverside apartments, and then along a redbrick walkway that hugged the east bank of the New River. A procession of yachts moored to the massive concrete retaining wall rested quietly. Rising from beyond the other side of the river loomed the Broward County Jail, with its sandy brown exterior and pinpoint steel windows.
“What’s going on?” Jonathan asked after they had spent a few minutes catching up.
“I want to talk to you about something, but it has to be off the record.”
He chuckled. “Why does everybody tell me that?”
“Because you’re a reporter.”
“Okay, we’re off the record—for now. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“How well did you know Tony Wallace?”
“He was a colleague and a casual friend. We worked on a couple of stories together. What’s your interest in Tony?”
“We still don’t completely understand the exact circumstances of his death. I was the chairperson of the Patient Safety Committee and headed up the investigation.”
Jonathan pulled out a cigarette and popped it between his lips. “I flunked out of premed, Morgan. Shouldn’t you be talking to the medical examiner?”
“I’m talking to the right guy. Over the past couple of months, we’ve had an unusual number of serious patient errors. We’ve also had three mysterious Code Fifteens, all of which were catastrophic and medically inexplicable.”
With a cautious tone, he said, “Define medically inexplicable.”
“The point is I have looked at all three of these cases in minute detail . . .”
“And?”
“I have strong reasons to believe these Code Fifteens did not simply occur by chance.”
Jonathan took a long drag, exhaled all of it, and without blinking an eye said, “I’m listening.”
They continued along the path and then under the Third Street bridge. Morgan filled Jonathan in on the details of Tony Wallace’s death, her predicament with the board of medicine and the other Code 15s. She was more than relieved he listened without any outward signs of skepticism.
“What’s the administration’s take on all this?” he asked.
“They think I’m a stressed-out physician with an overactive imagination, and that I’m looking for a quick way to explain away my incompetence.”
They stopped in front of a small outdoor café that overlooked a park filled with soccer moms and strollers.
“I could use a cappuccino,” Jonathan said, pointing the way. “How about you?”
“Sure.”
“Grab a table. I’ll be right back.”
While she waited, Morgan watched a water taxi filled with camera-clicking tourists motor by. Jonathan returned carrying two cappuccinos and sat down.
“I’m still not sure how I can help,” he said.
“I need to know more about Tony Wallace.”
“Morgan, you’re a doctor, not a cop. The best advice I can give you is to go back to the police and talk to them again.”
“They’re not going to help me.”
“You have no way of knowing that for sure.”
“Listen to me, Jonathan. My career and possibly my life are on the line here. Besides being stalked by a madman, I have AHCA and the board of medicine breathing down my neck. And, just to make things worse, my hospital’s a hair away from suspending me. I can’t waste what little time I have left trying to get the police to believe me.”
“How do you know that Tony’s death wasn’t a legitimate medical mistake? Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and this guy, Kaine, had nothing to do with any of this.”
“At the moment, all I can tell you is that I have a strong suspicion that this wasn’t some odd medical mishap.”
“Do you have any proof at all that there’s a connection between Tony Wallace and Kaine?”
“Not yet, but that’s precisely what I’m trying to find out.” Morgan waited while he slid another cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “What can you tell me about Tony?”
“He was a little rough around the edges and not the most sociable person I’ve ever worked with.”
“Was he an ethical reporter?” she asked.
“Some people might call that an oxymoron,” Jonathan said with a chuckle. “He may have moved the line from time to time, but I don’t think he ever stepped across it.”
“Did he have any kids?”
“That’s kind of a strange question.”
“I have my reasons for asking.”
“He got divorced a few years ago. It got pretty ugly. The only saving grace was that they didn’t have any kids.”
“Would you say he was a good reporter?” she asked.
“I’d say he was an excellent reporter. He was a perfectionist when it came to research and accuracy.”
“How aggressive was he?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question.”
“Could he have antagonized the wrong person?” Morgan asked.
“Of course; he was a reporter. Tony wasn’t one to be easily intimidated, if that’s what you’re asking. He wouldn’t let go until he got to the truth. Reporters are usually pretty good at ferreting out the facts. We also know how to avoid pissing people off—doing both at the same time is the tricky part.”
“Did you know anybody who might have wanted to . . . to—”
“To hurt him?” Morgan responded with a nod. Jonathan continued, “Not off the top of my head.” He then paused for a few seconds. “Listen, Morgan. If I wanted to learn as much as I could about a reporter, I’d start by reading everything he or she had ever written.”
Wondering why the same thing hadn’t occurred to her, Morgan asked, “Is there some way I can get my hands on the articles he’s written?”
“We have them all on file. I’ll have one of the interns print them out and have them messengered over to you.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said, wagging his finger in her direction. “If this thing goes anywhere . . .”
“I know. You get the story.”
“Exclusively,” he clarified.
“Agreed.”
They finished their cappuccinos and Jonathan walked Morgan back to her car. He waited as Morgan slid in behind the wheel.
“Keep me posted,” he said.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve read the articles.”
“You should have them t
omorrow.”
Morgan had barely pulled out of her parking space when her phone rang. The number was unfamiliar to her.
“Hello.”
“This is Emily at Chemalert Labs. Is this Dr. Connolly?”
“Yes.”
“I have a note on the sample you left that you wanted to be called with the results. The sample contains a very high concentration of a benzodiazepine.”
“Which one?” she asked the youthful-sounding woman.
“Versed.”
Being one of the more commonly used preoperative medications, Morgan was quite familiar with the powerful sedative.
“I left a fax number on the request form. Would you please send me a copy of the report?”
“I’ll send it this afternoon.”
Her suspicions regarding her flight confirmed, Morgan felt lucky to be alive. There was no doubt in her mind that her coffee had been drugged by Mason Kaine. Her first impulse was to call Detective Wolfe. But as she reached for her phone, she was filled with second thoughts regarding the wisdom of her decision. Even if she showed him the report, what was to prevent him from assuming she had done it herself to prove to the authorities that she was correct regarding the Code 15s? With the stark realization that she’d have to find another way, Morgan never finished entering Wolfe’s phone number.
CHAPTER 68
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN
From her terrace, Morgan gazed out at the Atlantic.
It was usually a spectacular view, but today it was made dreary by an endless gray mist that lay static over the water. Sitting at a small rattan table, she leafed through the stack of articles that Jonathan had sent over. Owing to his prodigious nature and a career that had spanned almost thirty years, Tony Wallace had written an impressive number of articles.
Jonathan had also sent a biographical sketch of Wallace that the Sun-Sentinel’s public relations department had prepared. The brief bio mentioned that after graduating from Washington University with a degree in journalism, he had spent five years working as a reporter at the Jefferson City News Tribune. He then moved to California, but after two brief stints at small-town newspapers, he took a position with the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel. The bio was informative and fairly detailed, especially with respect to Tony’s involvement in numerous community service projects.