With one more quick glance around, Trent reached for an open pack of 30 cc.5% Marcaine. Deftly he raised the lid. There were three ampules remaining in the box where there originally had been five. Trent exchanged one of the good ampules for the one in his briefs. He winced again. It was surprising how cold room temperature glass could feel. He closed the lid of the Marcaine box and carefully slid it back into its original position.
Again Trent glanced around Central Supply. No one had appeared. He looked back at the box of Marcaine. Once more an almost sensual excitement rippled through his body. He'd done it again, and no one would ever have a clue. It was so damned easy, and depending on the OR schedule and a little luck, the vial would be used soon, maybe even that morning.
For a brief moment, Trent thought about removing the other two good vials from the box just to speed things up. Now that the vial was placed, he was impatient to enjoy the chaos it would cause. But he decided against removing the other vials. He'd never taken any chances in the past, and it wasn't a good time to start. What if someone was keeping track of how many vials of Marcaine were on hand?
Trent emerged from Central Supply and headed back to his locker to tuck away the ampule that was now in his briefs. Then he'd get himself a nice cup of coffee. Later that afternoon, if nothing had happened, he'd return to Central Supply to see if the doctored vial had been taken. If it was used that day, he'd know about it soon enough. News of a major complication spread like wildfire in the OR suite.
In his mind's eye, Trent could see the vial resting so innocently in the box. It was a kind of Russian roulette. He felt a stirring of sexual excitement. He hurried into the locker room, trying to contain himself. If only it could be Doherty who'd get it, thought Trent. That would make it perfect.
Trent's jaw tightened as he thought of the anesthesiologist. The man's name re-ignited his anger from the previous day's humiliation. Arriving at his locker, Trent gave it a resounding thump with his open palm. A few people looked in his direction. Trent ignored them. The irony was that before the humiliating episode, Trent had liked Doherty. He'd even been nice to the jerk.
Angrily, Trent twirled his combination lock and got his locker door open.
Pressing in against it, he slipped the ampule of Marcaine from his shorts and eased it into the pocket of his white jacket hanging within the locker.
Maybe he'd have to make some special arrangements for Doherty.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Jeffrey closed the door to his room at the Essex
Hotel. It Was just after eleven in the morning. He'd been on the go since nine-thirty when he left the hotel to do some shopping. Every moment he'd been terrified of being discovered by an acquaintance, Devlin, or the police. He'd seen several po-
lice officers, but he'd avoided any direct confrontation. Even so, it had been a nerve-racking venture.
Jeffrey put his packages and his briefcase on the bed and opened the smallest bag. Among its contents was a hair rinse. The color was called
Midnight Black. Taking off his clothes, Jeffrey went directly into the bathroom and followed the directions on the box. By the time he put the styling gel in his hair and brushed it straight back from his forehead, he looked like a different person. He thought he looked like a used car salesman or like someone out of a 1930s movie. Comparing his image with the small photo on the license, he thought he could pass for Frank Amendola if no one looked too closely. And he still wasn't finished.
Back in the bedroom, Jeffrey opened the larger of the packages and took out a new dark blue polyester suit he'd bought in Filene's Basement and had altered at Pacifici of Boston. Mike, the head tailor, had been happy to do the alterations while Jeffrey waited. Jeffrey didn't have much done to the suit because he didn't want it to fit too well. In fact, he had to resist some of Mike's suggestions.
Going back to his parcels, Jeffrey pulled out several white shirts and a couple of unattractive ties. He put on one of the shirts and a tie, then slipped on the suit. Finally he searched through the bags until he found a pair of dark-rimmed protective glasses. After he put them on, he returned to the bathroom mirror. Again he compared his image with the photo on the license. In spite of himself, he had to smile. From a general point of view, he looked terrible. In terms of looking like Frank Amendola, he looked reasonably good. It surprised him how little facial features mattered in generating an overall impression.
One of the other parcels contained a new duffel bag with a shoulder strap and a half-dozen compartments. Jeffrey transferred the packets of money to these. He'd felt conspicuous carrying the briefcase with him and was afraid it might be a way for the police to recognize him. He even guessed it might be mentioned as part of his description.
Going back to the briefcase, Jeffrey took out a syringe and the vial of succinylcholine. Having worried all morning about Devlin suddenly appearing as he had at the airport, Jeffrey had come up with an idea. He carefully drew up 40 mg of succinylcholine in the syringe, then capped it. He put the syringe in the side pocket of his jacket. He wasn't sure how he would use the
succinylcholine, but it was there just in case. It was more of a psychological support than anything else.
With his plano glasses on and his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jeffrey took one last glance around his room, wondering if he was forgetting anything. He was hesitant to leave because he knew the moment he stepped out of the room, the anxiety of being recognized would return. But he wanted to get into Boston Memorial Hospital, and the only way that was going to happen was if he went over there and applied for a housekeeping job.
Devlin rudely shoved his way out of the elevator on his way to Michael
Mosconi's office without giving the other passengers time to get out of his way. He got perverse pleasure out of provoking the people, especially men in business suits, and he half hoped one of them would try to be a gallant hero.
Devlin was in a foul mood. He'd been awake for most of the night, uncomfortably propped up in the front seat of his car watching the Rhodes's house. He'd fully expected Jeffrey to come sneaking home in the middle of the night. Or at the very least, he expected Carol to leave suddenly. But nothing happened until just after eight in the morning, when Carol came out of the garage like the Green Hornet in her Mazda RX7 and left a patch of rubber in the middle of the street.
With great difficulty and not very high hopes, Devlin had followed Carol through the morning traffic. She drove like an Indy 500 driver, the way she weaved in and out of the traffic. She led him all the way downtown, but she'd merely gone to her office on the twenty-second floor of one of the newer office buildings. Devlin decided to give up on her for the time being. He needed more information on Jeffrey to decide what to do next.
"Well?" Michael asked expectantly as Devlin came through the door.
Devlin didn't answer immediately, which he knew would drive Michael crazy.
The guy was always so wound up. Devlin dropped onto the vinyl couch that faced Michael's desk and put his cowboy boots on top of the small coffee table. "Well what?" he said irritably.
"Where's the doctor?" He thought Devlin was about to tell him he'd already delivered Rhodes to the jailhouse.
:'Beats me," Devlin said.
'What does that mean?" There was still a chance Devlin was teasing him.
"I think it's pretty clear," Devlin said.
"It might be clear for you, but it's not clear to me," Michael said..
"I don't know where the little bastard is," Devlin finally admitted.
"For chrissake!" Michael said, throwing up his hands in disgust. "You told me you'd get the guy, no problem. You gotta find him! This is no longer a joke."
"He never showed up at home," Devlin said.
"Damn, damn, damn!" Michael said with progressive panic. His swivel chair squeaked as he tipped forward and stood up. "I'm going to be out of business."
Devlin frowned. Michael was more wound up than usual. This missing doctor was really getting to him. "Don't worr
y," he told Michael. "I'll find him.
What else do you know about him?"
"Nothing!" Michael yelled. "I told you everything I know."
"You haven't told me squat," Devlin said. "What about other family, things like that? What about friends?"
"I'm telling you, I don't know anything about the guy," Michael admitted.
"All I did was an 0 and.E on his house. And you know something else? The bastard screwed me there too. This morning I got a call from Owen Shatterly at the bank, telling me he just learned Jeffrey Rhodes had upped his mortgage before my lien was filed. Now even the collateral doesn't cover the bond."
Devlin laughed.
"What the hell's so funny?" Michael demanded.
Devlin shook his head. "It tickles me that this little piss-ant doctor is causing so much trouble."
"I fail to find anything about this funny," Michael said. "Owen also told me that the doctor took the forty-five thousand he'd upped his mortgage in cash."
"Geez, no wonder the guy's briefcase hurt," Devlin said with a smile. "I've never been hit with that kind of dough."
"Very funny," Michael snapped. "The trouble is that the situation is going from bad to worse. Thank God for my friend Albert Norstadt down at police headquarters. The police weren't going to do a goddamn thing until he got involved."
"They think Rhodes is still in town?" Devlin questioned.
"As far as I know," Michael said. "They haven't been doing much, but at least they've been covering the airport, bus and train stations, rent-a-car agencies, and even taxi companies."
"That's plenty," Devlin, said. He certainly didn't want the police to catch Jeffrey. "If he's in town, I'll find him in the next day or so. If he's skipped, it will take a little longer, but I'll get him. Relax."
"I want him found today!" Michael said, working himself up into a renewed frenzy. He started to pace behind his desk. "If you can't find the bastard,
I'll bring in some other talent."
"Now hold on," Devlin said, bringing his legs off the coffee table and sitting up. He didn't want anybody else homing in on this job. "I'm doing the best anybody could do. I'll find the guy, no sweat."
"I want him now, not next year," Michael said.
"Relax. It's only been twelve hours," Devlin said.
"What the hell are you sitting around here for?" Michael snapped. "With forty-five grand in his pocket, he's not going to hang around forever. I want you to go back to the airport and see if you can pick up his trail from there. He had to get into town somehow. He sure as hell didn't walk.
Get your ass out there and talk to the MBTA people. Maybe somebody will re- member a skinny guy with a mustache and a briefcase."
"I think it's better to cover the wife," Devlin said.
"They didn't strike me as being so lovey-dovey," Michael said. "I want you to try the airport. If you don't, I'll send someone else."
"All right, all right!" Devlin said, getting to his feet. "If you want me to try the airport, I'll try the airport."
"Good," Michael said. "And keep me informed."
Devlin let himself out of Michael's office. His mood had not improved.
Normally he'd never let someone like Michael tell him how to do his job, but in this instance, he thought he'd better humor the man. The last thing he wanted was competition. Especially on this job. The only trouble was that now that he had to go to the airport, he'd have to hire someone to follow the wife and watch the house. As Devlin waited for the elevator, he thought about whom he could call.
Jeffrey paused on the broad steps of Boston Memorial's entrance to marshal his courage. Despite his efforts at disguise, he was apprehensive now that he had reached the hospital's threshold. He was worried he'd be recognized by the first person who knew him.
He could even imagine their words: "Jeffrey Rhodes, is that you? What are you doing, going to a masquerade ball? We heard the police are looking for you, is that true? Sorry about your
being convicted of second-degree murder. Sure does prove it's getting harder and harder to practice medicine in Massachusetts."
Taking a step back and switching his duffel bag to the other shoulder,
Jeffrey tipped his head to look up at the Gothic details over the lintel of the front entrance. There was a plaque that read: THE BOSTON MEMORIAL
HOSPITAL ERECTED AS A HOUSE OF REFUGE FOR THE SICK, INFIRM, AND TROUBLED.
He wasn't sick or infirm, but he was certainly troubled. The longer he hesitated, the harder it was to go inside. He was locked in indecision when he spotted Mark Wilson.
Mark was a fellow anesthesiologist whom Jeffrey knew well. They'd trained together at the Memorial. Jeffrey had been a year ahead. Mark was a large black man whose own mustache had always made Jeffrey's appear sparse by comparison; it had always been a point of humor between them. Mark seemed to be enjoying the brisk spring day. He was approaching from Beacon Street, heading for the front entrance-and straight for Jeffrey.
It was the kick Jeffrey needed. In a panic, he went through the revolving door and into the main lobby. He was immediately swept up in a sea of people. The lobby served not only as an entrance but as the confluence of three main corridors that led to the hospital's three towers.
Fearing that Mark was on his heels, Jeffrey hurried around the circular information booth in the center of the domed lobby and walked down the central corridor. He figured Mark would be heading left to the bank of elevators that led to the OR complex.
Tense with fear of discovery, Jeffrey walked down the hall trying to appear casual. When he finally turned to glance behind him, Mark was nowhere in sight.
Although he'd been affiliated with the hospital for almost twenty years,
Jeffrey was not acquainted with anyone in personriel. Even so, he was wary when he entered the employment office and took the application a friendly clerk handed him. Just because he wasn't familiar with personnel staff didn't mean they weren't familiar with him.
He filled out the application, using Frank Amendola's name, social security number, and his Framingham address. In the section asking for work preference, Jeffrey indicated housekeeping. In the section asking for shift preference if applicable, he wrote "night." For references, JelTrey listed several hospitals where he'd visited for anesthesia meetings. It was his hope that it would
take time for personnel to follow up on the references, if followups were done at all. Between the high demand for hospital workers and the low wages offered, Jeffrey figured it was an applicant's market. He didn't think that his employment in a position in housekeeping would be predicated on a reference check.
After he handed in his completed application, Jeffrey was offered the choice of being interviewed immediately or having an interview scheduled for a future date. He said he'd be pleased to be interviewed at personnel's earliest convenience.
After a brief wait, he was ushered into Carl Bodanski's windowless office.
Bodanski was one of the Memorial's personnel officers. One wall of his small room was dominated by a huge board with hundreds of name tags hanging from small hooks. A calendar was on another wall. Double doors filled the third. It was all very neat and utilitarian.
Carl Bodanski was in his mid to late thirties. He had dark hair, a handsome face, and was neatly if not too stylishly dressed in a dull business suit.
Jeffrey realized he'd seen the man many times in the hospital cafeteria, but the two had never spoken. When Jeffrey entered, Bodanski was hunched over his desk.
"Please sit down," Bodanski said warmly, not yet looking up. Jeffrey could see that he was going over his application. When Bodanski finally turned his attention to Jeffrey, Jeffrey held his breath. He was afraid he'd see some sudden evidence of recognition. But he didn't. Instead, Bodanski asked
Jeffrey if he would care for anything to drink, coffee, maybe a Coke.
Jeffrey nervously declined. He studied Bodanski's face. Bodanski smiled in return.
"So you've worked in hospitals?"
>
"Oh, yes," Jeffrey answered. "Quite a bit." Jeffrey smiled weakly. He was starting to relax.
"And. you want to work the night shift in housekeeping?" Bodanski wanted to make sure there hadn't been a mistake. As far as he was concerned, this was too good to be true: an applicant for housekeeping's night shift who didn't look like a criminal or an illegal alien, and who spoke English.
"That's what I'd prefer," Jeffrey said. He realized it was a bit unexpected. On the spur of the moment he presented an explanation: "I'm planning on taking a few courses at Suffolk University during the day or perhaps evening. Have to support myself."
"What kind of courses?" Bodanski asked.
Robin Cook 1982 - Harmful Intent Page 16