Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

  Looking up from his notebook, Vega asked, "And how long have you been here, Doctor?"

  "Two years last April."

  "Any particular reason you're at Sunny Day, and not at a bigger hospital?"

  Catherine added, "Or in private practice?"

  Whiting closed the file on his desk and shunted it aside. "I view medicine as my calling," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But, temperamentally, I crave a slower pace than a bigger hospital or a private practice would grant me. I prefer the tempo of Sunny Day or, I should say, I preferred it before the last eight months."

  "How so?"

  "You're here, aren't you?…Things have been getting further and further out of hand, and until your assistant coroner noticed certain suspicious trends, I think we were all simply writing these deaths off as a streak of bad luck."

  Catherine asked, "People dying? Streak of bad luck?"

  "I don't mean to sound flippant," Whiting said. "I'm anything but.…It's just that this isn't the first assisted care facility I've worked in, and over the years you notice that sometimes deaths seem to come in…yes, streaks."

  "Life and death," Catherine said, "just another game in Vegas?"

  "I told you I didn't mean it in any kind of flip way. It's just…sometimes you'll go months without a death…then suddenly…" He snapped his fingers, once, twice, three times. "…three people go in a single month. Then we'll go a month with nothing, and get one or two in a row again. You have to understand-over five hundred people reside in the various wings of Sunny Day. Twenty-two seems like a lot of deaths but, truth is, there are extenuating circumstances."

  Catherine arched an eyebrow. "Such as?"

  "Sunny Day doesn't have an overnight physician, understand. There's a four-hour gap in service, with what you might call a skeleton crew on hand. Any crisis after midnight, the nurses call nine-one-one-just as you might at home. Myself, along with Doctors Todd Barclay, Claire Dayton, and John Miller…we're the only doctors on staff full time."

  Warrick asked, "How are the shifts split up?"

  Whiting said, "We split the two shifts, seven days a week. Claire and I are a team, as are Todd and John. We do three ten-hour shifts, then we're off two days. A few of these patients are visited by their own personal physicians…but not many."

  Vega frowned. "You work fifty hours a week?"

  "Plus overtime," Whiting said. "And there's plenty of that to go round, too."

  "Sounds brutal," Warrick said.

  "It is," Whiting said.

  Catherine said, "What about that slower pace you say you crave?"

  A grin blossomed-the first sign of spontaneity from this controlled interview subject. "Compared to having a private practice, and seeing thirty to forty patients every day, six to seven hundred a week? I prefer to see fifty patients today, the same fifty I saw yesterday, and the same fifty or so I'll see tomorrow. Where a physician in private practice will have a roster of over a thousand patients, mine is fifty and I get to spend considerably more time with each one of them."

  "More personal," Warrick said.

  "Much," Whiting confirmed. "The pace is a lot different than private practice. The vast majority of these patients never walk out of Sunny Day, remember. Those of us who work here do our best to provide them care and comfort before they are, frankly, rolled out."

  Flipping his notebook closed, Vega said, "We'll likely be in touch again, Doctor."

  "Let me know how I can help," Whiting said.

  The trio marched from the administrative wing and back down one of the hallways lined with patient rooms. An attractive African-American woman in white slacks and a floral smock came out of a room, head lowered, studying a chart as she walked right into Warrick, the chart popping out of her hands.

  Warrick caught it.

  "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, a hand shooting to her mouth. "Didn't see you there." The hand came away and revealed an attractive smile. "Nice catch."

  Catherine read the woman's nametag: Kenisha Jones. Since Warrick was closer to the nurse, Catherine waited for him to say something. He didn't-he was looking at the woman with the glazed, dazed expression of a hypnotist's volunteer on stage in a casino lounge.

  The power of a beautiful woman over a man had always amused Catherine, and for a number of years, she'd made a good living taking advantage of that male trait. And this was a handsome woman so Warrick could hardly be blamed.

  The woman's long neck-a stethoscope her necklace-rose gracefully to a heart-shaped face dominated by full lovely lips, a straight nose, and wide brown eyes with dark, narrow brows. Tight banana curls erupted out of the nurse's upswept black hair-she was a lovely Medusa who had turned Warrick Brown to stone.

  Finally, Warrick managed, "Hey, no problem," and handed back the chart, as if presenting her with an award.

  Cutting this mating dance short, Vega stepped forward and flashed his badge. "Kenisha Jones?"

  Her head reared back. She gestured to the nametag, saying, "Uh…yes." The "duh" implied….

  "I'm Detective Vega and this is Catherine Willows from the crime lab. You've already met Warrick Brown-he's also from the crime lab."

  The nurse nodded sagely. "Ah-you must be here about Vivian."

  "That's right," Warrick said.

  They smiled at each other, and Vega-who appeared to have no romance in his soul, at least right now-said, "Somewhere we could talk?"

  "Look," she said, her eyes finding Vega's past Warrick, "I'm fine with answering questions about Vivian; but this is not a good time. I'm the only dayshift nurse for this wing."

  "If you get called away," Warrick said, "we'll wait for you."

  "Well…" She smiled, shrugged. At Warrick. "All right…"

  She led them into a small breakroom with just room enough for three round tables, a counter (with a microwave and a coffeepot), a refrigerator, and the four of them.

  "Help yourselves to coffee," the nurse said. "Water and soda in the fridge."

  No one took her up on it, but Kenisha got herself a bottle of water. "Gotta stay hydrated," she said.

  "I hear that," Warrick said, rather nonsensically, since he hadn't bothered to get anything to drink.

  They sat around a table.

  The nurse asked, "What can I tell you about Vivian?"

  The detective said, "First, you need to know-Vivian Elliot's death was a murder."

  Kenisha Jones shrugged. "And?"

  Warrick and Catherine traded raised eyebrows; Vega just stared at the woman in his cold unblinking way.

  "You don't seem terribly surprised," Catherine said.

  "Figured as much."

  The woman had known from jump that they were here to talk about Vivian; since the CSIs and Vega had been here yesterday looking into the death that assumption made sense. But knowing that it was murder…?

  Vega said, "You…figured as much?"

  "Do I sound cold?"

  Warrick said, "A little."

  "Don't mean to be. But this wing is not home to a lot of happy endings, right?…People come here to take their time dying, to not suffer while they're doin' it…but nobody's making big plans, post-Extended Care wing."

  "Granted," Warrick said. "But you don't get murders every day."

  "Not every day…. Hey, she was a healthy woman-plus, she was gettin' better. Suddenly, she has a heart attack and dies? There was not a damn thing wrong with Mrs. Elliot-hell, she was in better shape than me. Up and died? I didn't buy it. I don't buy it. And if you're here saying she was murdered, you don't, either."

  Catherine watched Warrick as the young woman got a smile out of him with her sassy, smart attitude. With the barest nod of her head, Catherine signaled Warrick.

  Without missing a beat, Warrick said, "Ms. Jones, you're right. We are here looking into it. Which is why we need your help. You were on duty, when she coded?"

  "Yes," Kenisha said, adding emphasis with several nods. "I looked in on her, then went down the hall to check on Mrs. Jackson. Vivian was f
ine when I left her, and less than ten minutes later…damn. She coded, all right. All the way."

  Catherine and Vega were hanging back now, letting Warrick talk to the young woman, who seemed to feel as comfortable with him as he did with her.

  Warrick asked, "And what'd you do then, Ms. Jones?"

  " 'Kenisha.' Your name's what again?"

  "Warrick."

  "Warrick, the whole damn crash team came in. First team, off the bench and in the game-Doctor Whiting, myself, and the two staffers from the other wing, Nurse Sandy Cayman and Doctor Miller."

  Vega checked his notebook and put in: "Doctor John Miller?"

  "Yes."

  Warrick resumed the lead. "So, Kenisha-what happened next?"

  "Well, I was the closest," Kenisha said. "Got there first. Only…she was already gone, poor thing. Only 'poor thing,' that's not right, really…. Warrick, that woman was healthy as a horse. No way she shoulda died. Vitals were strong just, what…ten minutes before. She was one of the handful, ya know."

  "Handful?"

  "The handful who had a future. The handful who walk outta here into some more life. No walker, no wheelchair-under her own damn speed. We savor those. This…this…should not have gone down like that."

  "Place like this," Catherine put in. "Don't these things happen?"

  Kenisha's eyebrows rose. "Little too many of these things are just 'happening' round here, you ask me."

  Catherine said, "We are asking you, Kenisha. And I'm Catherine."

  "All right, Catherine. I'm just saying, I had my suspicions, way before this."

  Warrick picked it up again. "Then why didn't you call us in, Kenisha? Or say something to that assistant coroner who comes around?"

  "And say what?" Kenisha asked, her voice rising now. She did a mocking voice: " 'Too many old folks dyin' out here at Sunny Day, come runnin' '?"

  Looking sheepish, Warrick said, "Well, yeah-I see your point."

  "In a world of malpractice, you learn not to make waves, unless you are very damn sure of something." She shook her head. "You point the finger, then they'd be all…where's your proof? And what do I have to offer, except a feeling in my gut."

  Gently, Warrick said, "And what is your gut telling you, Kenisha?"

  "Telling me, something's wrong here, only…nobody seems to know what it is, or how to stop it."

  Warrick's expression was somber. "Kenisha, if something wrong is going down here, I promise you: We'll find it."

  Her eyes were moist. "You know it's so easy to hide a murder in a place like this-another old fogey dies, and who the hell cares? Well, I care."

  Catherine said, "Kenisha…trust me. So do we."

  Kenisha's face showed that she wanted to believe her.

  Before they left, Kenisha gave Warrick her cell phone number, "In case you need to contact me…about the case."

  Warrick gave the nurse his cell, too.

  On the way out, Catherine said, "Wow, very thorough…that exchange of phone numbers. You're really trying to stay on top of this."

  Warrick gave her an uncommonly shy grin for such a confident man. "Cath-don't even go there."

  Her chin crinkling with amusement, she raised her hands in surrender as they walked out of one Sunny Day into another.

  At the office, they split up.

  Vega went right back out, this time to interview Mabel Hinton about her visit to Vivian Elliot the morning she died. While the lab techs worked on the evidence, Warrick and Catherine, each pursuing separate courses, concentrated on doing background checks on the doctors and nurses who worked at Sunny Day.

  Catherine had been at it for hours when finally Greg Sanders interrupted. Probably the brightest among the rising stars of the crime lab, Greg was young, ambitious, if sometimes scattered, his streaked blond hair giving him the appearance of a man who had just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl.

  "Hey, Catherine," he said, hovering over her desk, his hands behind his back.

  Catherine scooted her chair back and looked up at him. "So Greg-spill."

  "I…found…your…murder weapon."

  She grinned. "Really?"

  A quick nod, and Greg explained: "We went through everything in the biohazard bag you brought in."

  "We?"

  He gestured with a thumb over one shoulder. "I had help from a couple of interns. Just a small tip? Any time you gotta go through the contents of a biohazard bag? Call an intern."

  "Noted."

  "When your vic coded, they gave her a thrombolytic agent."

  Catherine nodded that she understood. "To break up a clot if there was one."

  "Exactly. Streptokinase, in this case. They also gave her dopamine and nesiritide-Natrecor as it's called."

  "Natrecor?"

  "It's a vasodilator. It's the synthetic version of BNP, a hormone manufactured in the heart."

  She'd followed this for a while, but now was lost. She'd become a CSI, not gone to medical school.

  "Oh-kaaay," she said finally. "So the murder weapon was…?"

  "After going through all the different syringes," he said, "I found this homeless puppy." He produced a plastic evidence bag from behind his back.

  She took the bag from him. Within, a large, nasty-looking syringe looked as clean as when it had come out of its protective wrapper.

  "How can you know it was this specific needle?" she asked.

  Greg held up one finger, said, "Ah!…That's why you come to an expert for an opinion. Because you'll get an expert opinion."

  "Greeeggg…?"

  "There were traces of both blood…Vivian Elliot's, by the way…and saline from her IV on the needle."

  "And on the inside?"

  "Not so much as a molecule of dust-not…a…particle."

  Catherine frowned. "But there should have been traces of something, right?"

  "There were in all the others," Greg said, with an affirming shrug. "And in every syringe I've ever looked in. This one? This one has never held anything more than…air."

  "Fingerprints?"

  "Not on the plunger, not on the tube, not on the needle, nothing."

  Catherine said, "All right-maybe we can track it some other way."

  "Just let me know if you need anything," Greg said. "Always happy to solve your cases for you."

  "Do you want me to say it?"

  "I wish you would."

  "Greg-you're the best."

  He was gone less than a minute when Warrick rolled in, Catherine still staring at the plastic evidence bag.

  "And what have we here?" he asked.

  "You know that old cop expression? All we've got in this case is a pound of air?"

  "I've heard it."

  "We've got it…only we're happy to have it."

  She held up the bag and explained what Greg had said.

  "Murder weapon," Warrick said. "Always nice to have."

  "So far it's a dead end, though."

  "Plenty other leads."

  Catherine nodded. "So. How go the background checks?"

  "Kenisha Jones came up clean."

  Catherine laughed once. "And Warrick Brown's heart skipped a beat."

  "Cath…I said don't go there…. As for Kenisha, she went to UNLV, put herself through school. Hard worker, and never so much as a parking ticket. What'd you come up with?"

  "Meredith Scott?" Catherine said.

  "Third shift nurse?"

  "Right. She wasn't so lucky."

  Warrick pulled up a chair, his eyes perking with interest. "Really?"

  "Really. Got busted just after high school for shoplifting. Then, while she was still in college, there was a petty theft beef with the boss of the restaurant where she worked. He said she was pocketing money out of the register."

  "How did that one turn out?"

  "Scott pled to misdemeanor theft, repaid the money. At the time, she claimed she'd intended to pay the money back. Just a youthful error of judgment. And truth is, other than that, her jacket's clean. Since college? Solid ci
tizen."

  "How about Rene Fairmont?" Warrick asked.

  "I'm passing her off to you. Plus, you've still got the doctors to do, right?"

  "Yeah, but now that we established my plate's full, what are you gonna be up to?"

  Catherine leaned back in her chair. "I'm taking that proverbial fine-tooth comb to Vivian Elliot's finances…. If our killer is picking these people because they have no family, to me that signals a financial-gain motive."

  Warrick nodded. "Can't argue that. What about the other vics?"

  Catherine heaved a sigh. "Bodies long gone, crime scenes cleaned up past the point of no return. Only thing left is the records of those that have died over the last eight months. Vega's over there picking them up for me now. Once I've gone through Vivian's finances, I'll start on those."

  "Never a shortage of fun things to do around here," Warrick said, putting his feet up on the edge of her desk. "How do you like dayshift?"

  "In this heat? Is it fair to have an opinion?"

  Warrick, staring at the ceiling, said, "You've seen the security out at Sunny Day."

  "Yeah-Deputy Dawg. Not exactly the vault at Mandalay Bay."

  Warrick looked at Catherine. "What if our killer's not one of the staff?"

  Shaking her head, Catherine said, "Then he or she better screw up soon, or we're gonna have trouble making a collar. If this isn't about money, how does the killer pick a victim? If it is about money, and the killer's not one of the staff…the neighbor, maybe…she or he's got to have an accomplice on the inside."

  "You sure about that? An outsider with medical knowledge might've shot that air in that IV, right?"

  "I don't think so. This syringe matches the ones from Sunny Day…. Maybe somebody doesn't like old people…and their hobby is taking one out every now and then…and I don't mean for lunch."

  "Ah, Cath, you can't-"

  "I can. It's always a possibility, you know."

  "What is?"

  "Being up against a killer who is well and truly around the bend."

  Warrick had no response to that.