Tampered

by Ross Pennie

  Applying the theory at Camelot would be impossible to prove this long after the two Durimab deaths.

  Todd took a swig from his glass then smiled shyly. He toyed with his coaster for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “You know . . .”

  “What?”

  “A couple of days ago, I snuck into Camelot’s reading room. It’s a cool place. Top floor of the turret.” He mimed an arc with his hands. “The walls and bookshelves curve all the way around. I shooed two bats out the window.”

  “Yeah. Those bats are a major pain. Thousands of them in the neighbourhood.”

  “In the middle of the city?”

  “They live on the face of the Escarpment, in the biosphere reserve. Under the protection of the United Nations.” Hamish had learned last year how the bats squeezed through the holes in the rooflines of all the houses in the area. “Zol is always getting reports about bats in those mansions. The price you pay for living at such a fancy address, I guess. The owners worry about rabies every time their kids chase after a bat. You didn’t get bitten, did you?”

  “Not even close.”

  “I’ve never heard of bats transmitting listeria.”

  “It’s not the bats that worry me. It’s the cold cuts.”

  “Don’t worry. They don’t serve deli meats at Camelot. Natasha’s been through every millimetre of that kitchen.”

  “Well, they serve afternoon tea in that reading room between three and four o’clock. Along with dried-out salami sandwiches on really stale bread.”

  “Salami! You’re kidding.”

  “Had to dunk my sandwich in my tea. But what the heck, I was starving.”

  “All this palaver and you happen to stumble upon a plate of past-its-date deli meat? I wish you’d told me before.”

  Todd dipped his gaze. “Sorry, Hamish. At that point, we didn’t know about the listeria. And with all that’s been going on this week, I forgot. I guess I didn’t want to be too much of a buttinski.”

  “You can buttinski all you like. Looks like you’ve cracked a giant piece of the puzzle. We’ll have to track down that meat and get it tested for listeria. There’s gotta be a stash of it at Camelot somewhere.”

  “Gus and Gloria live on site in their own apartment,” Todd said. “Maybe they keep it there.”

  “And trot it out at tea time — against ministry guidelines — for residents with a hankering for deli meat?”

  Hamish grabbed his cellphone. Zol needed to know about this, pronto. Zol’s machine picked up. Hamish primed himself to leave a message, but snapped the phone shut without saying a word. Zol wouldn’t hear him over the bar’s increasing hubbub.

  Todd licked a glob of sour cream from his thumb. “Uncle Wayne says the Zytopril blood-pressure tablets are on their way to Montreal. The company’s giving them number-one priority. Going to test them on Monday.”

  “I can’t see where the Zytopril fits,” Hamish said. “Counterfeit antihypertensives can’t have anything to do with listeria.”

  Todd raised an eyebrow. “And what about the empty vanco capsules? They don’t make any sense either. If you’re running an old-folks home, epidemics are bad for business, right? The place gets closed to new admissions and when your residents die, the empty beds don’t generate income.”

  “Good point,” Hamish said. “And if you’re the pharmacist dispensing empty capsules to your patients with a contagious, life-threatening condition such as C diff, sooner or later you’ll have no market left for your counterfeit Zytoprils.” There had been eight deaths at Camelot in the past month: six in the past couple of weeks, starting with the Prime Minister’s aunt the Sunday before last. He steadied himself with a swig of beer. “There’s more than medication fraud going on at Camelot. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “When will you get the results of the autopsies?” Todd asked. “Maybe they’ll show something helpful.”

  “You must be kidding. Old folks in nursing homes almost never get autopsied. By the time they make it to the funeral home, no one cares exactly why they died. The doctor puts congestive heart failure on the death certificate, the local coroner is happy, the bureaucrats are happy, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Even the Prime Minister’s aunt?”

  Hamish shook his head. “The coroner said he had no reason to suspect foul play so he didn’t order a post-mortem. And the family didn’t ask for one. Said her arthritis had made her suffer long enough.” Hamish hated the lunacy of thinking an autopsy could inflict suffering on a corpse.

  Todd caught the waiter’s eye, pointed to his empty glass, and held up two fingers. “Don’t you think it’s odd that no one has made a fuss over Caledonian’s refusal to accept Camelot’s diarrhea patients?”

  “I did my best, I really did. But it didn’t get me anywhere. They won’t budge on the Deep Six rule. Ministry’s orders.”

  “Back in Manitoba, when I was working on the rez at the health centre, we called that HLI — high level interference. I’ve been thinking — acute-care hospitals are choked to the rafters with old folks who belong somewhere else, like a nursing home. As a result, acutely ill patients are lining the hallways of emergency departments, waiting for beds upstairs, right?”

  “That’s why they brought in that awful Deep Six rule.”

  “And it’s never going to work because there’s nowhere for the old folks to go. The government isn’t building nursing homes nearly fast enough.” Todd paused, his eyes dead serious. “These days, space only gets freed up when someone dies.” He paused again, then continued. “One way to accelerate the flow out of the hospital and into nursing homes is to . . . well, speed up the nursing-home deaths.”

  “You mean . . . No, you’re not serious.”

  “Well, yes, I guess I am.”

  “You mean someone could be cooking up a scheme to clear elderly patients out of acute-care hospital beds by freeing up spaces in old-folks homes like Camelot Lodge?”

  “My uncle Wayne says Horvat provides the drugs for fifteen nursing homes. Given the right monetary incentive, he could knock off a lot of people and create plenty of space on the acute-care wards at Caledonian.”

  Hamish rubbed at the condensation on his fresh glass of beer. Todd’s idea was too fantastic — more the movie of the week than real life. An institution with the prestige of Caledonian University, famous for its pancreatic transplants, couldn’t get itself mixed up with a desperate pharmacist whose son was locked up in Mexico on drug charges.

  “Nah,” Hamish said. “You can put your imagination back in its cage. Caledonian’s senior leadership lets a lot of money slip through their fingers, but they’re a long way from criminal.”

  After Hamish had consumed half a plate of zucchini sticks and another beer or two, the Reluctant Lion buzzed with chatter and dance music. Everyone was competing for the barman’s attention except for the foursome dancing to something loud and fast coming from speakers in the ceiling. To Hamish it sounded like an unholy union of Kylie Minogue and Michael Jackson. He could barely make himself heard above the noise. Todd did most of the talking. He spoke of his life in Cross Lake practising seat-of-the-pants medicine as a nurse-practitioner. The guy had more guts than most doctors in the south. Up north, he’d had to stay in the closet. Would there come a day when a gifted, openly gay doctor found total acceptance in small-town Canada? Or could you only be free within the anonymity and wider mores of the big city? Hamish wondered what Todd would think of family practice if he got stuck in a strip-mall in Scarborough or a concrete canyon in downtown Toronto. After the rushes of adrenaline served daily in Cross Lake, he’d find the snots and shots of big-city practice a major downer.

  Hamish watched a young guy — bald, hoop earrings, black pants, matching T-shirt — set up a microphone, speakers, and a carload of gear. This was Hamish’s first time at karaoke, and he wondered how far he could shrink into the booth if someone started hauling audience members onto the stage. As a boy soprano, singing in public had been second
nature, but long ago he’d abandoned that stunted, awkward child who hit high C like a crystal bell. Nowadays, though he felt less like the ugly duckling, he croaked like the frog prince.

  A fit-looking man, late twenties, wearing a pressed white tee and designer jeans, stepped onto the impromptu stage and stamped his gleaming black brogues against the raised floor. The dance music stopped, and he waved at a group hooting from the window table across the room. He took the microphone in both hands and nodded to the black-T-shirt guy seated behind more electronic gizmos than you’d need for a Mars landing. Hamish recognized the Andrew Lloyd Webber introduction with the first three chords. The racket ceased as the audience dropped into their seats.

  The handsome guy behind the mic lit the room with as moving a rendition of “The Music of the Night” as Hamish had ever heard, and he’d seen Phantom five times in three cities. What a set of pipes!

  At the closing chords, the audience erupted in whistles and cheers. The singer bowed to calls of “Encore! Encore!” and the place hushed again as the sound man nodded and a familiar melody flowed through his speakers.

  For a time in the seventies, Hamish’s mother had played Don McLean’s “Vincent” over and over on the living-room record player while doing her much-hated housework. It was weird to hear that song again without the skips and scratches in the vinyl that back then had seemed integral to the score. But the immediacy, the raw emotion of the live voice on the stage quickly wiped out any memories of Don McLean and Hamish’s lonely mother.

  Hamish leaned across the table and spoke into Todd’s ear. “That guy’s amazing. Better than Josh Groban. Who is he?”

  “Al Mesic. I’ll introduce you.”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure. He’s here every Friday night. Always gets the karaoke started.”

  “I could listen to him all night.”

  Todd shook his head. “Not here. He does two songs, and that’s it.”

  “I’m sure he never has to pay for his beer.”

  Roaring cheers morphed into general clamour as the singer stepped off the stage and joined his supporters at the window table. Todd finished his lager and slid out of the booth.

  “Where you going?” said Hamish, anxious at the thought of being left alone.

  “Gotta take a leak.” Todd headed toward the front of the room, in the opposite direction to the washrooms. He stopped at the window table, spoke to the singer, and shook his hand. Then Todd looked back and pointed at Hamish. The singer smiled and seemed to nod in agreement before Todd disappeared around a corner.

  Two minutes later, Al Mesic strode past the stage, now occupied by a squat fellow wearing a black cowboy hat. The guy was making a hash of a Johnny Cash hit. Al slid into the booth opposite Hamish, put out his hand, and introduced himself. He spoke fluently, with a slight accent and rhythm that Hamish couldn’t place — Czech? Hungarian? Balkan? His face was as gorgeous as his voice. He had the kind of bristly haircut that turned Hamish on, and perfectly trimmed sideburns extending a fraction below his earlobes. But it was the colour of his eyes that held Hamish in rapt attention. Wide black pupils floating in rings of light amber.

  “You’re a doctor, eh?” Al said.

  That line was always a spell breaker. What was such a big deal about being a doctor? Hamish wanted to be a regular guy with a couple of beers buzzing in his head and delicious eye candy seated opposite him. He’d hidden his briefcase under his coat. He forced a smile, then made the face he used to discourage further medical questions. “What’s the title of your album?”

  “Sorry?”

  Hamish leaned forward and repeated the question.

  Al laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t have one. I sing only for fun.”

  Singing for fun. What a concept. Hamish had spent his boyhood singing in church choirs, not for fun, but because he was forced to by his mother.

  “What do you do when you’re not singing?”

  “I report from City Hall.”

  “For the Spectator?”

  Al raised an eyebrow. “I’m your eyes and ears, watching the city manager and his gang.”

  “As far as I can tell, they don’t get much done.” It had always been that way in Hamilton — the political machine ate up taxes and produced little to show for them, except the current extravagant facelift of City Hall’s exterior.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Al said. “They do a lot of things. But mostly for themselves.”

  Hamish was entranced by Al Mesic’s accent. His English was perfect, his grammar impeccable, but the sexy lilt in his phrasing was mesmerizing. “Where are you from?”

  Al finished off his beer in three speedy gulps. “The former Yugoslavia. Actually, I’m Bosniak. My mother pulled me out of Sarajevo when I was fourteen.” He waved at the barman and held up two fingers.

  Hamish finished his pint and thought for a moment. Al would probably know the answer to a question that had been bugging him since New Year’s. Again, he leaned in close. “Tell me, what sort of name is Horvat?”

  Mesic pulled back. Fire lit his eyes. “Croatian. Very common. Like Smith in English.”

  “You don’t like Croatians?”

  “When you’re Bosniak, all Yugoslav Christians treat you like shit, even if you’re more atheist than Muslim.” Al paused, looking searchingly at Hamish. “You know someone named Horvat?”

  “A pharmacist I’ve been dealing with.”

  Conor collected the empty glasses and set down two fresh beers. “From your fans at the window table,” he said, then posed for a moment, smiling at Al. He shot Hamish a look that seemed to say, Aren’t you lucky to be sitting with our star, especially since you’re new to this scene.

  “You mean Viktor Horvat?” Al said, once Conor was out of earshot.

  “You know him?”

  “There’s a lot more to his story than makes it into the paper.”

  “That’s you reporting on Horvat in the Spec?”

  “My editor won’t let me. Says I lack the necessary objectivity. Horvat is also from Sarajevo, but the war turned Bosniaks and Croats into . . . um, shall we say angry brothers?”

  Hamish stared at the frosty beers on the table. He wanted to find out more about Horvat, but his bladder had been demanding to be emptied for the past twenty minutes, and he really had to go. He hated to leave Al alone; someone was bound to steal him away. Besides, the stories of the antics in gay bathrooms terrified him. He’d never used the toilet at the Town and Gown. What would he do if he walked in on two guys with their pants down, making out? Or worse, what if he got propositioned at the urinal?

  He saw the foam cascading down the beer glasses like a waterfall and he knew he couldn’t hold it much longer. Maybe the full beers on the table would make it clear Al wasn’t sitting alone.

  When he got there, the washroom was blissfully empty and quiet. Everyone was dancing to the throaty Bette Midler who’d replaced Johnny Cash. At the urinal, Hamish unzipped his fly, then closed his eyes to the lewd graffiti and braced himself against the wall. He’d never been this beer-dizzy before.

  “You and Todd — you guys an item?” Al’s voice startled him from the adjacent stall.

  Hamish said nothing. He’d always been too embarrassed to talk to anyone taking a leak — not his dad, not the boys at school, not the kids peeing into the bushes at Y camp. With the alcohol spinning in his head, he finished up and staggered to the sink where he steadied himself with both hands.

  Al finished off and joined him. “Sorry. A reporter’s habit. Always asking questions.”

  “No problem,” Hamish said.

  Al raised his eyebrows. He was still looking for an answer.

  Hamish reached for a paper towel. A cartoon of an erect penis was scrawled beside the dispenser along with a list of phone numbers. “No. Todd’s just one of my students. We came for a drink. After work. That’s all.”

  Al looked pleased. He checked his watch. “This place gets very noisy after ten. Too no
isy for talking.”

  “You’re right.” Would Todd mind, or even notice, if he slipped home? “I should be going.”

  “No, no. That is not what I meant.” Al raised his left eyebrow again and reached for his belt buckle.

  Oh shit! Mesic was going to drop his jeans. Oh my God, thought Hamish, I’ve given some sort of signal. I should’ve gone home after the first beer.

  Hamish gripped the counter, his head reeling. How many had he drunk? Two? Three? Four? Next time he’d stick to ginger ale.

  Al straightened his buckle and smoothed his T-shirt over his board-like abdomen. He turned on the tap. His pants were still up, his fly closed. He began washing his hands, like any guy in any normal washroom.

  “My place is only a few blocks from here. James South. Let’s go back there. I make pretty good espresso.”

  He read the hesitation on Hamish’s face. “Don’t worry about Todd. Now that he’s started dancing, he’ll be here all night. Do you dance?”

  “No.”

  “But surely you drink coffee? Or would you like something else, more satisfying?”

  Was that another code? Did he mean sex? Al was hot. And seemed kind. He’d lived through a lot but had a cultured manner. Hamish tried to suppress a sudden image of Al’s trim body, naked, aroused, standing in a top-floor apartment singing Josh Groban like a nightingale. He’d never had casual sex with anyone. Ken was his first and only partner. But these days, it didn’t feel like a partnership. More like an awkward acquaintance bound by green tea, stir-fry meals, and fast sex.

  He knew he was too buzzed to drive for the next couple of hours. So, what the heck? He’d say goodbye to Todd, walk over to Al’s for a coffee or two, then drive to Camelot after he’d sobered up. That ICU nurse’s shift didn’t end until seven in the morning.