by D P Lyle
CHAPTER 65
TUESDAY 2:01 A.M.
“ZEKE?”
Zeke Reed turned to see Charge Nurse Bobbie Hawkins coming toward him. One of the RN types. One of the ones that climbed the ladder, browned her nose, made it all the way to ICU charge nurse. BFD.
“Run this down to the lab and then clean four. Dr. Sammons just put a new central line in Mr. Diaz and left a mess in there.” She motioned toward the cubicle where a bedside tray was stacked with used instruments, gauze, drapes, and other trash. “You’ll need a bio-hazard bag for most of that stuff.”
Like he hadn’t done this a million times.
She handed him two tubes of blood, turned, and walked away. No please, no thank you, no nothing. Bitch.
Taking the stairs, Zeke dropped down two floors to the lab, delivered the blood tubes, and then ducked into the men’s room. The last of three stalls. He punctured the rubber stopper on the bottle of potassium chloride and filled the syringe. He capped the needle and settled the syringe into the pocket of his short white coat.
Back in the ICU, coast clear, he wiped his prints from the bottle and returned it to the drug cart behind the nurses’ station. Almost home free now.
He went to work on Diaz’s room. He filled the biohazard bag with the disposable trash, put the instruments into a metal basin for transport to Central Supply for re-sterilization, and began to mop the floor. Diaz’s ventilator rhythmically whooshed through its cycles.
Zeke mopped slowly, waiting for the right moment. When Nurse Hawkins left the nurses’ station and headed for cubicle one, he quickly removed the syringe, popped off the needle cover, and slid the needle into the rubber-capped injection port of Diaz’s IV line. Had to move fast now. One more glance over his shoulder and he plunged the potassium into the line, yanked the needle free, capped it, returned it to his pocket. He went back to swiping the mop across the floor.
Ten seconds. That was all it took. The EKG monitor went flat. The alarm sounded. Three nurses rushed into the cubicle. Charge Nurse Hawkins told him to leave. Gladly. He backed out of the cubicle as another nurse rolled the crash cart through the door. He moved behind the nurses’ station as “Code Blue ICU, Code Blue ICU” blared from the ceiling speakers. Nurse Hawkins began barking orders.
Why did they always put the women in charge and never the men? Of course only two male nurses worked here, and they were both losers. Neither was an RN. Maybe one of those other degrees. LVN, LPN, he couldn’t keep them straight.
Zeke didn’t have any letters on his name tag. Didn’t need them. He was smarter than all of them. He’d already done in six people, and none of them had a clue. Fact is, he’d gotten one of them fired. Well, moved out of the ICU, anyway. She should’ve paid more attention. Shouldn’t have left a dangerous drug like morphine lying around. Should’ve noticed the vent alarm was turned off. Then the old man would be alive and she would still be here in the ICU in the limelight, not shuffling bedpans up on 6A.
They were all that way. This . . . this ICU . . . the goal of their miserable little lives.
He had bigger things in mind. Ezekiel James Reed. Angel of Death. Front-page stuff. The others had been. Charles Cullen, thirty or so in New Jersey. Donald Harvey, eighty in Kentucky and Ohio. Richard Angelo, convicted of four, but he must have done more out on Long Island. Efren Saldivar in California. Zeke couldn’t recall his final body count. He had newspaper articles on them and others. Many others. Tucked away in the bottom drawer where he kept such secrets.
One day, he’d be bigger than them all. The really fun part? He’d actually been paid to do a couple of them. Counting this guy. The other he’d made only five hundred bucks. That was a year ago. This one? Two thousand. Inflation was a good thing.
That old man, the five-hundred-dollar one, was his first. Zeke had never seriously thought about killing any of the patients. Maybe once or twice he had wanted to but nothing he ever did anything about. Then he met that guy—what was his name?—at that strip club. Guy seemed interested in the fact that he worked at a hospital. Said he might have a job for him someday. Said it would pay well. About a year ago the guy found him. Called him at home. Never said how he got the number. Offered the five hundred if he’d off the old man. Piece of cake. A bit of potassium chloride in the IV and adios.
He’d now used potassium three times, morphine once, and Pavulon twice. Saldivar liked Pavulon. Zeke preferred potassium, though. Clean, effective, and fast. They said it was a bitch to trace, too.
The feeling he got from the old man was . . . He couldn’t think of a word for it. Thrilling didn’t seem strong enough, but it was the best he could come up with. The ones that followed were done to recapture that thrill. A thrill he never knew lived inside him. A thrill that once exposed needed feeding.
Besides, Zeke could use the two grand. That was more than he made in a month. Maybe he could get that new car, after all. The red Mustang convertible. It had been sitting on the lot for a month, but the price was too high. By a grand and a half. With the cash he’d make for this, he could cover the difference and still fold five hundred into his pocket. Life was good.
CHAPTER 66
TUESDAY 7:11 A.M.
“DAMN IT. THAT’S JUST GREAT.” I SAT ON THE SIDE OF THE BED, phone to my ear, while T-Tommy told me that Alejandro Diaz had checked out during the night. “There goes our best lead.”
“Maybe our only lead,” he said.
I ran my fingers through my hair. “Let’s hope Slade pans out.”
“See you guys in about forty-five.”
I hung up the phone and sat there, listening to the hiss of the shower as Claire got ready for her day.
After our visit to Slade’s house last night, T-Tommy, Claire, and I had sat down to plan the next step. Another talk with Aden Slade was the consensus. He seemed the one most likely to slip up or crack under pressure. Whether he was the cutter or not, whether he was involved in all this or not, if it was connected to Talbert, he’d likely know something. If the surgeries had actually occurred there, he’d have to be aware of them.
We had kicked around ideas on how to approach him. The one thing that was easily decided was that it should take place at his home, not at Talbert. Just in case. Would Slade react violently? Would he break down and confess? Maybe implicate others at Talbert? Whatever happened it would be best if he was alone, isolated.
A search warrant came up but was rejected. That’d put Slade on the defensive. Besides, a warrant based only on a few surgical instruments lying on a worktable just wasn’t going to happen. No judge was that friendly. Slade worked with these gadgets. Had every reason to have them around. Then there was the fact that this information resulted from trespassing. I could almost hear the judge laughing as he issued a warrant for our arrest.
Claire suggested that she talk with him again. Make up some story about needing more information for her newscast. Slade had obviously been attracted to her and might talk more freely, even brag. Maybe try to impress her. Never underestimate the power of sex.
Not a chance. No way would I let her enter Slade’s house alone. Even with T-Tommy and me nearby.
It was finally decided that T-Tommy would visit him. Alone. No uniforms. No patrol cars. Just a friendly chat. A few routine questions. Put a little more pressure on him. T-Tommy decided not to run this by Furyk or anyone else. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to Furyk’s bullshit or defend the decision. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Besides, if Furyk knew, Rocco would know. That would complicate things big-time.
Claire and I would be the cavalry. Nearby in case things didn’t go as planned.
CHAPTER 67
TUESDAY 7:22 A.M.
T-TOMMY PEERED THROUGH THE OPEN GARAGE DOOR.
Slade sat on a stool at the long metal table T-Tommy had seen last night, back to the door. A white T-shirt hung loosely on his narrow shoulders as he hunched over something he was working on. A pile of wood shavings, half a dozen hollow metal tub
es, and several clusters of steel wool lay on the table in front of him.
T-Tommy rapped a knuckle on the doorframe.
Slade spun in his direction. In his left hand he held a slender, curved piece of wood and in the other a finely honed knife.
“Sorry to bother you this early,” T-Tommy said. He flipped open his badge and extended it to Slade. “I’m Investigator Tortelli. HPD. We met yesterday.”
Slade seemed to stare at T-Tommy’s chest as if raising his gaze higher was physically impossible. “I remember. What can I do for you?”
“Just a couple of follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”
Slade hesitated.
“Only take a few minutes.”
“Sure.” Slade stood. “You want some coffee? Just made a fresh pot.” He motioned to a coffeemaker that sat on a corner table.
It did smell good. “Sure. Thanks.”
Slade poured some coffee into a big-handled brown mug. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
He handed the mug to T-Tommy and then returned to his stool.
T-Tommy circled the table until he faced Slade. He took a sip, then another. It tasted even better than it smelled. “This is excellent.”
Slade smiled. Sort of. More a quick widening of his lips, barely visible. “I order the beans from a company in Miami. Grind them myself.”
“Not much better than a good cup of coffee.” T-Tommy nodded toward the piece of wood Slade had been working on. “What’re you doing here?”
“A new design. Trying to smooth the edges.”
“Not going into Talbert today?”
“Later. Got stuff to do around here.”
“You do a lot of your work at home?”
Slade appeared nervous, his gaze darting around, never staying on any one thing, brushing over T-Tommy a couple of times before moving on. “I’m sure you didn’t come here at this time of day to chat about my work.”
T-Tommy shrugged. “Actually, Mr. Slade, I find what you do very interesting. Never knew much about this kind of stuff until yesterday. Impressive work.”
“Thanks.” His eyes seemed to brighten a bit.
T-Tommy picked up the piece of wood. “What’s this?”
“Working out a new shape for one of our instruments.”
“You whittle them out of wood?”
“That’s how I work out the design.” A quick smile. “Wood’s a little easier to work with than steel. Doesn’t dull the knives.” Another slight smile.
This kid was charming in his own way. No doubt intelligent and creative. T-Tommy couldn’t help but like him. Still, if he turned out to be the killer, he might revise that assessment. But here, in his own backyard, talking about his work, he seemed more relaxed. This just might work.
“Once you have it carved, what happens?”
“We send it to a company that uses the carving as a template to make a mold and then stainless steel copies.” Slade held up one of the metallic tubes. “Like these. Then I polish off the rough edges, and they’re ready for a trial run.”
“Clever.” T-Tommy spread his hands on the end of the table, leaning a little. “We didn’t get a chance to talk much yesterday. What I wanted to ask is, do you know Alejandro Diaz?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s tall, dark hair, Hispanic. Ever seen anyone like that around Talbert?”
“No.” He inspected the metal tube. Despite his nervous nature his hands were steady. His fingers lean and delicate. “Why’re you looking for him?”
“I know where he is. Just wondered if you knew him.”
“Never met him.”
You never will. T-Tommy placed his coffee mug on the table. “What about Eddie Elliott? Ever heard of him?”
Slade hesitated as if thinking and then flicked a strand of hair from his eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think or don’t know?”
“It’s a common sounding name. I may have heard it, but if so I don’t remember when or where.”
“Have you heard of any thefts at Talbert?”
He rolled the tube back and forth on the table with his palm. “No. Other than this stuff, that is.” He waved a hand at the instruments on the table.
“You steal those?” T-Tommy asked.
“With permission. Mr. Talbert and Dr. Kincaid are good employers. They let me do much of my design work here.”
“How did you hook up with them?” T-Tommy asked.
“I sold surgical instruments. Years ago. When I lived in Chicago. I called on Dr. Kincaid. A few years later, after they had formed the company, they called me. Paid for my education. Gave me a job.”
“Now you assist Dr. Kincaid with testing the equipment?”
“More than that. I design most of the tools. Dr. Kincaid is a very gifted surgeon, but he’s not an artist. Design requires a certain artistic ability.”
“You have that? Artistic ability?”
“I’ve always seen things a little differently.”
T-Tommy leaned more of his weight on the table. “I understand you attended medical school?”
“You’ve researched me?”
“I’m an investigator. That’s what I do.”
Slade sighed. “Made it halfway through my sophomore year before Dad died and Mom got cancer. Had to drop out and get a job.” He picked up another instrument, a long tubular affair with a pistol grip and trigger on one end and what appeared to be tiny scissors on the other. He squeezed the trigger, and the jaws of the scissors opened and closed.
“Must have been disappointing,” T-Tommy said.
“It was. But I like where I am now. Dr. Kincaid gives me a great deal of freedom.”
“You just assist him, or can you do all those surgical things, too?”
“Surgical things?” His gaze bounced up to T-Tommy, held him for a second.
T-Tommy laughed. “I don’t know what any of that stuff is called. The words are too big.”
“After working with Dr. Kincaid for so many years, I could probably do almost everything he does.”
“Really?”
“Well, I have to. If I’m going to design new instruments and improve on others, I have to know how they work. What they feel like.”
T-Tommy nodded. “Never thought of that. Makes sense.”
“But I’m no surgeon. Not trained like Dr. Kincaid. I just copy what I see him do.”
“So you’re not qualified to operate on the living?”
“Oh no. I couldn’t do that. Why do you ask?”
“Dr. Kincaid told me that he thought you would have made an excellent surgeon. Good hands was the way he put it.”
“He’s kind. But, no, I’ve never done any kind of surgery.” Slade looked at the ceiling, brow furrowed, and then smiled. “Unless you count teasing a piece of glass from my dog’s paw when I was eight.”
“Did the patient survive?”
“For many years.”
Though Slade’s shyness and inability to look anyone in the eye was a bit unnerving and he was a touch weird, T-Tommy sensed nothing menacing or dangerous in his demeanor. Sitting right here, right now, anyway. Of course, Bundy and Dahlmer were polite and shy, too.
“How do you come up with new designs? I mean, do you just dream them up out of thin air?”
“Not exactly. The design follows the need. Our customers will make a suggestion. Or a complaint. Maybe they need an instrument of a different shape or size or angle. Whatever makes their surgery easier. I’ll take what we have and modify it. Or sometimes I’ll have to start from scratch and design an entirely new tool.”
“Sounds difficult.”
“I have a knack for seeing things spatially. I find it interesting. That’s why I don’t regret not finishing med school. I like what I do.”
“Is this all Talbert Biomedical does?” T-Tommy waved a hand across the table. “Make these types of instruments?”
Slade shook his head. “We make all kinds of stuff. Scal
pels, scissors, hemostats, clamps.”
“Just instruments? No mechanical devices?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Maybe those electrical saw deals. Like they use to take a cast off.”
“No. Just stainless steel tools. The ones with few moving parts and no motors.”
T-Tommy picked up a hollow tube and examined it. He placed it back on the table. “Does Dr. Kincaid do any surgery on patients anymore?”
“No. He doesn’t have a practice or go to any of the hospitals. He’s purely research now.”
“No actual surgeries are done at Talbert?”
His gaze jumped right, left, to the floor. “We’re definitely not equipped for that.”
CHAPTER 68
TUESDAY 9:11 A.M.
WE LEFT SLADE’S, HEADED DOWN PRATT, THROUGH FIVE POINTS, and swung by Mullins for breakfast. Mullins had been a Huntsville institution for decades. A low brick and metal building with a bright blue and yellow checkerboard sign out front and a noisy crowd inside. Pictures of old Huntsville decorated the faux brick interior walls.
We settled in a corner at one of the Formica-topped tables. Claire had a bagel. I had scrambled eggs and wheat toast. T-Tommy went for the Country Boy Special: three eggs as you like them, T-Tommy going for over easy, four strips of bacon, four link sausages, hash browns, pancakes, and toast.
“He’s got the tools and the skills,” T-Tommy said. “I’d put Slade at the top of the list.”
“He’s not alone up there,” I said. “He’s too shy to con someone into his car. He’s small and seems frail. Doubt he could overpower anyone. Definitely not Alejandro or Eddie. Maybe not even the two girls.”