Death Rounds

by Peter Clement

  I shoved away all thoughts of someone creeping up to my door and focused on finding the remaining charts. As I located them, I spread one out after the other on a large table and flipped through each dossier to entries dated approximately two years ago. It was an easy matter to locate the clinic visits I was looking for.

  There were three types of events.

  About ten of the victims had reported explosive vomiting with no other symptoms or signs to explain a cause. They were all isolated incidents, each had occurred shortly after they’d eaten a meal in the cafeteria, and in each case no one else who’d eaten the same food had reported any problems. Some were nurses, some were orderlies, some were technicians, and they’d all worked in different areas of the hospital.

  There were five episodes of an acute syndrome involving dizziness, sweating, tearing, slowing of the heart rate, urgency to urinate, nausea, abdominal cramps, and small pupils. Again a variety of people with different jobs were involved, but this time they all worked in physiotherapy or rehabilitation.

  The third grouping of cases were brief, solitary hallucinogenic experiences in three nurses from the psychiatry department The three occurrences were months apart, and none of the subjects had a history of mental illness or drug abuse.

  I leaned back in my chair, stretched my arms and legs, and once more felt the ache of too little sleep. But my mind was revving. This was familiar turf for me—basic toxicology. Janet was right. Some agent or other had made these people sick, and while any alert physician could make an educated guess, it was routine work for an ER doctor to look at the signs and symptoms and figure out exactly what those agents could be.

  The ten cases of explosive vomiting suggested an obvious cause. Ipecac—a rather tasteless syrup that we formerly administered to overdose patients in order to induce vomiting—could have been added to a sauce or gravy poured over the victims’ food. Even though we hardly ever used it anymore, it could still be found in most hospitals. A few of the victims had actually expressed the suspicion something had been slipped into their meal, but the attending doctors had mostly concluded it was mild food poisoning, viral gastritis, or malingering.

  The three psychiatric cases I thought could be explained by a mild short-acting hallucinogenic. Psilocybin, a form of mescaline, or peyote, its naturally occurring precursor, came to mind. Though I rarely saw overdoses of these substances these days—they weren’t usually found on the current much deadlier menu of street drugs— they could be obtained in special places, such as on university campuses. Both substances existed in pill or powder form, they both had a bitter taste that might go undetected if mixed with something like strong coffee, and they both weren’t usually included in an initial drug screen. Given the perpetual pot of heavy-duty caffeine found on most psych wards, it wouldn’t be hard to slip a dose of either substance to an unsuspecting victim in a cup of that particular brew. I’d want to ask these nurses if anyone had offered them a coffee shortly before they’d hallucinated. The notes indicated that all three had raised the possibility they’d been given something. One of the examining physicians had written Hallucinogen? on one of the nurses’ charts but hadn’t pursued it. Several other doctors put the next two episodes down to stress.

  The complex syndrome that had afflicted the physio and rehab workers was in fact the most straightforward of all. The symptoms and signs brought to mind an acronym we teach the residents— SLUDGE BAM—made up of the first letter of each symptom and sign produced by organic phosphate, or insecticide, poisoning. Not all the signs were there—they wouldn’t be in a mild exposure—but enough were to make the diagnosis: Salivation, Lacrimation, Urination, Diarrhea, Gastritis, Esophagitis, Bradycardia (or slow heart rate), Airway distress, and Miosis (the clinical term for small pupils). The attending physicians recognized this possibility in the differential, or list of probable diagnoses suggested in their notes, and had explained the episodes as accidental exposures to an unknown source of pesticide. Checks of the work area, however, had failed to turn up any trace of organic phosphates. I made a note to visit these people while they were on the job.

  Most victims of accidental insecticide poisoning I’d treated in ER had absorbed the stuff through their skin. One woman had simply sprayed her bathroom floor, then walked on it in her bare feet. Perhaps there was something in the routine of workers in physio and rehab that exposed their skin to this type of contamination.

  At first I found it puzzling that the examining doctors had given so little credence to all the victims who’d suggested they’d been attacked, but a glance through previous entries in their charts suggested why. The majority of them were frequent visitors to the health service with nonspecific trivial complaints—fatigue, dizziness, vague aches and pains—that on investigation never turned out to be significant. In short, the Phantom’s victims seemed to also have in common the trait of malingering—not the basis for a lot of credibility. I remembered my own suspicions about Phyllis Sanders. What was it her son had said about her? She never minimized anything.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 3:00. My usual limit of staying alert easily on an overnight shift without having to fight off sleep was around 4:00. After that I could be jolted awake by a hair-raising emergency but wasn’t mentally fit for much else. Tonight, however, I was charged with energy. Instead of chasing shadows I was finally faced with puzzles that I had the expertise to answer. These charts and their two-year-old secrets were like manuals outlining how the Phantom had carried out his deeds. Until now he’d managed to keep those means of attack hidden, just as he still succeeded in keeping his means of infecting people concealed. It was the Phantom’s trademark, his key to invisibility. If no one knew an attack had been made, there was no attacker; if no one knew a murder had been committed, there was no murderer. By exposing his means from two years ago, I’d breached that cloak of anonymity a little, given him form, and brought him a bit into existence. In other words, I’d gained a step on whomever I was pursuing.

  But it was a step on an old trail. As tantalizing as these records were—no doubt Michael had recognized everything I had—they contained nothing beyond what had happened back then. Certainly they weren’t the files that convinced Michael this same creep had found a way to wield deadly organisms, one of them previously unknown, with stealth and specificity. He had to have found something more, some bridge between the previous attacks and the recent infections. The pattern he mentioned must have been in other charts somewhere else. If I was going to make Williams a believer, I had to find those charts.

  I got out of my chair, groaned as my knees and back lodged their own protest against no sleep, then started pacing to loosen up and better think what to do next. The silence of the place magnified the sound of my shoes on the linoleum floor.

  I’d interview all these people as soon as I could if they were still around, I thought. The two whose active charts I’d found upstairs would be no problem, but the fact that the other sixteen files had been out of circulation long enough to have been put back in the archives, especially after showing a pattern of frequent visits, might mean those people no longer worked here. I returned to the table and started making a list of the eighteen names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Not wanting to stiffen up again in the chair, I wrote standing up. As I worked, the ancient pipes running across the ceiling gave an occasional clank. The scratch of my pen across the notepaper provided the only other sound in that deserted place.

  Once, reaching for another chart, I inadvertently pressed my weight against the table and caused it to shift. The screech of its metal legs scraping across the linoleum sounded like a blast on a trumpet and made me jump so abruptly that the file flew out of my hand. Christ, I thought, decrying my own skittishness, let me finish and get out of here.

  While I continued to scribble, I began to think where I might ask the guard to let me look next. Janet had said the sort of cruelty that this group practiced was hard to prove and not often reported. But what if that wasn’t entire
ly true? Perhaps some of their victims had complained, were on record somewhere as having done so, and might be well worth talking to. I’d at least get a gauge as to the degree of anger they felt toward their punishers, perhaps even a sense of whether that anger could be motive enough for revenge. But there was another even more likely possibility to be explored. Who had these victims complained to? Was there someone in the process of hearing such complaints who’d decided to administer a little rough justice on his or her own outside of official channels?

  Either way, if anyone had ever leveled charges against any of the people on the list I was compiling, their personnel records would probably contain a copy of any such complaints and the name of the patient who had complained. That’s where I’d ask to go, the personnel department, I decided, rushing to finish with the second-to-last chart and feeling ecstatic at the sensation of finally making some headway.

  If I wasn’t so sensitized to sounds in the eerie silence of that sub-basement or if I hadn’t been so on edge, I might never have heard the familiar distant hum. It came more through the walls and overhead ducts than through the air. It was so far away that for the first few seconds my mind processed it out as an unimportant noise. Only when it ended and was followed by the faint distant rattle of the doors sliding open did I realize the elevator had come back down.

  I felt a wave of alarm sweep through my stomach, then tried to reassure myself. Perhaps it was only the guard doing rounds or coming to check on me. I stood absolutely motionless. Maybe someone needed an old chart from this very room for a patient who had just arrived in ER.

  But no steps came my way.

  I quietly walked over to the door and listened. Still nothing.

  Okay, I thought, forcing myself to breathe slowly. The elevator may simply have come down empty, sent by someone who had gotten off at a higher floor but also pushed the subbasement button by mistake.

  Maybe. I wanted to grab my list and get the hell out of there. I tiptoed back to the table; added the final name, address, and telephone number; and returned to the door jamming my notes into my pocket

  There wasn’t a sound outside. I turned the lock as slowly as possible, but it opened with a loud click. I froze, ready to twist it shut again if I heard the approaching thud of running footsteps. Nothing came. I pulled the door open a crack and peeked out. Thankfully I was at the end of this particular corridor, so even with the sliver of a view I gave myself, I could see enough to tell no one was there.

  I stepped out and made my way toward the first intersection. Holding my breath when I got there, I slowly looked around the corner and down the next hallway. It was also empty. I turned left and crept along, passing two more intersections with equal care. When I got near the long corridor where the elevator was located, my real trepidation began. Even though I was at the opposite end of where the passage led to the basement of the old asylum, I couldn’t help but imagine that the figure I dreaded seeing was out there waiting for me. My heart raced faster than ever and my breathing once more quickened. I pressed my back against the wall and prayed that the lights wouldn’t go off again. I don’t know how many seconds I was standing there, rapidly losing my battle with panic, when I heard something—something so faint and far off I wasn’t sure it was real.

  It was whimpering—a steady, repetitive whimper. It was coming from down the corridor that I was bracing myself to enter. While I listened, it kept getting farther away until I could barely hear it anymore. Torn between fear and my determination to see what it was, I forced myself to look.

  A hundred yards away near the far end of the long passage I could see the back of a person in greens pushing something. Even from that distance I could make out two horizontal white straps tied behind the person’s head, indicating a surgical mask. The whimpering was the sound of squeaky wheels on a supply cart of some sort.

  I let out my breath, once again feeling foolish at having become so alarmed at a simple noise. Probably an orderly getting something out of storage, I thought. I stepped into the hallway and started for the elevator.

  Then the figure in the distance abruptly turned right without looking back and entered the tunnel leading into the asylum.

  Chapter 13

  I froze in midstep. Why would an orderly go in there? The place was posted off limits. It was hardly a suitable location to store supplies. My thoughts raced ahead unchecked. Was it the figure who’d attacked me? Maybe even the killer himself? After poring over two-year-old traces, had I suddenly stumbled on him returning to his present lair? Or was it simply someone ducking into the deserted tunnel for a cigarette? The nonsmoking nineties had driven nicotine addicts into back doorways among the garbage pails in most hospitals that I knew of. A dark tunnel on a cold rainy night would be a luxury.

  Whoever he was, he’d either presumed he was alone or didn’t care. Either way, he didn’t know I was here, and I felt a heady rush of excitement. The advantage was clearly mine. If this was the creep who’d put Michael in ICU, then maybe I could take him by surprise, hunt him down and crack his skull. The prospect rekindled my fury and abated my fear. Damn you to hell, I thought bitterly as I started for the ominously dark entranceway up ahead.

  I needed a weapon. There was nothing in the hallway. I quietly opened a few of the doors as I went, looking for something, anything I could wield. Nothing. As I passed the elevator doors, now closed again, I saw the overhead indicator light read SB, telling me the car was still there in case I needed a quick getaway. There also had to be stairs somewhere, but I hadn’t seen them.

  I continued along the hall, still searching for something to protect myself with. But opening door after door, I found only furniture or stacks of boxes which I hadn’t time to explore. I was about forty yards from the tunnel entrance and was increasingly careful not to make any noise.

  I came up on an alcove full of pails, mops, and cleaning supplies. I found a wooden push broom and settled on the handle, unscrewing it from the brush. As I crept the rest of the way to where the dark passage led off to the right, I took some practice swings with the hardwood stick and was satisfied I could certainly whack my quarry’s head enough to stun him.

  At the junction, I paused before turning the corner and listened for the squeak of the cart. I heard nothing, nor could I detect the telltale smell of tobacco. Only the pungent odor of damp earth seeped into my nostrils. Nevertheless, if I’m wrong about this, I thought, I’m going to give some poor slob one hell of a Smokeenders program. I got my staff ready, holding it up over my shoulder to swing like a bat, and stepped around into the center of the passage.

  The lamps from the corridors behind me sent light about twenty yards into the darkness. No one was there. I moved to the far wall, pressed against the rough cold stone of the century-old construction, and crept forward. I usually swung a baseball bat left-handed—once a year at a charity game between the staff and the residents—and needed my back against this side of the tunnel to get a good shot at whoever came at me.

  Yet again I neither heard nor saw anyone.

  As my eyes got used to the dark, I could see enough to continue farther up the passage, but I knew there would soon come a point where it would be pitch black. What then? I was beginning to have second thoughts about my impulse to come up here.

  I proceeded about another thirty yards when I saw something glinting dimly up ahead. It looked like a barrier of some kind, stretched across the entire passage, from the roof to the floor. A few more steps brought me close enough to see it was made of heavy wire mesh, like the fencing around a school yard or tennis court but with much smaller openings. It was held in place against the dark stones of the ceiling, walls, and floors by a lighter-colored cement, suggesting it was erected in a more recent era. In its center was a door-size gate, also made of mesh, and kept closed by a heavy U-shaped latch. There was no lock, and when I lifted the catch, the gate swung open with barely a creak. It was obviously kept oiled. Now why the hell was this barrier put here? I wondered, stepping
through.

  I kept going forward but was rapidly running out of light. Finally I had to stop, barely able to see my own hand in front of my face. I stood in the dark and held my breath so as to hear better, but not a sound came from the darkness up ahead. For all I knew, the figure was familiar with his way around the massive old building and could be anywhere. One thing I was certain of. This was no one slipping off for a smoke.

  The air here was perceptibly cooler than before and felt slimy against my skin. There were more odors now too, the metallic hint of damp rock joining the moist earth smells wafting toward me. I once again imagined the basement rooms with dirt floors where they used to chain inmates to the stone walls. The reminder of those poor souls left me chilled to the bone.

  I also began to feel foolish standing there with my broom handle. Even if I were idiotic enough to press ahead, I could fumble around in the dark all night in this place and still never find him. But I’d be damned if I was about to turn around and go home. At the very least I might find some answers, such as who’d bashed me into the elevator and the reason why. But far more important, if it was the killer, I wasn’t going to miss my chance to stop him here and now. There would be no more glass coffins if I could help it.

  I turned and looked back the way I’d come. The light from the distant entrance gleaned off the rough-hewn walls and stone floors like moonlight on water. It shone through the wire mesh, throwing it into a shadowy relief, making it appear softer, like a web strung over the way out. But the sides of the passageway, where the floor met the walls, remained in shadow, and as far up the tunnel as I was, that space was ink black. I could lie there, undetected, and wait for whoever it was to come back. I’d then be behind him as he walked toward the light. When he stopped to open the gate, I’d be in a perfect position to jump him.