by L Jan Eira
As soon as the spray was directed at him, Jack knew exactly what was happening. His first reaction was to hold his breath and flee. He did. He grabbed his white lab coat and ran towards the emergency department. During the spraying, the young doctor detected a red rash on the perpetrator’s right hand. He had observed this unusual rash beforehand.
Jack first noticed a slight pleasant tingling sensation in his nostrils. This awareness sunk deeper into his respiratory tree and soon it could be felt in his chest. Jack knew the drug had been successfully deployed and was now inside of him. Should he run to the emergency department where he could get help? Should he inject the drugs he gathered earlier, now in his lab coat pocket? How quickly would he have symptoms and become incapacitated? His heart started to race. Was this the result of excitement and running or the bubbles expelling their noxious content?
Considering that the effects of Rat Poison were swift, Jack decided he should try to help himself and start his own treatment. He stopped suddenly and looked behind him. No one was chasing. Good. He briefly considered the elevator but thought it would be smarter to take the stairs. Pushing past a door, he entered the staircase and hurriedly descended two floors. Now on the sixth floor, he listened for chasing footsteps. Nothing. He sat on the stairs, removed the tourniquet from his pocket and tied it around his left arm, just above the elbow. He quickly removed a syringe and needle from his pocket and assembled the two. He withdrew five milligrams of propranolol into the syringe and stuck the needle into a forearm vein. Having accomplished this seemingly monumental task, he repeated the process with ten milligrams of verapamil. He took a breather to assess his condition. He could still think rationally and, so far, the only person he’d like to kill was the son of a bitch who sprayed him in the nose. He retrieved the midazolam vial and injected two milligrams into his vein. Given his hyperdynamic circulation, three blood geysers thrived in the front surface of his forearm. Having injected the three medications, Jack removed the tourniquet and held pressure over the puncture sites, still holding the syringe. His heart hammered hard in his chest and his breath quickened. He could feel his mind slipping away. He descended one more flight. Still, there were no signs of a pursuer. His right-hand fingers were bloodied from holding pressure over the venipunctures. He stopped the descent and sat down on a stair. Using his blood as ink, he wrote some words on the wall. This accomplished he stood up again and stumbled erratically down the stairs. The disorienting effects of the poison were becoming increasingly prominent, surfacing sporadically in waves.
Where am I going? Where am I supposed to be, contemplated Jack, gradually more confused. He looked around wildly to get his bearings, unsure of what to do.
Ah, yes. The emergency department. I must get there fast and get help, thought Jack. He continued running down the stairway, now almost on the second floor. Suddenly, he stopped, reflecting on the situation at hand. He felt a wave of nausea and dizziness.
“I’m getting worse. At this rate, I won’t reach the ED.” He sat on a step and procured the drug vials again. He managed to inject another round of the medications, this time having more difficulty obtaining venous access and deciphering the necessary dosing. He put all medical instruments back into his pockets and took off running again down the stairs. He felt a little better. He had to reach the emergency department.
When he arrived on the first floor, a wave of confusion and disorientation hit him again, more intense this time than ever before. Perplexed, Jack had the distinct impression that there was somebody or something running after him. He felt threatened. He could swear somebody was hunting him trying to kill him. A deep-down sentiment he could barely explain, told him he had to fight the assailant. He frantically looked all around him for the anticipated threat. Moving in all directions rapidly caused him to feel dizzy and nauseated. He sat back down on the steps. A large heavy door at the bottom of the steps and now in front of him was labeled: Exit. He pushed past that door winding up in the doctor’s parking lot. The cool breeze on his face helped him feel better physically, but increased his confusion and unsettlement.
He had a deep need to escape. Run far and fast. He pushed past several parked cars and came to an open area in the parking lot. Where was he going? Confusion and disorientation reigned.
He stopped for a moment and looked around dazed. He shed his lab coat and kept on running.
*****
9:09 PM
“Claire, I found out where he is. It sounds like he’s been poisoned with the Rat Poison drug,” declared Susan gloomily, as she drove to the scene.
“I know, Susan. I know. Please hurry,” implored Claire.
“I will. I promise. We’ll take him to the hospital immediately.”
“I’m being realistic. I’m prepared for the worst. You know, we have not seen anybody survive Rat Poison yet. But, he’s young and strong.
“Let’s remain positive, Claire.”
“Susan, who knew where we live and knew Jack was in his office tonight?” asked Claire rhetorically, hoping the question would spark something in Susan.
The young detective reflected.
The cell phone call in my guest bedroom. He arranged this attack, thought Susan, as she sped to the scene.
*****
The day after
October 2
7:30 AM
“Did you see today’s headlines?” asked the man wearing a plush multicolor robe. He was sitting in a beautifully decorated room on a divan, his feet up on an ottoman. He sipped from his cup of coffee and put it back down, his Bluetooth receiver hanging on his right earlobe. There was a short pause and then he spoke again.
“Young doctor shot dead by police. That’s the title. Apparently, he survived until he got to a neighborhood behind the hospital. Somebody called the cops. They found him under a tree agitated and frantic. He fought the law and the law won. It says here they shot him when he attacked one of the police officers. Who said cops are good for nothing? They thought he was drunk and on drugs.” The man was obviously elated about what he was reading on the front page of the Evansville Courier & Press.
“By the time they find out, we’ll be way gone, sipping on a cool red drink with a small umbrella.” A fake smile and a pause.
“I don’t know what she knows. We’ll assume she knows enough.” Another long pause.
“Find out where she is and take care of it,” he commanded. “And, no screw ups. Call me later and I’ll give you information about the flight. They should be picking you up around noon today.” A short break.
“I’ll meet you later. In about a week. There are a few loose ends I need to take care of first.”
He hung up the phone and took another sip of coffee, overjoyed. It was going to be a good day and it would be even better tomorrow.
*****
10:02 AM
The two men in green scrubs exited through the door labeled Doctor’s Changing Room. They first looked to the right, then left. Side by side, the two continued down the corridor to the right. A sign on the wall indicated the direction to the post-op unit.
“First, we’ll make sure she’s asleep and quiet,” said one of the men.
“Yeah, either by herself or with this stuff in the bag.” He raised his right hand showing a small black doctor’s bag.
“I know, I know. You worry too much.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll take care of the anesthesia. Do you know your part?” inquired the other man with a wry smile.
“Yeah. When she’s asleep, I inject this stuff in her IV,” he replied lightly tapping on the back pocket of his scrub pants.
“Do you push it in slow or fast?”
“Fast. Don’t worry. I know what to do.”
“What if she doesn’t have an IV anymore?”
“I help you find a vein and inject the stuff directly into the vein.”
“I have a tourniquet in the bag.”
“What about the cops outside the door?”
“The most important th
ing is for her not to make any noise. When we get in, you distract her. I’ll come from behind with the anesthesia.”
“Pretty easy work for five thousand bucks, huh?”
The two men walked several more yards in silence, as they entered the nursing unit. Having taken a corner to the left, they could now see the door leading to the room down the hall. A police officer sat at the entry reading a magazine. Hospital personnel were busy going in and out of patient rooms, a clear sign that business was again booming at Newton Memorial Hospital. The hospital was no longer on diversion and the daily routine had returned to normal.
“She recuperated well from the surgery and will be discharged later today,” said one of the two men to the other, as they approached the cop, ascertaining that they could be heard. They nodded at the officer politely as they opened the door.
“Hey, doc? Are you going to be in there a few minutes? I gotta take a leak. Can you wait for me to come back? I ain’t supposed to leave my post,” said the police officer to the two men in scrubs.
“No problem. We’ll wait. Take your time,” replied one of the men.
“You gotta go, you gotta go, right?” said the other. Both men smiled at the cop, then at each other.
“It must be our lucky day,” whispered one of them, as both men entered the hospital room.
Inside, the two assailants ceased talking, surprised not to find Claire in bed. She was nowhere to be found. On the bedside table, papers with discharge instructions declared the patient ready to go home. Walking towards the closed door into the bathroom, one of the goons craned his neck to listen. Assured that she was in there, he thumbed towards the door, gazing at the other man.
“She’s taking a shower,” he finally whispered.
“We’ll wait,” responded his cohort, while opening up his black doctor’s bag, placing it on the unmade bed.
Claire was taking a much needed steamy hot-shower. The surgeons said earlier the bullet missed all the important parts. Unfortunately, the slug had traumatized enough unimportant parts that her shoulder muscles throbbed in pain. Well, at least everything still works, she pondered, wincing as she slowly moved her left arm and shoulder. She experienced a lot of discomfort and agony.
“This too shall pass,” she stated convincingly, to no one in the bathroom. Slowly and gently, she would take her first shower. Alone. She was not about to have a nurse help her through it, as had been suggested by the medical staff.
The events of the last few days had been torturous and maximally stressing. Dense smog now emanated from the shower stall. The water stopped running and the shower door opened. Claire slowly grabbed a towel and put it around her wet body. She wiped the mist off the bathroom mirror and gave herself a reassuring wink. She opened the bathroom door causing dense vapor to escape into the hospital room. As she walked into the hospital room, she saw the two men dressed in scrubs.
“Good morning. Did somebody change their mind about letting me go home today?” she inquired perplexedly with a fake smile.
“No, nothing like that. We’re here to give you instructions,” said one of the men turning to his right, while the second one conspicuously went the other way.
“Well, I got all my instructions earlier from Dr. Watson,” Claire stated, now with a suspicious tone. She had not met these doctors before and something inside told her they were not who they appeared to be.
Rapidly, the second man advanced towards Claire without warning. In his hand, he cupped a small towel. A small bottle labeled Chloroform leaned on the doctor’s bag, on the bed. Before Claire could scream or the towel made contact with her nose, four undercover police officers forced the door open and entered the hospital room, guns drawn. One of the cops was detective Susan Quentin.
“Cuff them and read them their rights, boys,” she said authoritatively, winking at Claire.
One of the detectives holstered his weapon and approached one of the men in scrubs. With the speed of lightening, he grabbed the man’s hands, forced them behind his back and placed the handcuffs around them, a well-rehearsed practice. Another cop repeated the process, cuffing the other criminal.
A quick search of the criminals produced a syringe with a capped needle. Inside the doctor bag, a small nearly empty medicine bottle was labeled Potassium Chloride. All would be subsequently bagged and inventoried as evidence.
The police officers escorted the detainees out of the hospital room, one of them reading the Miranda rights: “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can, and will, be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
Claire was stupefied and stunned. Her heart pounded in her chest. When Susan came to her and hugged her tightly, she found the solace she needed at that moment. Claire broke down, and commenced to sob incessantly.
“It’s all over, now. It’s over. You’re okay,” repeated Susan assuringly, patting Claire gently on the back. Claire wept but remained motionless for a long moment, not sure of what to say. She hugged back, tears flowing onto Susan’s shoulder.
“What will happen now?” sobbed Claire, barely able to form words, dabbing, yet again, her tear-soaked eyes.
“We’ll take these two to police headquarters and interrogate them. We’ll get them to tell us who’s behind all this!”
“I want to go see him now,” said Claire tenderly, changing her tone.
“I’ll take you to him right now,” said Susan helping Claire walk. Slowly, they exited the hospital room.
*****
10:29 AM
The group of cops and the two criminals arrived downstairs. Multiple marked and unmarked police vehicles were parked in disarray, red and white emergency lights still revolving. Many other officers loitered the area.
“Good work, guys. Susan asked me to take these two to headquarters; you can go back to patrol. I’ll book them and start the interrogation.” Mike showed his FBI badge as he spoke. The officers helped place the two crooks inside the backseat of the unmarked car. Mike got in the driver’s side and drove off. The officers gathered around detailing the adrenalin-rich incident they just experienced to those unlucky enough to not have partaken.
“You assholes. You’re such imbeciles. Incompetent assholes!” yelled Mike once the car was far enough away from the crowded parking area. Once out of sight, he turned off his emergency light, previously stuck on the roof of the car. He brought it in and placed it on the front passenger seat. Mike was steaming mad. The assailants remained silent.
He drove ten minutes out of town and stopped the car on the side of the road.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he commanded the others.
“Mike, what are you going to do? Don’t be crazy, man. We can still fix this,” begged one of the men, obviously aware of Mike’s plans. The other soon realized it, too.
“Mike, don’t ruin everything, man. Give us a chance to fix everything. We can do it,” he pleaded.
Once out of the car, Mike pushed the two men down an embankment and into a heavily forested area. Realizing their fate, the two men started to run. Mike reached underneath his jacked and produced his weapon. Effortlessly, he fired double tap once, then again, in rapid succession.
He approached the fallen men. Each of the recently departed had two bullet holes, in close proximity, on their skulls, blood and brain matter spurting onto the mattress of fallen, yellow leaves of autumn. Unperturbed, Mike returned to his car and drove off.
*****
11:09 AM
Evansville Airport was quiet, which was not atypical for this time of day. Steve Peski sat with his feet up on his desk, reading the September issue of AOPA Pilot Magazine. An article on short runway landings caught his eye and he was now engrossed in its message. Not so engrossed that his heart didn’t skip a beat or two when the radio squawked ending the hush of the late lazy morning. Steve immediately stood up and monitored the conversation.
“Gulfstream, Four-two-tango-juliet, visual runway one-eight.”
“Four-two-tango-juliet, Evansville Tower, clear to land, one-eight,” responded the air traffic controller, authorizing a landing.
Gulfstream jets were exceptionally rare in Evansville, particular the G550, la crème de la crème. The expensive business jet was too rich for the small industry that abounded in the area. Steve knew exactly whom that plane was carrying. He hoped this didn’t mean trouble; trouble with a capital T. He searched in his top drawer for a business card and sat back down on his desk. He dialed, all the while spying outside his window, tracking the beautiful taxiing jet.
“Who’s this?” The woman’s voice shocked him. After a moment, he lowered his head, a somber look all over his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Another short pause ensued.
“He wanted me to notify him if the Gulfstream Jet ever returned to Evansville. And it just did.” Silence for a beat.
“Best of luck to you. I’ll keep you all in my prayers,” said Steve, sorrowfully.
Slowly, the FBO director walked outside to supervise his linemen as they serviced the newly arrived luxurious jet. Three of his best employees were on the job. The occupants of the jet had requested fuel, but no luggage needed to deplane. The stairs from the main exit of the jet were deployed and the two pilots descended onto the tarmac. They were dressed in their blue blazer pilot uniforms and caps. They nodded pleasantly as they walked by Steve who acknowledged them with a wave.