by Bill Yancey
Kayla squeezed her father around his waist. He seemed a lot more vigorous than he had earlier in the morning. “And I didn’t even have to threaten to call Mom! Are you still going to let me bring the Prius to school in the fall, so I don’t have to beg for rides?”
“As long as you can find a safe, cheap place to park it,” Wolfe said.
“I was thinking about leaving the dorm and sharing an apartment with some girls senior year.”
Wolfe’s face clouded briefly. “We’ll talk about it,” he said, using a tone Kayla knew usually meant no way in hell.
Not wanting to dwell on his negative thoughts, she gave him a peck on his cheek. “Okay, Pops. Call me if you want me to come home and cook you a real meal for supper. Love you.” And she was gone, across King Street and into the Flagler campus.
Wolfe brushed away a tear and turned to walk around the building to the entrance of Price’s barbershop. Mike gave him a quick trim and told him several jokes, but still couldn’t fix the bald spot in the back.
***
Wolfe ran his hand through his short haircut, just long enough to comb a part. He mulled over the fact that his wife would be upset. If she were home. She liked longer hair on him, although with his thinning gray hair, he thought every possible longer hairstyle looked like a comb-over. Sweating in a hot Florida summer made the look worse. He detested comb-overs and would rather have his tanned scalp show through the gray locks. Nice contrast.
None of the books in the hobby section of the bookstore excited his interest. Those on remote-controlled aircraft and drones attracted him momentarily until he read how the FAA had gotten involved in the sport.
Someone left that day’s St. Augustine Record in one of the cushioned chairs scattered around the bookstore. Picking up the paper, he scanned the headline he had seen at home, Attempted Murder at Flagler. Settling into the comfortable chair, Wolfe read the entire article.
The night before, a retired navy chief had succumbed from his maladies on the medical ward. No attempt had been made to resuscitate him. Apparently he and his family had decided against extreme life saving measures, although the article didn’t mention why. Probably HIPAA, Wolfe thought. In the old days, there would have been a paragraph or two on the man’s congestive heart failure, liver disease, or failed kidney transplant.
The nurse noted his passing in her log, but left the body in the bed for the morgue crew to process for the funeral home. When she returned to the room with the orderly from the morgue, they found a needle on a syringe, later noted to contain a concentrated solution of potassium, sticking into one of the patient’s intravenous ports. Attached to the pole holding the bag of intravenous solution was the note: This is for Jimmy Byrnes. A review of the security video showed a man slipping into and out of the dead man’s room, after his death. Police were searching for a person of interest. No name given. No picture of the person in the paper.
Wolfe turned to the obituaries in the back of the first section. The family hadn’t put a death notice in, yet. The article mentioned the dead man had been in his late seventies, so his career in the navy could have overlapped Wolfe’s brief sojourn on the high seas. That would also have made it contemporary with the Jimmy Byrnes that Wolfe had known on the Oriskany.
No one would be able to tell he had sat in the chair and read the paper. Wolfe folded it neatly and laid it in the chair. When he read the funnies as a boy, his father had been insistent that he return newspapers to their original folded, neat order. That way the next reader, usually his father, could find the sections he wanted. The habit had followed Wolfe for a lifetime. His insistence that Jennifer, Kayla’s mother, follow the same routine was but one more irritant in their marriage.
Empty-handed, Wolfe left the bookstore. When he returned to the van a light bulb went off in his head: The Chief would know about Jimmy Byrnes.
Chief Noble had been an ABH-2 – aviation boatswains mate petty officer second-class – in the V-3 Hangar Deck Division on Oriskany when Wolfe had been an airman. During Wolfe’s internship in Jacksonville, he had had to drive his roommate and fellow intern, Iggy Harrison, to the VW dealership to pick up his car one Saturday morning. And who should present Iggy with his bill but retired USN Chief Noble.
It had taken Wolfe a minute to recognize the black ex-sailor, dressed in blue trousers and white shirt with the VW logo on it. Noble wasn’t convinced of who Wolfe was until they had gotten together briefly for a beer later that week. Although they didn’t see much of each other during Wolfe’s internship, they kept in touch more often after Wolfe returned to St. Augustine to work at the After Hours urgent cares.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” Noble’s voice boomed through the glass storm door, over the sound of barking dogs. “Oh, my God, look who has come calling,” Noble said. He pushed the glass door open. The three pit bull mixes wagged their tails and barked, then climbed on Wolfe and tried to lick his face. He entered Noble’s home on Lincoln Street, in the Lincolnville historic section of old St. Augustine.
“Hey, Chief,” Wolfe said, shaking the older man’s right hand with both of his. “I was up the street getting a haircut. Thought I’d drop in for a visit. I would have called first, but my cell phone is at home charging.”
“I hate those things,” Noble said, referring to cell phones. “No one ever drops in unannounced any more. They always call first. When you get to be my age, you’ll like surprises. I do.”
“Surprise!” Wolfe shouted, spreading his hands out wide. The outburst started the dogs barking again. They quickly quieted down.
“Come in. Come in. Have a seat here in the living room. You look good, Doc. Retirement must be going well for you,” Noble said. He ushered Wolfe into the living room, filled by two recliners and a large flat screen television. “Sit in my wife’s chair. She’s over at Bethel Baptist. Women’s meeting, you know. Want a drink? Iced tea? Lemonade?”
Wolfe smiled, remembering a younger Noble as a hard-charging, heavy-drinking man. He teased the retired chief, saying, “That’s it? No liquor. Not even a beer?”
Noble shook his head. “Lord, no,” he said and laughed, shaking his head. “The doctor mentioned once that alcohol wasn’t good for my gout or my liver. Daloris cleaned out the liquor locker that day. I can’t get a drink from any of my neighbors, either. I think she told everyone in Lincolnville. They won’t even let me in any of the bars downtown.”
“She must love you a lot,” Wolfe said. “I’ll take a half lemonade/half iced tea, if the iced tea is sweet. But only if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” the older man said, turning to go to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of pale iced tea and handed it to Wolfe. “So what really brings you to Lincolnville?”
“Did you read the paper this morning?” Wolfe asked.
“Well, I read some of the online version. My grandson set it up on the computer for me.”
“See the article about the attempted murder at Flagler Hospital?”
“Don’t believe I did,” Noble said, scratching his unshaved chin.
Wolfe told Noble about the article. He ended his dissertation with, “Could the note be referring to our Jimmy Byrnes?”
Noble leaned back in his chair. “You don’t know about Jimmy?”
“Know what?” Wolfe said.
“He’s long dead. Navy said it was suicide.”
“When?”
“Our cruise, yours and mine on Oriskany. Last day on the line. He didn’t show up for work. Why don’t you remember this? We mustered the entire crew, many of them on the hangar deck. Counted noses. The marine detail and the chiefs checked every compartment. No trace of him. The last time anyone had seen him was during the fire the night before.”
“Big fire? I wasn’t on the ship then,” Wolfe reminded Noble. “Got a ride in a helo to the Ranger. You guys went home. I stayed for another cruise. Remember?”
Noble cocked his head, examining Wolfe carefully. “Maybe. Small electrical fire in a tractor
. Anyway, we turned the ship around and went back to where it had been the night before when the tractor caught fire. It’s a huge ocean, Doc. No trace of him there, either. The destroyers stayed for two more days searching. Someone said we even radioed the Russian trawler that tailed us to see if they had found him. Nothing.”
“So the navy gave up and decided he committed suicide by jumping overboard?” Wolfe asked. “No investigation into foul play? You know he didn’t have many friends, especially in the supply divisions. I remember he caught that asshole, Deke Jameson, red-handed stealing dungarees from our laundry. Went to Captain’s Mast and testified against him, too, even though they threatened him. Several other witnesses refused to show up. Got the jerk a month in the brig and the captain busted him from second-class to seaman.”
“Yeah,” Noble said, pausing to search his memory, “And if I remember, S1-S7 had it in for Byrnes from then on. His pay was always screwed up. His laundry slashed. They messed with his chow. One of the barbers even purposely screwed up his haircut. Chief Powell and I went down to the barbershop and stood there while the supply chief trimmed Byrnes’s hair to fix the damage. As best as it could be fixed. Took a month to grow out.”
Wolfe smiled. “I remember Rocky used to complain about how long Byrnes’s hair was.”
“There was one crazy son of a bitch. Our beloved V-3 Hangar Deck Division Officer, Rocky the Flying Squirrel. He had wings, but the navy wouldn’t let him near an aircraft, except as a passenger,” Noble laughed. “Every time he’d tell Byrnes to get a haircut, we had to remind him that Byrnes had to see a civilian barber at the next port of call to keep him away from the ship’s barbers.”
After an hour of reminiscing, the two old salts had brought each other up to date since their last pow-wow. Wolfe stood, holding his hand out to Noble, signaling his intention to leave. “Stay for lunch?” Noble asked.
“No thanks, Chief. Got some things I need to do,” Wolfe said.
“You sure? The wife will be home soon. If you’re here, she’ll be less of a bother. If not, I’ll have to leave for a while,” Noble pleaded.
“Why, Chief, don’t you get along with your wife?” Wolfe teased.
“Oh, I love my wife,” Noble said. “Unfortunately, she missed me a lot while I was at sea and working for Volkswagen. Since I retired, she has made me her hobby. She wants me to go everywhere with her. She accompanies me to doctor appointments. I can’t take a walk to the library without her wanting to come with me. She’s smothering me!”
“Yoo-hoo, I’m home,” Daloris called. The dogs had known better than to bark at her. She entered the room, wide grin on her face. She wore a red dress and hat, and she peeled off a pair of long white gloves as she walked. “Oh, you have company. Doctor Wolfe. So glad to see you again.”
“Hello, Daloris,” Wolfe said, putting his arm around her shoulders and leaning forward so she could give him a light kiss on the cheek. “You look all dolled up. Fashion show at the church?”
Daloris smiled coyly. “Why, thank you, Addy. Will you stay for lunch?”
“I asked him the same thing,” Noble said, following Wolfe to the front door. The dogs sat, tails wagging, waiting for a chance to bark. One harsh look from Daloris and all three lay their heads down quietly.
“I’m sorry, Daloris. I’ve been gone from home all morning,” Wolfe said. “I’ve got some things to do that I can’t put off.”
“Well, you say hello to Jennifer, Kayla Anne, and Junior for me, Okay?”
“Will do,” Wolfe said.
CHAPTER 4
Vehicles filled the parking lot in front of the Flagler Hospital emergency room and all other lots surrounding the hospital also. Wolfe thought about parking in the physician’s parking lot, but decided having to prove he was a retired doctor to the security guard would take more time than finding a spot in the last row. Besides, he wasn’t there on hospital business and he no longer had an active pass card.
Entering the high-ceilinged foyer that led to the patient tower and the ER, Wolfe strode to the desk manned by an elderly woman wearing a pinkish jacket. She owned a wide smile and white false teeth too large for her mouth. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Does Luther Gundersen still work here?” Wolfe asked. Gundersen had been an ER doc who started After Hours urgent care with his partner, Francis Cordiano. There had been some irregularities in the billing by the After Hours corporation, ending with Cordiano going to jail for tax evasion, the breakup of the business, and the eventual divorce of Gundersen and his fourth wife. She got one of the clinics, the one Wolfe had worked in. Gundersen eventually lost his license. Flagler hired him as a marketing agent. He knew how to do that, in spades.
The volunteer flipped through the hospital directory on the computer screen. “Oh, here he is,” she said. “He’s in the Anderson Gibbs building in the administration suite. Should I call him? Whom shall I say is looking for him?”
“I’m Dr. Wolfe. I haven’t seen Luther in a long time. I’d like to surprise him. How do I get to his office?”
“Go to your right, walk past the elevators, through those glass doors,” she said. “Then go through the central building. Cross the patient drop off in front of the cafeteria and Anderson Gibbs is on the left.
“Thanks.”
The door to Anderson Gibbs opened to mild chaos. Workmen moved ladders and sheetrock. A power saw cut steel 2 x 4s. Someone hammered in the background, while a power drill screamed off to Wolfe’s left. Dust floated through the air. Wolfe smelled wood burning and gypsum. Gundersen stood inside the door with his hand out to Wolfe. “Addison,” he said, “good of you to stop by.” He beckoned Wolfe to follow and strode out the door. “Much too noisy in there to talk.”
The door closed slowly, pinching off the racket completely. “Did you know I was coming?” Wolfe asked.
“The volunteers are required to phone us when someone asks about any of the executive staff by name,” Gundersen said. “We haven’t had any violent incidents yet, but you never know when an angry family member or jealous husband might show up. We’ve had security stop several people over the past two years. One psyche patient thought he was a terrorist.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I visit,” Wolfe said smiling. He followed Gundersen to the cafeteria. “Next time I won’t stop at the desk and ask directions.”
Gundersen shrugged. He said, “Won’t matter. Without the proper pass, you won’t be able to get into the executive suite. And if you tailgate someone through the door, you will still have to pass through the metal detector and the scrutiny of the security team. That’s what they are building.”
“Why?”
“Homeland Security suspects all hospitals are potential targets. In general, we are undefended. Vulnerable. Besides they gave us a lot of money to do it. I got a new office out of it,” Gundersen said, wicked grin on his face. “Of course, it went with a promotion.”
“You must be doing well,” Wolfe said.
Gundersen opened a door in the rear of the cafeteria. The two men stepped into the executive dining room, used by the physicians and administrators. “We’ll talk over lunch. I assume that’s why you came at this time of day?”
“I need to get out of the house more often,” Wolfe said. “This is the second invitation to lunch I’ve had today. Thanks. I am hungry. I’ll join you, if I can pay my own way.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Addison, but the meals are free for us, the docs, and the guests we bring.”
Wolfe shrugged, “Guess I can’t fight city hall.”
After working their way through the cafeteria line, and finding a seat at a far table in front of an enormous window, the two men sat. They enjoyed the view of the Matanzas River, Old St. Augustine, and the Flagler Campus. For about thirty minutes they rehashed the demise of After Hours, the rise of Healing Arts in one of its proposed locations, and the unsolved disappearance of Sarafea Seville. For fifteen of those minutes Gundersen outlined his non-medical career and
rise to glory as marketing director, and his most recent promotion.
Wolfe listened with one ear, watching as patrons finished eating and departed, thinning the number of possible eavesdroppers. When at last the two were alone, Gundersen finished eating while Wolfe filled him in on how boring retirement was. Gundersen checked his watch and started to stand as Wolfe finished his monologue with how the older twins and his two younger kids were doing. Gundersen never had a feel for kids, just wives.
“Got to go, Addison. Even a star like me has to earn his living,” Gundersen said as he started to rise.
“Before you go,” Wolfe said. “Tell me about the attempted murder.”
Gundersen sat down again quickly. He looked over his shoulder, and answered curtly, “Can’t discuss it,” he said.
“Do you know who can?”
“Nobody. CEO said it’s a dismissal offense for anyone caught talking to the media.”
“I’m not media,” Wolfe said.
“Do you have a personal interest in the case?” Gundersen asked.
Wolfe explained the possible connection. “I want to find out if this is related to the Jimmy Byrnes I knew.”
“Why? That’s what, forty some years ago?”
“About that long, 1967. He was a good friend. I recently found out he is dead. For me, it’s as if his death recently happened. I’d like to know if he’s the guy in the note. If not, I know all I need to know,” Wolfe said.
“Well, what if he is your buddy from the navy? What then?” Gundersen asked.
“Don’t know. Maybe when the police find their person of interest, they’ll let me talk with him to see what he knows. There’s a chance Jimmy was murdered. I don’t remember him as having a fatalistic or suicidal personality.”
Gundersen again scanned the room for eavesdroppers. He scooted his chair nearer to Wolfe. Both hands clasped together on the table, he leaned closer to the retired physician and whispered. “A resident from Shands Hospital in Jacksonville was on the ward that night. He’s doing a community medicine rotation here in Flagler this month. The dead man was one of his long-term patients. I’d assume he knows more about the dead man than anyone else in this hospital. And the CEO can’t fire him.”