No Cure for Murder

by Lawrence Gold

  He blanched. “You don’t know what it’s like. To have urges you can’t control. Do you think I like being this way?”

  “You and your type...you mystify me and I don’t mystify easily. It takes a particular kind of denial to make that extreme form of rationalization work.”

  “I never forced myself on anyone. I’m no rapist. I loved those girls, each and every one. They had problems. They needed my help.”

  “Isn’t that step number three in the pedophile’s defense manual..the step after denial and minimization?”

  The chaplain rose, and through clenched teeth growled, “You can’t prove a thing. I’m sick of you and that senile husband of yours. I’ll discuss this with Kelly’s parents. They’re in charge, not you.”

  “If you’re stupid enough to try to talk with Mr. Cowan, make sure you’re wearing a bullet proof vest.”

  Lola stood, walked to the door. “I’m a licensed health professional and I have an absolute duty to report any information I have about child abuse. If I were you, chaplain, I’d pack my bags.”

  Sharon Brickman, the director of the CCU, and Kate Planchette sat at the nursing station.

  Kate watched Ahmad Kadir walked away from the cardiac step-down unit. “I don’t like the way he skulks around, Sharon. He often appears in places he doesn’t belong.”

  “He’s a resident, Kate, and part of his training is to review charts and examine as many patients as he can.”

  “I never thought of myself as a bigot, but like most others, I find it difficult to look at any Arab man without thinking, could he be a terrorist or a terrorist sympathizer. I’m not proud of that.”

  “Believe me, I know all about it. Ahmad has taken plenty of crap right here at Brier…probably more than you or I could take. Some idiot attacked him for no other reason than his appearance.”

  “It’s more than that,” Kate continued. “Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s a byproduct of discrimination, but the guy creeps me out.”

  “Is that a technical term?”

  “I’m a good nurse, Sharon, and in part, it’s because I read my patients well. Body language reveals truth more often than you’d think. Dr. Kadir’s body language says, watch out. It says that this is an angry, secretive, oppressed man, just the sort who comprises the suicide bombers in the middle east.”

  “I feel sorry for him. He’s tried so hard to fit in, but if anything, he’s shown nothing but restraint.”

  “I worry less about those whose emotions are overt. I may be reading between his shifty eyes, folded arms, turning of his body away, and touching of his face, but the message I’m getting is clear: Nothing is as it seems. Beware.”

  “Maybe that’s how we’d react if we didn’t feel accepted in a foreign country or worse, when we’re reviled.”

  “Maybe so, Sharon, but my impressions of a person are rarely wrong, and I’m not about to ignore them.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Zoe carried her lunch tray to the doctor’s dining room table nearest the window. She wore a white coat over her yellow sundress.

  As she placed her tray down on the table, Arnie Roth smiled. “I’d go your bail any time, Zoe. Just call.”

  She smiled seductively. “Right Arnie. All talk and no action.”

  “Handcuffs?” asked Jack Byrnes.

  Zoe brushed back her hair. “Won’t you guys ever get over your adolescent fantasies?”

  Just then, Jacob arrived and pulled up the seat next to Zoe. He placed his cup of black coffee next to his brown bag lunch.

  “Aren’t you tired of a sandwich and coffee every day?” asked Arnie.

  “Don’t forget the apple,” said Jacob. “Got to have one every day, although looking around it doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “What’s it like Jacob to be working with a felon?” asked Jack.

  “It’s not the felon that’s the problem. It’s the rest of you who are free to inflict misery on others. That worries me.” Suddenly serious, Jacob looked around the table. “Think about it. This is what we’ve come to. We’ve reached the point of desperation where any one of us is suspect.”

  “He’ll stop,” said Arnie, “or he’ll get caught.”

  “He?” Jacob asked. “Maybe you know something we don’t.”

  “You got me,” said Arnie. “I have a hard time thinking about women in that way ...maybe it’s a good thing I’m not a cop.”

  When Sarah Hughes arrived for her session, Lola stood. “It’s too nice to sit around inside. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Sarah held on for dear life, smiling all the while, as Lola sped east in her red Honda with the top down. They passed through the Berkeley streets, then on to Interstate 880 heading south. They exited at Marina Boulevard in San Leandro, and finally parked at the boat basin.

  They walked past the marina gates and the hundreds of boats of all types. When they reached the tip of land forming the port side entrance to the marina channel, they sat on a wooden bench facing west. They had a perfect view of arrivals and departures from the San Francisco International Airport.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I love it out here, especially the smell.”

  “Jacob and I sailed the bay for years until these damned arthritic hands made it too painful.”

  As Lola stared across the bay, Sarah had the sense that the trip and the setting were for a specific purpose.

  Lola faced Sarah, holding her hands.

  “What is it, Lola?”

  “I must tell you something, and I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

  “It’s not about you, is it? You’re not sick or something?”

  Lola smiled, then caressed Sarah’s cheek. “That’s sweet, no, I’m fine. You just reminded me why I keep working. It’s people like you.” Lola hesitated. “You’ve heard of the Dalai Lama?”

  “Of course, but I really don’t know much about him except for respect he’s earned.”

  “Remind me to give you a copy of his Instructions for Life, his simple yet elegant way of stating the profound. One other thing he said was: Our prime purpose in life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

  Sarah stared at Lola. “Please. I’m stronger than you think.”

  “The bloody doll. The phone calls and the emails...they weren’t from our good friend the chaplain. They came from Kelly Cowan.”

  Lola watched as Sarah leaned forward covering her face with both hands.

  After nearly a minute, Lola asked, “Are you okay?”

  Sarah lowered her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I understand, but Lola, that’s not Kelly Cowan...that’s Carleton Dix.”

  “Kelly wants to see you. She wants to explain...to apologize. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. I don’t know why, but I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed, well maybe a little, but mostly, it’s sad...just so sad.”

  “Exactly! Let me quote from The Instructions for Life. For Jacob and me, it’s particularly poignant. The Dalai Lama said: Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and look back, you’ll be able to enjoy it a second time.”

  When Lola and Sarah entered Kelly’s room, they found her sitting by the window, staring at the garden below. She turned to meet her visitors with her shoulders rolled forward and her arms folded across her chest.

  Sarah put her arm around her friend. “I understand. It’s okay.”

  Kelly started to weep, then grasped Sarah’s waist. “I’m so sorry, Sarah...how can I ever explain?”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I understand.”

  “I just wanted to protect him. I loved him. He said, he loved me too. How could I be so stupid?”

  Lola stood. “I’ll see you later,” she said, approaching the door. “You’ll be fine, both of you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It can’t go on this way, Tommy Wells thought.

  He felt like a fugitive newly ensnared in the witness protection program. Unable to control hi
s anxiety, he searched the eyes of those he encountered at the hospital for any sign of recognition that they were on to him.

  I’ve got to do something and do it fast.

  Tommy approached the fifth floor evening ward clerk. “I’m going to need a few more blood culture bottles. I have to draw Mrs. Colbert in 545.”

  “How many?”

  “Two more.”

  “Visiting hours are now over,” announced the PA system.

  She headed into the medication room refrigerator and emerged with the tiny bottles partially filled with red fluid.

  Tommy wheeled his laboratory cart through the now quiet hallway to room 545.

  “Hey, Mrs. Colbert,” said Tommy. “Got to get more blood cultures.”

  Leona Colbert was seventy-eight and had early Alzheimer’s. “I’m not going to have any blood left,” she complained. She looked up at Tommy. “I have bad veins.” Her eyes filled. “Tommy, please don’t hurt me.”

  “Fortunately, you have plenty of veins, and no, this won’t hurt a bit.”

  Tommy exposed her left arm, felt for a vein in the fold, then painted the area with an iodine solution. He attached a syringe containing 25 mg of Demerol to a length of clear tubing ending in a butterfly needle. He pulled back, obtained a flush of dark venous blood, then injected the Demerol.

  In seconds, she was unconscious. “That should take care of it. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Tommy chose this room because it was distant from the stairwell. He opened the door to the stairs, saw the fire alarm and pulled it down. He was halfway back down the corridor, standing in the doorway of 545 when the loudspeaker blared, “Mr. Red report to stairwell 5B.”

  When the nurses and ward clerk passed by, he walked rapidly toward the nurse’s station and the medication room. It took but a moment to insert the key to his problems into the cabinet lock. He scooped the vials of morphine, Demerol, the containers of Oxycontin into his small Nike bag, and in less than thirty seconds, he was on his way back to 545.

  Tommy was trembling and sweating profusely as he reentered Leona’s room. He placed the Nike bag in the wire basket of his cart, returned to Leona and grabbed the syringe to complete drawing his blood cultures.

  Suddenly, the door to Leona’s bathroom opened and Tommy heard the strong male voice, “Step back from the bed and raise your hands.”

  Tommy’s heart sank, and before he could utter a word, a huge uniformed policeman cuffed his hands behind him. Shelly Kahn and the night nursing supervisor exited the bathroom.

  The nurse shook the unconscious Leona Colbert. “What did you give her?”

  Tommy remained silent.

  Shelly Kahn unzipped the Nike bag and spilled its contents onto the bed. “If you think you’re in trouble now, you have no idea how bad it will get if something happens to this woman. What did you give her, damn it?”

  “I’d like to talk with my lawyer.”

  “How many more are you going to kill?” Shelly wailed.

  The image exploded in Tommy’s head...how many more?

  “Are you out of your fucking minds? You aren’t going to blame them things on me.” He hesitated, then continued, “It was Demerol, 25 milligrams. Just enough for a nice little nap.”

  Shelly nodded to the officer. “You have the right to remain silent...”

  “I don’t understand what the whole fuss is about,” said Leona Colbert the next morning. “Last night I had the best sleep in twenty years.”

  The following morning headlines said it all:

  Oakland Tribune,

  Informed sources at the Berkeley Police Department disclosed the arrest of one Thomas Wells.

  Mr. Wells, a laboratory technician, was taken into custody last night in possession of controlled substances that he allegedly removed from the hospital’s narcotic cabinet.

  Sources say Mr. Wells admitted giving a patient a potent narcotic for reasons open to speculation.

  With the recent murders at Brier Hospital, authorities will be looking at Mr. Wells’s activities in a new light.

  That same morning, Shelly sat with Ira Green. “Great work, Shelly.”

  “Thanks chief.”

  “What put you on to him?”

  “We knew he was dealing drugs. Heard it from one of his best customers looking for a deal. The other part...the murders, that was just good luck.”

  “Good luck usually means hard work. Are you sure this is our guy?”

  “Wells was on our radar screen as a disgruntled employee. The staff had reported him on several occasions for inappropriate behavior, including being at the wrong place at the wrong time, especially the medication room. That part of it fits, but the others, the murders...I’m not so sure. He’s a small time hustler for sure, but multiple murders?”

  “I don’t see how we can avoid the obvious, Shelly. He gave Demerol to a patient. He was all over the hospital and had free access to the patients drugged or killed. Have you checked his time cards and do they match with the killings?”

  “They do, chief, but something doesn’t feel right about the whole thing.”

  “It’s enough for Kevin Walters, the DA. He’s drawing up the indictments even as we speak.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  I toss in bed, unable to sleep...a guilty conscience...I think not.

  I hate to be so tired yet unable to sleep. The last thing I remember are the red numerals, the LEDs of my alarm clock...

  Looking down, the air rises and lifts the flying form...a glider first, and then the transformation into an eagle caught in the updraft. The yellow-orange dome shines below as the specter arrives on the dais. Turning the pages of the ancient tome on the lectern, the words remains a blur.

  The specter turns to the sound of shuffling feet and sees the black shadow passing between the fluted columns then through the heavy wooden door. The floor shakes as it slams. The intruder pulls on the rusted cast iron handle but the door is frozen. The sunlight, streaming through the curved-linteled window near the ceiling, blazes on the tight white coat and bloody hand prints.

  The visitor tries to run but manages only slow motion through the thick black mud that gradually chokes movement as the descent into the quicksand begins. The specter struggles in despair, gasps for life’s air but can’t escape hell’s traction.

  I scream and awaken in a drenching sweat, my pulse racing.

  Harry Rodman’s progress under Jacob’s relentless rehabilitation regimen was remarkable.

  Just as Jacob entered the room at the Skilled Nursing Facility, Harry was beaming as he slammed his cards down. “Gin.”

  “This is your fault,” she said standing to embrace Jacob. “He’s beating me a third of the time.”

  “At least half,” said Harry.

  “I want to send you home, Harry, but before I do, I’m getting a series of psychological tests to see where you are.”

  Harry smiled. “I’m in Brier SNF.”

  “How close are you to your old self?” asked Jacob.

  “Ask her.”

  Jacob turned to Phyllis and nodded.

  “When you consider what he’s been through...that has to have some effect but I think he’s as good as ever, maybe a little better.”

  “Better? What was wrong with the old me?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart. You were perfect.”

  “No, really,” Jacob asked. “How so?”

  “He’s more easy going. Things don’t trouble him like they did. It’s not like any of those things bothered me before, he’s just easier on himself now.”

  “The psychological effects of a near death experience have been studied,” said Jacob. “You have avoided the bad one, like post traumatic stress disorder and suffered...no learned is a better term, what’s important in life.”

  “I hate the term near death,” said Phyllis. “Are the police any closer to discovering who did this?”

  “They arrested Tommy Wells.”

  “Tommy?” said Harry. “He was here..
.I mean he was with me that night, doing clotting times. What does Tommy have against me?”

  Jacob shook his head. “It wasn’t you, Harry. It may have been me.”

  “What does he have against you, Jacob?” asked Phyllis.

  Jacob remembered Tommy’s words, fucking kike, but said, “God knows.”

  Byron sat across from Zoe at their dining room table. “Please. We can’t go on this way.”

  “That’s why I asked you over. In spite of everything, I miss you, and I miss our lives together.”

  “I love you, Zoe. I’d never do anything to put that in jeopardy...you must believe me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I can’t have you believing something that isn’t true.”

  “Byron. I said that I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe I was wrong. Let’s just leave it at that. Okay?”

  It’s not okay, he thought, but at least it’s a start.

  “When can you move back?”