by Ray Flynt
I woke to a stuttered snore from the bed next to mine. It took a moment till I remembered where I was and what I was doing.
Correction: What the hell was I doing there?
The wall clock in the hospital room showed 9:55, and daylight through the window meant I’d only dozed about ten minutes since Brad left for Oncology—unless I’d managed to pull a mini Rip Van Winkle and slept for more than twenty-four hours. I felt like I could.
Another pig-worthy snort pierced the air. At least while sleeping Mrs. Baker’s not babbling on about witches!
I hit the button to elevate my bed, and the motor buzzed into action hoisting my knees as well as my back. I studied the control to figure out how to lower the foot end of the bed, saving myself from being folded in half. The room was chilly, and I pulled the blankets up tighter around my neck, which added fresh meaning to undercover work.
I picked up the Styrofoam coffee cup from the tray in front of me, and saw that it was empty. I eyed the unopened cranberry juice container and debated whether to drink it in spite of the fact that I hate cranberry juice.
Nurse Keith Blanton appeared in the doorway, sporting a toothy grin. “Good morning, Ms. Porter,” he said, with lots of emphasis on the zzzz’s in Ms. His slippery demeanor turned me off. He was guilty of something that’s for sure. The details of the case emerged in my mind. He killed those transplant patients; I just knew it. Now I had to figure out how and why.
“Mornin’,” I said, with little enthusiasm.
He rolled a small cart, with a wire mesh basket mounted on top, closer to the bed. “I need to take your vital signs,” he said. “But let me check your ID tag first.”
I extended my left arm, fist clenched, and he inspected the plastic bracelet. He held my hand a few seconds longer than I thought necessary, till I finally jerked my arm back, and he flashed a fake smile. Time to tell him about my black belt in tae kwon do? From the basket, Blanton withdrew a rectangular device about twice the size of a cell phone, and from it stretched a wand to swipe my forehead.
He stared at a small screen on the instrument. “Ninety-eight four,” he announced, like the score of a lopsided NBA game.
He pushed open the drapes at the window, which made the room instantly colder, but I appreciated seeing a little daylight. From the wall behind me he retrieved a blood pressure cuff, wrapped it around my arm, and pumped air into it—a little too vigorously. “Ouch,” I protested.
“Only another minute.”
He listened at my elbow with the stethoscope, then removed the now deflated cuff. “You’re pressure is elevated. Someone got you excited this morning?” Then he scratched his crotch.
What a pompous, ignorant, self-centered son-of-a-bitch.
I scowled. “If you want to be helpful, I could use another cup of coffee.”
“Really?” This time he made no effort to smile. He lifted the plastic cover off my breakfast plate revealing the cheddar-laced scrambled eggs, buttered English muffin, and hash browns I‘d refused to eat earlier. The stale greasy odor made me want to gag. “Maybe if you’re a good girl and eat your breakfast, we’ll get you more coffee.” Good girl? Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear. “On second thought, we’re a little short-staffed right now. I know who you are Ms. Porter, and that you’re spying on us. You can get your own flipping cup of coffee.”
I contemplated grabbing him by the balls, but then I’d only risk ruining my new manicure.
I located the call bell, on the remote control and pressed the button.
Moments later the wall speaker crackled to life behind my bed. I recognized Crystal Himes’ voice.
“I’d like to file a complaint against one of the nursing staff,” I said, as Keith Blanton straightened up and replaced the food cover on the breakfast tray. The color drained from his cheeks, and his eyes widened, as if to say I-can’t-believe-you’re-doing-this. “His name tag says, Blanton,” I continued, “that’s B-L-A-N-T-O-N. He’s in my room right now.”
Seconds later I heard Crystal’s voice over the public address system in the hallway. “Nurse Blanton, please report to the nurses’ station. Blanton to the nurses’ station, stat.”
He grabbed his portable basket of testing equipment, and the last thing I saw was Blanton’s ass-end scurry through the door.
Then, clear as a bell, I heard my roommate say, “He’s a jerk.” She at least got that right.
God, I’d managed to rid myself of one monster, and now the possessed woman next to me had sprung to life. Maybe I hadn’t woken from the nap Brad suggested I take, and this was all a rude nightmare, like an outtake from Friday the 13th - Episode 19. I pinched myself, but already knew the answer. Ouch. Damn.
I pushed back the tray table, the sheet and blankets, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. I reached for a pair of no-slip socks, with boomerang shaped rubber strips embedded into the bottoms. These had been provided along with my courtesy kit of tissue, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash and a comb. I pulled the socks over my bare feet and stood next to the bed, then made a mad dash to the bathroom, carrying the toiletries with me. “Could you help me with…” I heard my roommate say, but I was a moving target and quickly closed the bathroom door behind me.
At the sink I brushed my teeth, gargled with the mouthwash and ran a comb through my messy hair, all the while contemplating the mystery of the transplant deaths on the seventh floor. I gazed at myself in the mirror. Thank God Jeff couldn’t see me in my fetching hospital gown; even with the bra I wore under it, the gown stole my shape, and with it any sex appeal I might have had. Maybe fresh lipstick would help. Damn, my lipstick is in the locker on the other side of my bed.
I couldn’t face the derision from wearing the robe Iola had loaned me. In a nod to modesty, I double-checked that the strings connecting the back of the gown were securely tied. After using the toilet, I prepared to flush, but I knew the sound would alert my roommate of my impending return. So I figured I’d flush, throw open the door, drop the toiletries on my bed, and make a mad dash for the hallway. In my sophomore year in college, I’d managed to set a record of 13.5 seconds in the 100-meter sprint. Though fourteen years had gone by since, I had every confidence in my ability to escape the room and my loony roommate.
Deep breath. Three. Two. One. I executed my plan. I should have left the toiletries in the bathroom and headed straight for the exit. No sooner had I rounded her bed, dropped the stuff on mine, than the shrill sound of a whistle stopped me in my tracks.
Mrs. Baker took the whistle from her mouth and said, “Good. Now you can help me.”
Pennsylvania still had the death penalty for murder, or I might have been tempted to commit a homicide.
Resigned to my fate, I said. “What do you need?”
She pointed the remote control in my direction. “Can you find the Maury Show?
Maury. I should have guessed.
I snatched the control, and turned on the TV. “Do you know what station?”
“NBC, maybe.”
Channel 10, I thought, and surfed till I spotted the rainbow-colored peacock logo on the bottom of a screen showing a commercial. “Let’s try this one, Mrs. Baker.” I laid the remote on her bed, and then turned to make good my escape, but Crystal Himes’ considerable frame filled the doorway.
The head nurse gave me a sharp stare. “Who blew a whistle?”
Before I could point to the culprit, my roommate fessed up. “I did.”
Crystal strode alongside her bed, and stuck out her hand. “Give it to me.”
Mrs. Baker shook her head. “No. There are people prowling the hallways, and I need it for my protection.” How could a woman who sounded so lucid be so daft? She continued, “Like the witch lady.”
Crystal’s jaw dropped and she looked at me as if to plead for help. I’d noticed at least two patients slowing as they walked past our room to check out the commotion. And I wasn’t getting my job done as long as Nurse Himes and Mrs. Baker were at an impasse.
&n
bsp; I rubbed my hands together and marched over to Mrs. Baker’s bed. “I think we could both use protection here in this room. How about… in the interest of compromise,” I stretched out the pronunciation of the word, “and to help the nice nurse, we keep the whistle in my tray table?” I talked with the seventy-five-year-old-plus patient like she was a third grader. “I can use the whistle for my protection too!” That’ll be the day.
Maury Povich’s voice filled the room. “We’re back. Ramon is about to find out the results of the paternity test on his girlfriend Amber’s four-month-old daughter. Ramon claims that the baby can’t be his because he always used a condom when they had sex, and accuses Amber of sleeping around…” Watching daytime television would drive me to drink, but Mrs. Baker’s eyes-widened in an almost catatonic stare at the TV screen, and she increased the volume. A moment later she dropped the whistle on the bed, which I captured and deposited, as promised, in my tray table.
“Thank you, Sharon,” Crystal said, as she headed for the door. I managed to tear myself away from the intriguing story of Amber’s baby and followed Crystal into the hallway.
Once more I prowled the halls seeing if there was anything I had missed during my overnight trips. My room, #704, was close to the elevators, which were across from the nurses’ station. Whoever designed the hospital put the elevators at the intersection of the West and North wings, so that an arriving visitor had an excellent vista down either hallway. The nurses, on the other hand, had a great view of the elevator doors.
I stood directly in front of the nurses’ station and gazed down each hallway. To the west a lone patient crept along using a walker to support herself. To the south I spotted Nurse Iola T. roll her instrument cart into a room midway down the hall. Behind the counter at the workstation I could see the top of Crystal Himes’ blonde hair, and beyond her “Jerk” Blanton sat with his back toward me staring at a computer monitor. Both seemed oblivious to my presence. Nurse Pedro Paez’s whereabouts were unknown. Maybe he was catching a few zzz’s.
A male patient emerged from a room in the North hall, and padded down the terrazzo floor in the direction of the sunroom. Even though I knew there were eighteen rooms along each hallway, it was difficult to tell—especially toward the end of the corridor—from precisely which room a patient had exited. I knew that at least two of the murders had taken place in rooms at the end of the hall, as well as the attempted murder of Dennis Ayers.
From what I’d observed, if Keith Blanton—or anyone else—wanted to murder a patient, he could pretty much operate in plain sight. How the murders were committed were less important than why.
The two nurses at the station still seemed unaware of my presence just a few feet away. Too bad I didn’t have Mrs. Baker’s whistle to test their reaction. I smiled. That’d get Brad and me thrown out for sure. I’d had enough of hospital odors and routines, and was eager to check out.
“Hope you’re doing okay,” I said, to the top of Crystal’s head. “I know it’s been a long night.”
“We’re hanging in here.” Crystal peered over the counter, and I got a glimpse of bloodshot eyes that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
Blanton turned briefly, harrumphed at my presence, and flashed me a scowl.
The lights flickered then went off. It surprised me how dark the hallway got even in the daytime, and with the emergency lights operating.
Crystal groaned.
“Oh shit,” Blanton said, “now I’ll have to redo these charts.” Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. A minute later the electricity came back on.
After a friendly wave goodbye, I walked toward the sunroom at the end of the west corridor, passing my room along the way. Just before the sunroom was a frosted glass door above which hung a lighted EXIT sign. Even though I was sure it would look like every other set of stairs I’d seen in my life, I pushed my way through the door and gazed at—contemplated really—the flights of stairs that ascended and descended from the 7th floor. The killer could have arrived or departed by means of the stairs and escaped notice. Nursing staff from adjacent floors could be suspects too, but I kept coming back to the question of why?
If the hallway was cool, the sunroom, devoid of sun, was downright frigid. I touched a tepid radiator, and then put my fingers on the frosty windowpane. They momentarily stuck like that kid who got his tongue frozen to the flagpole in the movie A Christmas Story.
Outside the snow seemed to fall “up” at times. I looked down and saw a glass-covered walkway extending to an adjacent building, and the construction site for the new addition. The overstuffed leather furniture might have looked comfy if the sunroom had been warmer.
On the way back to my room I passed the woman with the walker who seemed to be doing laps of the hall at a blazing half-mile per hour. I glanced at her, and she didn’t look much older than me. Her designer gown, more faded than mine, had a motif of bunny rabbits and balloons. I wondered why she was hospitalized.
Pedro Paez (Back from a short nap?) walked out of my room just as I arrived. I didn’t need to ask why he had been there, since a permeating odor told me that Mrs. Baker had just used her bedpan. Oh God, why did I volunteer for this job?
Mercifully, the Maury Show had ended and The Price is Right flickered on her screen. Sharon Porter come on down and win… a new detective assignment!
I jumped back in bed, and pulled the blankets up to warm myself from the visit to the sunroom.
“Sharon.” Mrs. Baker called to me.
If I close my eyes will she think I’m asleep? “Yes, Mrs. Baker.”
“Amber was sleeping around.”
Who the hell is Amber? Then I remembered. “Ah… thanks for letting me know.” I couldn’t wait to tell Brad about the little hussy.
The room fell silent, and I stared toward the window mesmerized by the blowing snow and thinking about the case.
“There she is,” Mrs. Baker shrieked. “That’s the witch I was telling you about.” She pointed in the direction of the hall.
Normally, I wouldn’t have reacted in a way that gave any credence to the rants of a delusional patient, but her persistence on the existence of a witch in the hospital got my curiosity. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked to see whom Mrs. Baker was talking about. The only person in the hallway was the patient I had observed a few minutes earlier creeping down the hall at reverse warp speed. Time to dispel this notion about a witch once and for all.
“Hold on.” I waggled a finger in Mrs. Baker’s direction and scampered to the hall, calling after the patient. “Pardon me. Could I talk with you for a moment?”
The woman seized the handles of her walker a little tighter and pivoted in my direction. I read fear on her face, and figured I’d shouted a little too loudly. “I’m really sorry to bother you.” I meant every word. “But I wonder if you’d mind talking with my roommate?” How can I put this delicately? “I think she has you confused with someone else.”
The woman did another quarter turn with her walker and then grabbed at her abdomen, wincing in pain. I felt bad for her.
“I’m sorry, It’s not that important,” I said. “I don’t mean to cause you any discomfort. I’m Sharon Porter, by the way.”
The woman inhaled. “It’s okay. I’ve had surgery—a hysterectomy,” she confided. “It was two days ago, and I feel a sharp pain when I turn the wrong way.” She extended her hand, and I grasped it gently. “I’m Amanda Witchert.”
Did I hear that name right? “I see. Well… maybe…” I stood there babbling, as I reassessed Mrs. Baker’s sanity. “Actually…” I nodded toward our room. “Would you mind stopping in for a minute?”
She sighed and brushed an errant hair from her eyes. “It isn’t like I’ve got anywhere else to go. I was hoping my husband would be able to visit, but he’s a firefighter and those who were able to get to work are on twenty-four hour duty because of the storm.” Amanda turned the walker again and aimed for the doorway. “They were hoping to send me home today,” she said over her sh
oulder as I followed behind.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Baker,” Amanda said. They both smiled and greeted each other like long lost friends. I vowed never to say a bad word about my roommate again. I might even give her the whistle back.
I pulled one of the chairs for visitors away from the wall, and placed it at the foot of Mrs. Baker’s bed, offering it to Amanda.
“I’ve been telling her,” Mrs. Baker waved in my direction, “about you.”
Amanda smiled. “All good things, I trust?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Baker said, “but mostly that you had information about the day when that man died.”
“Oh that.”
Amanda settled into the chair, leaving the walker in front of her. I leaned against my bed.
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“Oh come on,” Mrs. Baker insisted, “just tell her what you told me.”
“Okay.” Amanda laughed timidly. “I’m in room 714. It’s a private room, near the end of this hallway. Yesterday morning…” she paused, “yes, it was just yesterday, I noticed a man in denim coveralls coming out of the janitor’s closet across the hall. I hadn’t even realized there was a janitor’s closet, but the door swung out in the hallway, like the janitor’s closets in the school where I teach.”
“What grade?” I asked.
“Shush,” Mrs. Baker said, “let her tell what she saw.”
Amanda started to laugh, and quickly grasped her stomach. “Tenth grade, American History,” she whispered. “Anyway, the man was backing out of the closet, and peeking around the door toward the end of the hall, like he didn’t want to be seen. I guess I’ve watched enough fifteen-year-old boys trying to elude authorities over the years that his behavior struck me as suspicious.”
“What about the cap?” Mrs. Baker prompted.
“He wore a knit cap. I know it’s chilly in the hospital now, but the way it was pulled all the way down,” Amanda put her hands on the back of her neck to demonstrate, “that seemed odd. I expected him to roll a bucket and mop out of the closet, but he never did. The door to the closet closed, and he disappeared from my view, which meant that he either went into the sunroom or the room next to mine at the end of the hall.”