Transplanted Death

by Ray Flynt

  The information hit Brad like a punch in the gut. The newspaper article about Marie Fenimore’s accident used those exact same words, a twenty-two year old man from Monmouth, NJ.

  “Would the man’s name be David Myers?” Brad asked.

  Leslie’s mouth dropped open, and Sharon stared him with a how-did-you-know-that look.

  Brad bolted from his chair. “Thanks for your help,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door.

  Sharon caught up with him in the hall.

  Brad felt breathless as he processed what they’d just learned. “We need to locate Ken Fenimore. Call the hospital’s switchboard,” he asked Sharon, “and find out where the accounting offices are.”

  As Sharon used her cell phone, Brad recalled the conversation the previous evening with Ken Fenimore in which he had professed hatred for the man who had killed his mother. His exact words: There have been a few times in the last month when I wanted to find out where he was and kill him. Ken never uttered the man’s name, but now David Myers’ organs had been transplanted in patients that were being systematically murdered at Strickland Memorial Hospital. Brad didn’t want to believe it, but Ken had an apparent motive, worked in the hospital, and recalling that Ken was a diabetic, would have had access to needles.

  “Accounting is on the first floor of the North annex,” Sharon announced.

  Brad and Sharon made their way down to the second floor and crossed over the glass-enclosed pedestrian bridge to the annex. The snow had finally stopped, but the clouds remained gray and ominous, and a light fog rose from the snow-covered ground. It must be getting warmer.

  Inside the annex, they took an elevator to the first floor.

  Brad spotted Ken Fenimore through the accounting office’s double glass doors, sitting at a desk near the window and peering intently at a computer screen. Brad rapped on the glass, drawing Ken’s attention, and he motioned for them to enter. Ken seemed surprised to see them, greeting them warmly. He stood up. “Hi, Mr. Frame. Come on back.” He motioned for them to come around the service counter that functioned as a barrier between the entry and the accounting staff.

  “You must be Sharon,” Ken said, as he pulled up an extra chair from a neighboring desk. Brad noticed that Ken had been working on a spreadsheet on his computer.

  Ken sat, stretched, and yawned before saying, “This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  For an instant, Brad pictured Alan sitting at his computer in their apartment back at Princeton. Of course the monitor had been a clunky CRT with amber letters. Still the resemblance was uncanny.

  If Ken had any anxiety about their visit it didn’t show. Brad had expected to start with accusations, but Ken’s demeanor suggested that he was either the world’s most calculating psychopath or Brad was barking up the wrong tree.

  Brad opted for a less confrontational approach. “Does the name David Myers mean anything to you?”

  Ken’s face seemed genuinely puzzled. He shook his head. “Why do you ask?” Ken had no sooner posed the question, when recognition flashed on his face. “Oh, him.” Ken scowled, then added, “I try to forget about him.”

  Brad glanced at Sharon, hoping to gauge her sense of Ken’s truthfulness.

  Instead, she said, “We wanted you to know that David Myers is dead.”

  If Ken already knew, his face never betrayed it. After a pause, he said, “I hope you don’t expect me to be sad at that news.” If Ken was, indeed, the murderer, his unruffled reactions merited a Tony nomination.

  Sharon nodded at Brad, as if to confirm his impression. “We thought you should know.”

  Brad considered the only other logical explanation—Alan Fenimore was the culprit. But didn’t Alan have an alibi for at least one of the murders? Alan had been having a radiation treatment when he got the call about the death of Michael Severn. Then Brad pictured the scene in the cafeteria that morning, when Alan returned Ken’s cell phone to him, and realized what Alan had done.

  “I’m afraid that I have disturbing news to share,” Brad said.

  “About my dad?” Ken asked, worry filling his face.

  “I’m wondering if I could take a look at your cell phone, Ken? The one that your father returned to you this morning in the cafeteria.”

  “Sure.” Ken reached into his pocket and handed over the phone.

  Brad checked the message log. At 10:02 a.m. on the previous day there was a call made to a number Brad recognized as Alan’s cell. He held up the phone’s screen to Ken and asked, “Isn’t that your dad’s cell number?”

  Ken nodded.

  It’s all falling into place, Brad thought. Clearly, Alan had borrowed his son’s phone so that he could call his own phone and appear to take a call from the 7th floor nursing staff about Michael Severn’s death, thus establishing his alibi. Brad also recalled how Alan had found a reason to leave Severn’s autopsy during the same time that Barbara McCullough was killed. Brad didn’t know all the details, but he could piece together the big picture. Alan had disguised himself using the janitor’s coveralls and wool cap, probably using the stairwell to move between floors. He committed murder under Brad’s nose while maintaining the ruse of inviting him to investigate. Why had Alan really wanted him there?

  Brad handed the cell phone back to Ken. “First, you need to know that your dad is a very sick man. He has a brain tumor, and no more than weeks to live.”

  Ken sank in his chair. But Brad could see him connecting the dots, and nodding his head as his father’s recent erratic behavior made more sense.

  “What is even more tragic,” Brad began, “is what your father has been doing the last twenty-four hours.”

  Ken stared at him expectantly.

  “Three transplant patients have died, and a fourth was attacked but survived. They all had organs donated by the family of David Myers.”

  Ken’s eyes widened.

  “Your father asked me here to investigate the deaths, but I now believe that he caused them. Given the state of his health, I’m worried about what he’ll do next. I’d like you to help us locate him, before he causes more harm.”

  Ken stood, and said, “Let‘s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  4:12 p.m., Thursday, January 11th

  Brad called the emergency room and asked for Dr. Fenimore. He wasn’t there, and the person who answered the phone didn’t have a clue as to his whereabouts.

  “I’ll go check his office,” Ken said. “Maybe he’s taking a nap.”

  Brad took out one of his business cards and handed it to Ken. “My cell number’s on that card. Call me if you find him.”

  Ken pulled out his phone, tapped in the number and Brad’s phone chirped. “There. Now you’ve got my number on your phone. Keep me posted.” Ken raced down the hall toward the bank of elevators.

  Brad and Sharon retraced their steps to the main hospital. When they reached the second floor elevators, Brad said, “Sharon, I’d like you to go up to the seventh floor. Make sure there’s still a security guard at Dennis Ayers’ room.”

  Sharon extended her thumb and little finger next to her face and mouthed, “Call me.”

  “Will do,” Brad said. “I’m going to check the cafeteria.”

  After they parted company, Brad called Nick Argostino’s private line.

  “What’s happening?” the detective answered. Brad filled him in, and told Nick they were currently looking for Alan Fenimore. He asked Nick to send detectives to take Alan into custody.

  Brad boarded an elevator and rode it to the ground floor.

  Passing through the lobby, he saw that the cracked windows had been covered with duct tape, while outside a tow truck hooked a chain to the TV van that had knocked the portico’s support pillar off its moorings. A separate crew, probably from the hospital’s maintenance staff, propped 2 by 4s under the sagging roof, since the van was the only thing preventing it from completely collapsing, causing further damage. As the truck prepared to move the van, workers scr
ambled out from under the portico.

  Brad didn’t stay to watch the outcome as he continued his journey toward the cafeteria.

  Aromas from the cafeteria greeted him well ahead of time. A fishy smell mingled with the scent of broccoli, steamed within an inch of its life, neither especially appetizing. A few feet further down the hall Brad spotted the sign for the chapel, and recalled Danita mentioning that Alan hung out there more frequently, along with a bizarre tale of his running off other chapel visitors.

  The sign provided times when clergy would be available to conduct services, while a hand lettered sign noted that all services had been cancelled due to the storm.

  The chapel didn’t have a door, just a walnut paneled wall inset three feet from the main hallway where visitors could enter to the right or left, similar to the doorless entry found at airport restrooms. Brad made his way around to the right, surprised to find an oval-shaped room that served as the non-denominational chapel. It took a moment to adjust to the dim light and the faint smell of incense. Scented candles? Straight ahead an elevated platform held a table with two candlesticks, in front of which was a prie dieu kneeler. There were no crucifixes, Greek crosses, stars of David, or crescents and stars on the walls. Two rows of fabric-covered arm chairs occupied the middle of the chapel, and to the right Brad saw an elaborately carved stone baptismal font, out of character with the contemporary style of the room.

  Alan Fenimore, wearing a white lab coat, stood on the left in front of a two-tiered rack where, head bowed, it appeared he had just lit a votive candle.

  “We need to talk,” Brad said, as he approached Alan from the side.

  Alan shuddered, suddenly aware of Brad’s presence.

  “Give me a minute,” Alan said, still focused on the candles.

  Brad texted the word chapel, first to Sharon and then Ken Fenimore. Brad saw Alan’s lips move, but could not make out any words.

  Alan unbowed his head, turned and faced Brad, who gestured toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

  The medical director sat in the second row, and then Brad turned a chair around from the front row so that he was facing him.

  “What would you like to talk about?” Alan said, calmly, eyes downcast.

  “Maybe how disappointed I am.” Alan met his gaze. “How difficult it is to see a man I’ve considered a friend for all these years—who joined a life-giving profession—turn into a monster that I barely recognize.”

  Alan twisted the wedding ring on his finger. “How did you figure it out?”

  “When your alibi fell apart. You borrowed Ken’s cell phone, not because yours had lost power, but so that you could call your own phone while at your radiation treatment and pretend to get word of Michael Severn’s death. But you killed him before you ever showed up for your treatment. When I learned that the donor for all the transplant recipients was David Myers, the same man who killed Marie in the accident, I still didn’t suspect you. I thought Ken had done it.”

  “No... No.” Alan shook his head. “Ken had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why did you invite me here Alan? Did you expect me to stop you or defend you?”

  In barely a whisper, Alan said, “Because you knew Marie, and knew that my life revolved—”

  A commotion at the entry stopped his words, and Brad turned to see Ken Fenimore race into the chapel.

  “Ah, reinforcements,” Alan said, ruefully.

  Ken rushed to his father’s side. “Dad! Why didn’t you tell me about your tumor?”

  Alan glowered at Brad. “You told him?”

  “Yes. He needed to know.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Alan said, sharply.

  Brad aimed a finger at Alan. “You made it my business when you asked me to come to this hospital.” He wanted to pursue why Alan had involved him, and finally said, “I’ve called the police. You might want to use this time to talk with your son.”

  Brad stood and offered his chair to Ken, just as Sharon entered the room.

  She sidled up to Brad and whispered, “An unmarked police car just pulled up outside of the hospital. You want me to direct them this way?”

  Brad nodded.

  After Sharon left, Ken tried to initiate a conversation, but Alan ignored him. As Brad watched, he reached into an inside pocket of his lab coat and extracted a hard-shelled glasses case. Brad didn’t think anything of it until Ken leaped from his chair saying, “He’s got a needle.”

  Brad stepped toward Alan.

  “Watch out.” Alan aimed the hypodermic like a weapon, first toward Brad, then his son. What potentially lethal concoction did it contain? Brad glanced at Ken and the two of them took one step closer.

  “Stop,” Alan shouted. He dropped the case where it clattered on the wood floor. Using his free hand he pushed up the sleeve on the arm holding the syringe and began thumping on it with two fingers. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt. This won’t take long, provided I can find a vein.”

  “Dad, don’t.” Ken pleaded. “I just lost Mom. I love you. I need you.”

  “Yeah, well that’s not gonna happen.”

  Alan shifted the needle, filled with a light amber-colored liquid, to his right hand, and clenched his left fist. His eyes darted between his arm and the two men watching him.

  “Alan, don’t do this,” Brad said.

  Alan flashed a twisted smile as if to say watch me.

  Alan gave one more glance in their direction and then aimed the needle about three-quarters of the way up his forearm.

  Ken raced forward and slapped his father’s hand aside. The syringe went flying, landing on the floor below the votive candles.

  “Damn you,” Alan said. He sprang from his seat, circled away from them and ran out the exit. Brad and Ken chased after him. Brad was surprised how fast Alan moved.

  In the lobby, an elevator door opened and Alan jumped aboard. Ken got there ahead of Brad, and tried to board, but Alan kicked his son in the shin and by the time the young man recovered, the elevator door had slid closed.

  “The stairs are right here,” Ken said, pointing to his right.

  “Yeah, but where’s he going?” Brad asked.

  Brad spotted Sharon coming through the front door with two Philadelphia detectives. He hoped she’d given them a recap of what was going on. There was no time for introductions. “Alan’s heading up,” Brad shouted.

  According to the digital display, the elevator paused on the seventh floor.

  “Shit. He’s after Dennis Ayers.” Brad turned to the officers, “Can one of you come with me? I’ll explain on the way.” Before ducking into the stairwell, he added for the others, “See where the elevator stops next and follow.” To Sharon, he shouted back, “Call me.”

  Inside the stairwell, the detective, at least fifteen years younger than Brad, ran ahead, taking the steps two at a time. Brad was in good shape, but couldn’t maintain that pace. He yelled up, “Check room 728, there should be a hospital security guard at the door.”

  Brad emerged through the fire doors on the seventh floor breathing heavily. Need to use the gym more often.

  The detective, whose name he still didn’t know, was conferring calmly with one of Carlton’s security guards.

  As he walked down the hallway to join them, Brad pulled out his smart phone just in case Sharon had left him a message. There was none.

  When he reached the doorway of Ayers’ room, Dennis recognized him and waved. At least his intervention had kept one of the transplant recipients out of the autopsy suite.

  The phone rang, and Brad quickly answered. He heard Sharon’s urgent voice. “We’re on fourteen, but can’t see him anywhere. This floor is mostly the executive suite, and Harris’ receptionist says he hasn’t seen anyone. We checked the restrooms.”

  “Check the stairwell. Listen for whether he might be headed back down.”

  Brad worried that Alan had tried to throw them off, and would double-back to the seventh floor. He shared his concerns with the
Philadelphia police detective who agreed to remain with Ayers.

  Brad hustled back down the hall to the elevators, while holding the phone to his ear for Sharon’s report.

  “In the stairway now,” Sharon said. He could hear the echo in her voice. “I’m looking down, but don’t see or hear anything.” After a pause, she added, “Oh, wait.”

  The phone fell silent.

  Brad waited about thirty seconds before asking, “What’s happening?”

  “Shhh,” Sharon hissed into the phone. “I thought I heard something above me.”

  Brad tried to be patient, but when he didn’t hear anything more pressed the call button for the next elevator. It arrived seconds later with two nurses on-board. He smiled and nodded in their direction. With the phone still pressed tightly to his ear, he punched the button for the fourteenth floor, noting that the nurses had requested a stop on nine.

  Sharon, say something.

  The elevator doors slid open on the ninth floor and the nurses exited. The doors couldn’t close fast enough, and given the continued silence, Brad checked to see if his phone still showed any signal bars; Only two, but he’d made do with less.

  “He’s on the roof,” Sharon screamed in his ear. “I heard a noise and crept up the stairs. That’s when I saw Alan standing by the exit door, but he didn’t see me. I was on my way back down for reinforcements, when I heard the crash bar and felt a blast of cold air.”

  Brad saw the digital number indicating the elevator had just passed the twelfth floor. “I’m almost there.”

  Arriving on fourteen he saw that Sharon had rounded up the second Philadelphia police detective and Ken Fenimore, and was leading them into the stairway. Brad hurried to catch up, and was only a few steps behind as the entourage got to the door leading to the roof.

  The police officer took charge. “Stand back.” Brad was close enough to see the officer’s name tag—J. Tunney. Tunney drew his weapon.

  “Wait,” Ken pleaded, “My father’s not armed.”

  “We don’t know that,” the officer insisted, then pushed on the crash bar.