Thirteen West

by Jane Toombs

"Do you want the patient transferred to A East?" Sal repeated.

  "Yes, of course. Use your head." Crawford dropped the phone into the cradle.

  "I finally got hold of him," Sal said to Joe. "The operator said she rang for five minutes with no answer. He was acting a little weird around midnight when he came in to see the other DOA Frank sent over to A East. Old Greenie was flying high."

  "You better check the Duchess for me," Joe said. "I can't get a heartbeat. Maybe it's just 'cause I'm kind of rattled."

  "Let's hope." Sal grabbed the stethoscope Joe handed him. "You go ahead and call the van for transfer to A East— I got the authorization."

  ****** * *

  Crawford fumbled with the copper pitcher. No, better not take anything else. The coke had him feeling so right for a while—have to see about a regular supply—but he'd come down hard.

  Sew up a laceration. He screwed up his face, opening and shutting his eyes. Fuzzy. But he could do it. Get dressed first. No, he had on his pants, went to bed with his pants on. He giggled.

  Watch it. Get as silly as hell on barbs. Put shoes on. Grab a jacket. Thirteen West. No. A East first. Been there tonight already. Running a damn night clinic, that's what.

  **** * *

  "Bad news, Joe," Sal said as he came back to the nurses' station. "She's gone." He picked up the phone.

  "Dr. Fredericks?" he said. "This is Sal Luera, sorry to bother you."

  The superintendent listened to Sal's explanation. "So, you believe the dead man is a suicide?. Don't move him. I'll have to notify the sheriff's office. What about the woman? You say she was a witness."

  "Angina is listed as one of her diagnoses, Doctor," Sal said. "She may have died of a coronary."

  "Possibly. I assume Dr. Greensmith is taking care of the injured patient on A East?"

  "I called him, sir."

  "I'm coming over to Thirteen West. Would you notify Dr. Greensmith?"

  "Yes, sir."

  **** * *

  Crawford came out of the bathroom and picked up the phone. "Now what?"

  "The patient is on his way to A East," Sal told him. "Dr. Fredericks asked me to tell you he was coming over to Thirteen West."

  "What the hell for?"

  "I called him about the first death. We've had another since I last talked to you."

  "Since when do you take the responsibility of notifying the superintendent?"

  "I knew you'd be busy with the injury," Sal said. He started to explain about the second death but Crawford slammed the phone down.

  Insolent bastard. Couldn't trust those Mexicans—smile at you while they're knifing you in the back. The spurt of adrenaline from his anger carried him out the door and into his car.

  * * *

  "I suppose I'll get blamed for this mess," Joe said, looking at the broken glass he'd found under Simpson's pillow. "How the hell did the Preacher get that glass?"

  "Smells like it was a whiskey bottle," Sal said. "Yeah, here's the label on this piece. Better leave it here in the bed where you found it since the fuzz are coming. The room's empty. It'll be safe enough with the door locked."

  "I sure as hell didn't bring a bottle to work and neither did Zenda." Joe dropped the pillow back. "Ward's got only one patient with a grounds pass—Sven Taterson. But days shook him down for some reason and didn't find anything."

  "Any visitors lately?"

  "Not that I know of." Joe snapped his fingers. "Wait, I remember Alma saying Dolph stunk of whiskey. They couldn't figure where he got the booze. Maybe that's the empty the Preacher found."

  "Dolph's the evening shift DOA? Yeah, now that you mention it, Frank said something about it too. You think maybe this Taterson brought booze in?"

  "If he did, days didn't find it on him. Beats me where it came from. But one thing for sure—nights'll get blamed, as usual."

  * * *

  With Sal's help, Joe was filling out an incident report about Jacko and the Preacher when they heard the click of a key in the outer lock.

  "Dr. Fredericks, I presume," Joe said to Sal. "He's going to ream my ass. I know it."

  "You didn't do anything wrong."

  "That won't matter," Joe muttered, watching the door swing open.

  Dr. Fredericks strode briskly onto the ward. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "just what has been going on here tonight?"

  * * *

  Jeff Townsend, the charge nurse on A East, shook his head in disbelief as he watched Dr. Greensmith drop the second needle. "Careful, Doctor," he warned. "You're contaminating your gloves again."

  "When I want your opinion I'll ask for it," Crawford told him. "If they made decent gloves this wouldn't happen. Damn things never fit right."

  And if your hands weren't shaking you might get that laceration sewed up before noon, Jeff thought. "Shall I unwrap another pair of gloves?" he asked.

  Crawford glared at him. "You're an RN, I take it?"

  Jeff nodded.

  Crawford peered at his name pin and seemed about to speak when a tech appeared in the doorway.

  "There's a call for Dr. Greensmith from Mr. Luera," she said. "Dr. Fredericks is on Thirteen West. Also, Mr. Luera wasn't sure he'd made it clear there've been two deaths on that ward tonight."

  "What are they doing over there?" Crawford demanded. "Is he still on the phone?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Crawford peeled off his gloves. "I suggest you take over with this, Mr. Townsend." He nodded his head at the suture tray. "Since you obviously believe you can do a better job."

  "Doctor, I'm not allowed—"

  "Do it, Mr. Townsend—that's an order. I've been summoned by the superintendent." Crawford started out, paused and added, "All you male nurses are frustrated doctors anyway. See what it's like."

  Kitty Evans, the tech, waited until he was out of hearing. "Are you going to do what he said?" she asked Jeff. "What's with him anyhow?"

  "Go show him where the phone is," Jeff told her. "Chances are he might not even be able to find that."

  "But are you?"

  "I wasn't a Navy corpsman in Nam for nothing. Hell, I can make a neater job of this than old Greenie could do stone sober. Which he isn't."

  "I'll come back and help," Kitty said. "This I got to see."

  * * *

  Crawford walked across from the AdministrationBuilding to Thirteen West in the needle chill of pre-dawn. That son-of-a-bitch Luera called Nellie, he thought. Nellie's waiting over there. He'll watch every move I make, examine every word I say, waiting to put the hatchet in.

  He remembered Luera telling him some patient had stabbed himself but hadn't a clue what the second death was. Have to cover his ass somehow on that.

  He could hear Dr. Fredericks damn high-pitched voice now. Just why did this suicide occur, Doctor? Have you an explanation?

  Go fuck yourself, Nellie.

  To hell with all of them. Smartass nurses smirking when I drop a needle, hassling me when I don't leap out of bed and race over here like an Olympic sprinter the minute a patient coughs. For what? To keep this warehouse full of crackpots and imbeciles functioning?

  The remaining packet of white powder in the copper pitcher burned in his mind. Not now, no time now. Wait. Be nice to have a nose tube like the redhead used. Ivory, carved with Indian symbols. Status. Find a supplier. Stay away from barbs then. Killers. Foul up your liver. Convulsions on withdrawal. Bad scene.

  Cocaine didn't have all those side-effects. Ruin your nasal septum if you sniffed enough but must take a lot to do that. Moderation was the key. He'd have to keep that in mind.

  * * *

  Jeff finished tying the last knot and stood up. He examined the suture lines critically. Fantastic, except at the top where Greenie had messed up.

  "Hey, all right," Kitty said.

  "Yeah, but the patient doesn't look so great otherwise." Jeff pulled off his gloves and fitted a scope in his ears. "Still shocky," he said several moments later. "Could probably use some blood, like I mentioned to Greenie. I'll
have to call Thirteen West and try to get him to order some." He glanced at his watch. "Getting on for five—too bad we can't let this shit run over into the day shift."

  * * *

  Sally sat up in bed, heart pounding. She hugged herself, shivering. A nightmare, that's all it was. A bad dream of Daddy Keith lying dead and her nursing instructor telling her she'd have to give him postmortem care—wash the body, plug the rectal orifice, tie the penis closed. Terrified she'd sidled up to the hospital bed, expecting him to open his eyes any minute and grab her. But he was really dead, mottled and cold to her touch. Then she realized he wasn't Daddy Keith at all but Frank and it was her fault he'd died, like it was her fault Em had died and maybe Daddy Keith, too....

  A sound from the living room made her freeze until she remembered Alma was spending the night to keep an eye on her because of the weird Valium reaction. That's why the light was on in the bedroom, so Alma could look in on her and make sure she was all right.

  A terrible dream. Sally shook her head, trying to clear away the unpleasant shards. Her stomach felt hollow—maybe she'd get up and drink some milk.

  She stood up, waiting to see if she felt dizzy, but she seemed all right. Bending to put on her scuffs, she saw a fragment of paper on the floor. Curious, she picked it up and read: "...car...can't go on...hate me...Frank."

  Sally stared at the words, vaguely recalling Alma handing her a note that she'd immediately torn up. She fell to her knees, searching for more of the paper, found it, fitted the pieces together and read the complete note.

  "No," she whispered.

  Scrambling to her feet, she ran into the living room, crying, "Alma, wake up. We've got to do something before it's too late."

  Alma sat up, blinking.

  "Hurry, we've got to find Frank." Sally thrust the pieces of the note at her.

  Alma waved them away. "Read it already." She yawned and glanced at her watch. "He's had four hours to get lost. You tore up his note to begin with—why the sudden concern?"

  "I dreamed he was dead. I don't even remember reading the note earlier, but it says right in it that he's planning to kill himself just like Em did."

  "Whoever Em is, Frank isn't him or her. I don't think Frank's the type to—"

  "That's what I thought about Em. You don't know. I do. We have to get to wherever he is and stop him. Do you know where he lives?"

  Alma shook her head. "Don't have a clue. Why don't we try calling him? Where's your phone book?"

  "I don't have one. Maybe Information—?"

  Frank's number turned out to be unlisted.

  "We have to do something," Sally wailed.

  "Yeah, you're right," Alma said. "I didn't like the tone of that note myself. I'll try calling Sal Luera. He's the only one at Calafia Frank seemed to be somewhat close to."

  * * *

  On Thirteen West, Dr. Fredericks welcomed Crawford onto the ward with, "Well, Doctor, we seem to have a problem here. What are you intending to do about it?"

  "I haven't seen either casualty yet," Crawford said carefully.

  "I've pronounced them both dead and notified the authorities. A shame about Miss Flowers, especially since it seems she may have been the only witness to tonight's carnage. How is Mr. Serrion?"

  With difficulty Crawford managed to sort this out. Why ask what he intended to do if it had already been done? Evidently Miss Flowers, no one he knew, had been the second corpse. Serrion must be the laceration.

  He opened his mouth to answer when the phone rang and the charge tech announced it was for him. As he took the phone, the door buzzer sounded and Luera hurried to the door. "Serrion?" Crawford said. "What's the trouble now?"

  "Not doing well?" Dr. Fredericks asked, standing over him.

  "Start 1000 c.cs 5 D/W intravenously," Crawford told A East. "Get a type and cross match for blood. I'll stop by in a few minutes."

  "We wouldn't want Mr. Serrion to make a third death," Dr. Fredericks said. "I've just found out from Mr. Luera that another patient from this ward died earlier this evening. An overdose?"

  "I don't think so," Crawford said. "They told me he'd been drinking—you could smell whiskey on him."

  "Alcohol and Thorazine, Doctor, can be a fatal combination. Where did the whiskey come from?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Oddly enough, neither has Mr. Thompson or Mr. Luera. Though they tell me a glass shard from a smashed whiskey bottle was the instrument Mr. Jones used to slash Mr. Serrion and also for his own suicide."

  A man in a green uniform came through the door with Sal Luera. "Deputy Jordan," he said. "Are you Dr. Fredericks?"

  "I am. Sorry as we are to need your services, your prompt response is appreciated. The dead man is this way if you care to see him before getting the details."

  Crawford trailed along and stood in the doorway of the bathroom staring in at the gory mess. Must have sliced through both carotids and sprayed his entire blood volume out in a matter of seconds. The smell of that bloody death made Crawford slightly ill.

  "Someone walked through this with bare feet," the deputy said. "And another with shoes.

  "Yes," Dr. Fredericks acknowledged. "The first was an old woman who, unfortunately, suffered a fatal heart attack, quite possibly from the shock of seeing Mr. Jones here."

  "Dead, you say? Is it conceivable she had anything to do with this?"

  "There was no blood on her anywhere except her feet," Dr. Fredericks said. "In addition, she was frail and elderly and this is the women's bathroom."

  "I take your point," Deputy Jordan said.

  "The shoes were Mr. Thompson's when he found the body and confirmed the man was dead."

  "Any witnesses other than the old lady?"

  "A Mr. Serrion was stabbed in the room he shared with Mr. Jones. He was found by ward personnel as he crawled from the room into the hall. We believe Mr. Jones stabbed him before killing himself in the bathroom."

  "How seriously injured is this Serrion?"

  "We have him on our acute ward, A East, receiving treatment." Dr. Fredericks looked at Crawford.

  "He wasn't conscious when I left," Crawford said, fighting down an urge to gag. "He's in shock from blood loss."

  "Will Serrion be able to give any account of what happened when he comes out of it?" Deputy Jordan asked.

  Dr. Fredericks looked at Crawford, who shrugged.

  Sal, at the fringe of the group, spoke up. "The charge tech on the ward here says Mr. Serrion never talks to anyone, neither patients nor staff."

  The deputy grimaced. "Great. Just great. Who was in charge here when this happened? I need to talk to him."

  "Mr. Thompson is at the nurses' station," Dr. Fredericks told him. "Mrs. Holm was also working at the time. Mr. Luera will bring her to the nurses' station for you."

  While waiting for everyone to assemble at the station, Deputy Jordan called his headquarters to ask that an investigative team be sent to Thirteen West. He then established that the wounded Jacko had been found by Zenda before Joe had discovered the dead body in the bathroom. Sal had arrived immediately thereafter, in time to help Joe carry Margaret Flowers to her bed.

  The phone rang. Sal, the closest, picked it up. "Speaking," he said. "Frank? No, sorry, I don't know his exact address. Best I can do is tell you he lives over in the Pacific Grove apartment complex." He hung up frowning then dismissed Alma's call to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  The deputy wanted to know if anyone had handled the glass fragments under the Preacher's pillow.

  "Joe and I looked but didn't touch," Sal told him.

  "I understand alcohol's forbidden here," Deputy Jordan said. "So how did the whiskey bottle get on the ward?"

  "Apparently it may have been brought in by Mr. Taterson, a patient who has a grounds pass," Dr. Fredericks said.

  "Is he rational?"

  "Pretty much so," Joe said.

  "Do you object if I question him, Dr. Fredericks?" the deputy asked.

  "Not as long as I'm p
resent to monitor," the superintendent said.

  Tate sat up in bed when the brights went on. He'd slept very little, getting up to peer into the hall each time someone went in or out. Something big had happened. He didn't know what, but he feared it was going to lead to trouble for him. He'd noticed the deputy sheriff enter the ward with marked apprehension.

  "Mr. Taterson," Dr. Fredericks began as he came into the room.

  Tate looked past him to the deputy, "I don't know anything about it," he said. "You ask that little creep who used to be in my room. Dolph's his name, you ask him. They wheeled him out of here drunk as a coot. You ask him."

  * * *

  Once they were in her VW, Alma said to Sally, "Since neither of us have any clue where these Pacific Grove apartments are, we need to find something open in town where we can ask."

  Sally said nothing, her hands twisted together over her churning, roiling stomach. He'd be on his bed like in her dream, cold and mottled. They were late, hours too late. She might hate him, but she didn't want Frank dead.

  "I don't need all this, you know," Alma said as she pulled out of the hospital grounds. "Sure as hell I'm not living right, what's happened to me lately." She launched into an account of the debacle at her JadeBeach cottage.

  It was too much for Sally to take in. Dr. Jacobs stabbed? Willie, the night tech on Thirteen West in the local hospital?

  Alma slammed on the brakes. "Was that an all-night gas station? Look alive, girl. Was it?"

  Sally craned her neck to look. "I don't—yes, I see it. It's open."

  Making an illegal U-turn on the highway, Alma swung into the station. "I'll do the asking. You stay in the car."

  It seemed to take forever before Alma returned. "Town full of idiots," she muttered. "Can't even give decent directions."

  "Did you find out?" Sally demanded.

  "Maybe. We're supposed to go down a mile or so till we see a Seven-Eleven, turn left there, turn right at the first light we come to, then two lefts and we can't miss it. Or so he said. Not the dumb-ass clerk, some other guy who was hanging out there who didn't look too sharp either. You keep an eye out."