Plan to Kill

by Gregg E. Brickman

  Miki arrived on the first floor still puzzled and unsatisfied with her own reasoning. She thought she'd raise those issues with the police when they questioned her again, which she believed they would. Why not? she thought. People seemed free to throw her name around as a suspect at every opportunity.

  Rather than going to the emergency room to check on the activity level there, she called for report, avoiding Ephraim once more. Kimberly Hackim, the acting charge nurse, said the place was quiet as a tomb. Good. Miki headed for Edgar Oster's risk management office, located in the rear beyond administration. She had to drop off a form, and then maybe she'd poke around for information.

  Rather than shoving the paper under the door, Miki used the master key to open Oster's suite. While she carried keys to most hospital doors, she had no legitimate business in the offices during night hours. If security caught her, she'd have some explaining to do.

  Thinking for a moment, she decided Oster was a logical man, but one who thrived on convenience as well. She slid the bottom desk drawer open and extracted the list of patient records the police copied the day she assisted them in the medical information conference room. Typical Oster, he'd marked the hanging folder Active Police Investigation. It took a moment to duplicate the list using the fax machine on the secretary's credenza.

  Miki removed an incident report from her clipboard, clipped the addendum she'd written earlier to it, and placed it in the center of Oster's desk. She positioned his stapler as a paperweight and stood.

  The door handle rattled, and Miki froze. "Who's there?" There was no answer except the sound of a key in the lock. "Who's there?" The notion occurred to her that the murderer followed her into the rear corridor. Miki grabbed the stapler. Better than her clipboard, she thought. She moved to the side of the door, raised her makeshift weapon over her head, and waited.

  The door opened. Victor Zoller straightened and stepped in. "Hello, Miki. What were you doing in here for so long? Had me worried."

  "Having a heart attack. Why didn't you answer when I called out? I thought the killer had followed me here." Miki dropped into Oster's desk chair, wondering if the killer had followed her. "Why are you here?"

  He stuck his hand out the door and pointed left. "Camera. Saw you enter several minutes ago. With all that's happened, I was concerned when you didn't come out right away."

  "Well, thanks for the support, my friend." She grabbed the report. "I brought this down."

  "Why didn't you put it under his door like usual? I've seen you do that a hundred times. It's not safe to be isolated right now."

  "Victor," she said, waving the papers. "I had to write this addendum, and I wanted to give it careful consideration. I didn't get a chance upstairs, so I stepped inside to use Edgar's desk. I've done it before. I didn't give it a thought." She put a worried edge on her voice.

  "I'm sorry I startled you." He turned and left, a bit of a slump in his shoulders. "You done here?"

  "Thanks for watching out for me. I mean that. I'll lock up and follow you."

  He straightened and continued on his way.

  Miki put the report on the desk and locked the door. The easy lie amazed her. She thought for a moment and couldn't remember the last time she had told an untruth on purpose. Then she laughed. Well, if she excluded her ex-husband from her memory. The cheap son of a bitch. Make that cheap, cheating son of a bitch.

  She headed towards the medical information department. She doubted her presence there would attract attention. She retrieved old charts several times a shift and was often in the area for extended periods as she searched for a particular file or reviewed and copied certain pages.

  Miki checked to be sure her in-house cell phone was on audible alert, then entered the record room. Oster had kept the master list with most of the caregivers listed. She scanned the list, found several with the names of the three dead health care workers, and went to retrieve those charts. An hour later, she had isolated two with bad outcomes and angry family members. One of the families had sued the providers and received a nice settlement. The other case, she believed, was pending.

  Miki knew the police intended to do the same screening. Pushing aside the thought, she picked up the charts and flipped through. One didn't have her name anywhere. The last one, the one with the suit ongoing, had her name and Ephraim's as well. Ephraim attended the case in the ER, and Miki worked the patient's admission. One possibility. She made notes of the family's contact information while imagining herself placing the call. "Hello, Mr. Bates. Are you killing folks over at the hospital? That's awfully rude, you know." She decided if she contacted the man, her pitch needed work.

  Miki took a deep breath, then reached over and tapped the space bar on a nearby computer. The screen came to life. She signed in and searched for Gentry, Al. When his information appeared, she made a note and went to find the chart.

  Gentry's outpatient file was thin. He never stayed overnight in the hospital and didn't use the emergency services. Scanning, Miki learned Dr. Pancoast, the displaced chief of staff, performed a prostate biopsy in his office, sending the specimen to the hospital pathologist for review. A lab result documented an elevated PSA. Prostate cancer, she thought. She pictured his expression and his thin appearance. Metastatic. Gentry is dying. She couldn't be sure, but knew she was right.

  She remembered a sudden vacation he took—she glanced at the pathology report, below the pathologist's signature. She wondered if he had surgery. If so, it wasn't at Medical Center by the Sea. She bet Pancoast operated at the corporation's sister hospital across town. It made sense to her. She knew of several hospital employees who followed the same routine to maintain privacy in the face of well-meaning but curious co-workers with computer access.

  Like me, she thought, feeling herself blush.

  47

  Miki walked the corridor connecting the hospital with the old facilities building. She'd eaten breakfast with the day supervisors and was now on her way to the emergency room for a talk with Ephraim. She managed to avoid her throughout the shift. She'd delayed what she expected to be an unpleasant encounter, but her suspicions about Ephraim being in danger continued, and she felt obligated to warn her. Miki wondered anew what had cooled Ephraim's attitude toward her. Despite warm overtures, Ephraim's response seemed etched in ice.

  Miki paused between the under-construction Troicki Building, home for the new and improved outpatient services department, and the old hospital building, where she'd worked for years. It wouldn't be long until the old hospital's demolition began. The notion saddened her. Then she pictured Arlene Porter's death. She blinked away a tear, blocked the thought, and faced the construction site.

  In spite of the murders, restricted access, and police investigation, progress continued, perhaps even hurried forward. Through the windows, smooth wallboard appeared taped and ready for painting, cutouts invited the installation of medical apparatuses, and cabinets awaited bolting into place.

  She knew her ex contracted for the electrical work on the Troicki Building. A nice lucrative job, she was sure. Had Dan invested with Troicki? She considered the possibility.

  Sanchez, Dempsey, and Ephraim plunked sizable chunks of money into one of Troicki's projects—one that wasn't going to fly. She remembered standing with Porter and listening to the three disappointed investors debate the contention that Troicki acted with deliberate malice. They argued about possible recourse. It seemed as if the men invited Ephraim to toss good sense after bad money and join the suit.

  Ephraim had expressed concern that since Troicki was the chairman of the board, he was in a position to have her contract cancelled, Dempsey's as well. Dempsey softened his position a bit, and Sanchez volunteered to meet with Troicki on behalf of the three of them.

  Miki opened the calendar on her iPhone, trying to place the date of the conversation.

  Based on her work schedule, she reasoned it occurred two or three days before Sanchez's death. A review of the ER call logs would give her the dat
e. It had to be a date when the three physicians were all present—Dempsey, because he was on call for anesthesia, and Sanchez, because he attended a patient. Easy enough to narrow down.

  As Miki resumed her walk toward the ER, she toyed with the idea Troicki was behind the killings, clearing a financial mess to avoid a nasty lawsuit. Once more, that put her erstwhile friend, Ephraim, in the target zone. She hurried, arriving in the emergency room within moments.

  Ephraim leaned against the doorjamb of the physicians' dictation area chatting with Dr. Steve Baxter, the oncoming physician. As usual, Baxter appeared starched and ready for the day. His crisp, ultra-white coat buttoned over pressed scrubs, was in sharp contrast to Ephraim's soft, wrinkled attire.

  Miki stood a polite distance away, waiting to attract Ephraim's attention. When Ephraim settled her shoulder bag into place, Miki approached. "Can I have a few minutes, please?"

  Baxter grinned at Miki. "Morning." He stepped out. "You can have this area. I've a patient waiting."

  "Thanks, Steve," Miki said, returning his smile. She nodded toward the room, then followed Ephraim in.

  Ephraim, her face a blank mask, positioned her bag on the small counter before turning to Miki. "What do you want now, Miki?"

  "Please sit. Be civil for a minute. I need to tell you what's happening." Miki sat and waited for Ephraim to do the same. She told her about what she learned during her chart review and her thoughts about Troicki. "Do you think he could be behind the murders?"

  "No."

  "Remember, he's trying to get me fired."

  "What do you expect? I told you to avoid Gentry. Now there is a man to fear. Not Troicki. Troicki is an ass, not a killer."

  "So you say. How does he treat you since he swindled you out of all that money?"

  "He treats me fine." Ephraim paused, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. "Fact is, I haven't talked to him in quite a while. I was waiting for Peter to do something."

  "Maybe Sanchez did do something. We need to figure this out. Keep ourselves alive."

  "You're a detective now? Aren't you in enough trouble already? You're interfering with an active police investigation. They should arrest you. Remove you from the streets to protect you from yourself—not from your fictionalized villains." Ephraim stood.

  "With either scenario you're on the list. You know the killer was in my apartment."

  "I'm not so sure I believe it."

  "I don't know what's gotten into you. I'm encouraging you to protect yourself."

  Ephraim raised her voice. "What it sounds like is you're wishing me dead or maybe threatening me. The more you talk, the more I wonder about your judgment." She grabbed her purse. "Move. I want to go home."

  Miki stood aside, and Ephraim stomped away, slamming the door behind her. Miki watched her go, pulled the blind to cover the window in the door, then cried tears of frustration and grief at the loss of her friend.

  Miki used the physicians' bathroom next to the dictation area to splash cool water on her face and remove what was left of her makeup. Then she sat in the small alcove that at one time served as a place for doctors to sleep. A small desk and computer sat where a single bed once stood. She accessed the hospital system, found the ER log she wanted, and clicked print. The conversation between Sanchez, Dempsey, and Ephraim occurred two days before Sanchez died. She remembered him saying he'd see Troicki first thing in the morning. Maybe he did. Maybe that was the day someone fed him his first dose of digitalis.

  48

  He slunk across the farthest parking lot, clinging to the shadows along the hedge. His dark-green scrubs blended with the background. He'd purchased them the day before at the flea market on Sample Road, wanting a dark color to hide any stains and something nondescript to blend in with arriving and departing workers.

  A planner by nature, he'd attended to details. However, he'd been waiting awhile, expecting her to leave the hospital sooner. The delay wasn't according to plan. It made him nervous. The longer he waited, the more people would enter the employee lot, increasing the likelihood of discovery.

  The man edged into an opening in the foliage, removed a plastic-encased white index card from his pocket, and took a deep breath. Then another, exhaling through pursed lips. He read, give place unto wrath, saith the lord.

  This one, or the next one for that matter, didn't seem to fit as well into his scheme of things. Sure, she was connected to the problem, had helped cause it, perhaps. Overkill. Maybe he should make it quick and clean. Move away from the plan. Save the best for last.

  High and mighty, that's what she was. Making life and death decisions, then going home and living a normal life while others suffered the consequences of her actions. Normal life? On second thought, the reading fit. She had earned his wrath, his venom, and his hatred.

  Her car sat alone, a mere ten feet from where he hid. The others who reported for duty with her had already left. She was the last. Odd she didn't use the physicians' lot. There were always plenty of open spaces close to the hospital when the night shift arrived.

  The morning sun glinted off the glass in the employee's door as someone pushed it open. Ephraim exited the hospital alone, carrying a canvas satchel and a Styrofoam cup. The man knew about her habit of indulging in caffeine on her drive home. He'd heard her comment about needing the coffee to stay awake. He believed it. The woman walked at a sloth's pace and looked exhausted.

  An easy target. One hardly fitting a minion of the lord.

  Ephraim quickened her pace, then glanced in his direction, nodding a silent greeting. He approached from an angle, trying to appear casual, but realizing he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Knowing about the murders, she should be cautious, he thought.

  The killer fell into step with Ephraim. "Nice morning."

  "I'm too tired to notice." She extracted a key from her lab coat pocket. "What are you doing here? Why are you dressed in those scrubs?"

  Ignoring her questions, he held out an open palm. "Let me open it for you. Your hands are full."

  "Thanks." She dropped her key onto his extended fingers.

  "You don't use a remote?"

  "Not really. I lost it several months ago. I never bothered to have it replaced. I like the feel of a key."

  The door stuck a bit, and he gave it a yank, then stood away to allow her to move in front of him. As she did, he made his decision.

  With well-rehearsed ease, he slipped the scalpel from his pocket, palming the handle and concealing the blade with his forefinger. Swinging an arm across her chest, he restrained her.

  "What the hell is going on?" She looked scared and confused. She opened her mouth, "H—" The word was lost in a gurgle of blood as he slashed the scalpel blade through her delicate throat.

  49

  Miki retrieved her car from the visitor's lot, having parked there the previous evening to avoid the emergency department employee entrance. She stopped at Starbucks for a double-shot, skim milk latte with a sprinkle of cocoa, then drove across town to Medical Center by the Sea's sister hospital, Medical Center by the Glades. She remembered laughing when the place was built and named, but now she, like many other people, took the indulgent name in stride. She supposed corporate bigwigs thought they were clever by establishing a Florida identity for the Sea to Glades Hospital Corporation.

  Traffic snarled heading west. As she edged past an accident, she craned her neck to see. A dazed man with a bloodied face sat in the front car. The other driver, an elderly lady, lingered close to the window, shifting her weight from side to side while leaning on a four-legged cane.

  Miki pulled over in front of the vehicles, stuck her keys and cell phone in her pocket, and went to help. As she approached the window, she said, "Has anyone called 9-1-1?"

  The tiny woman turned in Miki's direction, wobbling a bit. "I don't know. I didn't. I can't see well enough to use a cell phone."

  Miki shook her head in amazement. She eased the woman to the side so she could open the door and check th
e old man in the car. "Are you okay?" She held his wrist to feel for a pulse.

  "I think so. I hit my head."

  Miki inspected the head wound, thought it minor, but knew there was a chance of concussion or worse. "Stay right there. Don't move. Rest, sir. I'll call the medics."

  Miki placed the call, escorted the lady to her battered car, and assisted her inside. She hit the switch for the emergency flashers on the dash. "Sit here until the police and medics arrive, please."

  In a frail voice, the lady said, "I hope he'll be alright. I didn't see him when I turned. I'm so sorry."

  "I don't think we'll know how badly he's hurt until he gets checked at the hospital." Miki closed the car door.

  Miki took a moment to tell the patrol officer, who pulled in a minute later, what she saw when she arrived. Then she waited with the old man until the paramedics arrived.

  "Hi, Joe. Sam." She tipped her head in the direction of the lady's car. "She seems fine. This gentleman hit his head."

  "Thanks, Miki. We'll take it from here."

  Miki left the scene. Caffeine cruised through her system, and she wanted to get to the hospital across town while she felt the charge.

  At Medical Center by the Glades, Miki parked in the employee lot, taking a minute to position her parking tag so the corporate name showed through the windshield and the rearview mirror obscured the hospital name. She did the same with her nametag, clipping it to her collar and letting it drop, half-hidden, behind the lapel of her lab coat. She stuck her purse under the seat and pocketed her keys.

  She'd worked a few staff relief shifts at the hospital over the last couple of years. She knew the layout and entered with an own-the-joint attitude, heading toward the first floor medical information department with a confident gait.

  The department seemed busy. Good, Miki thought, as she waited at the service counter. She drummed her fingers and glanced at her watch every few seconds.