Mercy

CHAPTER 44

It was Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving. The kitchen should have been the most active room in the home, but the stove burners were off and the refrigerator mostly empty. Paul sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee Julie had brewed for him. Trevor was in his bedroom, packing his bags and preparing for a lengthy stay with his father. With all that had happened, Julie could not deal with meal preparation, hosting, or even being with others. The turkey would stay put in the freezer until she got around to thawing and cooking it.

Everyone who had been invited to Julie’s home for the Thanksgiving meal made other arrangements, including Julie’s mother, who made no secret of her worry and concern.

“I’m fine, honest, Mom,” Julie said to her mother, one of the few people who still called the landline. “Everything will get cleared up. Just give it time. Okay?”

Julie must have had this conversation with her mother half a dozen times since her ouster from White only a day ago. She might have sounded convincing, but it was not exactly how she felt. Worry lingered about how the investigation into Shirley Mitchell’s death would ripple through all facets of Julie’s life and how it would impact her son.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Trevor lumbered out of the bedroom with his overnight bag slung across one shoulder. “I’m all set,” he announced.

Julie did not believe in keeping secrets, and had told Trevor what had happened to her at White and how the incident was under investigation.

Trevor took the news in stride. “I’ve seen you at work, Mom,” he’d said. “I know you wouldn’t do anything to harm that woman on purpose.”

I didn’t harm her at all, Julie thought.

No point being defensive. Julie thanked Trevor for his support. What she needed now was a way to prove him right. She did not question that heparin had entered Shirley Mitchell’s blood, but how did the drug get there?

Julie was not the only one suffering. Jordan felt despondent over his predicament and Julie’s. They had spoken by phone, but had not met in person. During their conversation, they agreed-without Lucy’s support, their investigation was at a complete standstill.

Trevor had forgotten something in his room, and went back to retrieve it.

“You sure you don’t want to join us tomorrow night?” Paul asked.

“I feel terrible saying it, but I’d rather be alone. Just not feeling up to any company.”

The apartment buzzer sounded and Julie’s heart jumped. She went to the intercom.

“Who is it?”

A gruff voice responded, “Detective Richard Spence and Detective Howard Capshaw of the Boston PD. We’d like to have a word with you, if we may.”

Paul rushed over. “Not without a lawyer,” he whispered in Julie’s ear.

Julie returned an annoyed look to tell him she could handle this. “Yes, please come up.”

Paul glared at Julie. “Are you crazy?” he said.

“No, I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong and I have nothing to hide. I don’t need a lawyer when I have the truth.”

“For a brilliant doctor, you’re acting pretty naïve. These guys don’t care about the truth. They care about closing cases, and they’ll do whatever they can to trap you.”

“Thank you for your concern, Paul,” Julie said. “I promise to be careful.”

A moment later came a knock on the door. Julie checked the peephole and saw both men flash official-looking badges. Introductions took place after Julie opened the door for them. Spence was thin with graying hair and a hard-bitten face. Capshaw had a bit more heft, less gray in his thinning hair, but like Spence had a hard-bitten face with a ruddier complexion. Both wore suits and neither had smiles.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Spence said.

“Thanks for the surprise visit,” Paul said with sarcasm.

“Paul, why don’t you help Trevor get his things together? I’ll see the detectives to the living room, and then I’ll see you both out. Detectives, if you’ll come with me.”

Paul huffed his displeasure, while Julie escorted the two detectives into the living room. She offered them coffee or water, which they declined. She left them there and went to say her good-byes to Trevor.

“Be good to your dad,” she said. “I’ll take care of Winston, and I’ll see you soon.”

Trevor was anxious. “What are the cops doing here, Mom?” he said in a low voice.

“It’s nothing, honey,” Julie assured him. “They just have to ask some questions, that’s all.” She ruffled Trevor’s long hair, and crouched to look him in the eyes. “I love you, sweetheart. Everything is going to be just fine. Trust me.”

A tickle of doubt made Julie wonder if she had just told him a lie. Trevor had a hard time looking his mother in the eyes, probably because she would see how anxious he was feeling. Trevor left with an extra-long hug that brought a lump to Julie’s throat.

Julie returned to the living room to find Detective Spence there, milling about, checking things over, looking in places she had not invited him to look. Detective Capshaw was not in the room, but entered from the hall. It was likely he’d been examining the rest of the apartment. Julie mulled this over and regretted not taking Paul’s concerns more seriously.

Capshaw and Spence took seats on the sofa while Julie pulled up a chair. Spence took out a notebook.

“It’s not often the same person is connected to two different murder investigations,” he began.

No friendly smile there, no glint in the eye: this detective had elevated the stone-faced look to an art form.

“Regarding Sherri, I don’t really know what to say other than what I told the detectives I spoke with. I believed, and still do, that William Colchester had something to do with Sherri’s murder.”

Capshaw said, “Yeah? I read that in the report. So did Colchester inject Shirley Mitchell with whatever it was that killed her?”

Unlike Spence, Capshaw sported a crooked smile. Julie thought of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. In that moment, Julie hated everything about these detectives. Their air of superiority and smugness, evocative of Dr. Coffey, made it clear that these two were hardly on her side. Julie launched into an explanation of events the way she understood them. The detectives took careful notes.

“Let’s go through this one more time,” Spence said, a friendlier look on his face, as though trying to clear hostility from the air. “You injected the deceased, Shirley Mitchell, with a syringe filled with-” Spence glanced at his notebook. “-herapin, and that’s what caused her to bleed to death.”

“It’s called heparin, and no,” Julie answered emphatically. “I cleared Shirley’s central line using a saline flush, and somehow a high quantity of heparin got in her bloodstream.”

“So you had nothing to do with that,” Capshaw said.

“I did not.”

Spence leaned forward and looked Julie in the eyes. “She was going to die, wasn’t she?”

Julie shrugged. “We’re all going to die,” she said.

Spence nodded in agreement. “You know what I mean,” he said, kind of on the sly. “This lady was spitting the last bit of air from her lungs, wasn’t she? So you just pushed her along.”

“We’ve read some of your, well, call them provocative essays on the subject, so we know how you think about these things,” Capshaw said.

“And we don’t disagree with you,” Spence added. “Hell, it’s how I’d want to go.”

Julie pursed her lips and tried to get her pulse to settle. “Detectives, I know what you’re trying to do here and I’m not going to bite, because nothing you said is true. I didn’t intentionally inject Shirley Mitchell with heparin, and it’s a horrible way to die. As someone who has written extensively about death with dignity, I can tell you that suffering a massive bleed through pretty much every orifice, including the rectum, is hardly a dignified way to go.”

Capshaw cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Well, what’s your theory on how she got the drug in her system?”

“I don’t have one, Detective Capshaw,” Julie said. “If I did, I would certainly share it with you.”

Spence gave his partner a nod, and Capshaw took it as his cue to stand. He handed Julie his card.

“Please be kind to Amber,” Julie said. “She’s as innocent as I am.”

“Thanks for the opinion. If you can think of anything, give us a call,” Capshaw said.

“Am I still a suspect?” Julie asked.

“I’ll answer your question this way,” Spence said. “If you’re planning on going out of town in the next couple of days, let us know.”

FROM THE front seat of his white cargo van, Lincoln Cole waited for the call like a fisherman anticipating a tug on a slack line. He had chartered boats in the Caribbean before, glided across pristine blue waters in search of bonefish, wahoo, tuna, but this was a different sort of exhilaration. His employer was undeniably crafty. Lincoln had a good sense of people from his years on the force and it was obvious he was working for a highly intelligent individual, someone who understood human behavior as well as, if not better than, most detectives.

Lincoln had never worked with Spence or Capshaw during his years on the force, but they seemed fairly competent. They had asked Julie the right questions, had pushed her just hard enough. If Lincoln had been in the room he might have told Julie how Amber had flipped, just to gauge the doc’s reaction, but the criticism was a quibble. Those two had nothing and they knew it. At most, Julie would be fired from White, but Lincoln doubted she would be arrested for murder.

Julie still had to be dealt with in a permanent fashion, which Lincoln knew was his employer’s plan all along. Get her out of the hospital first, and then get her dead. But killing her and the diener had to be-Lincoln racked his brain for the right word-organic.

He checked his watch. No way to know when the call would come in, but it would come. He trusted his employer implicitly. The waning sun in a cloudless sky offered only the illusion of warmth. Lincoln used a portable battery-powered heater to keep from shivering while he waited in his van parked at a meter down the street from Julie’s home. On the seat beside him was the uniform for Lincoln’s new job-armed security guard at Suburban West hospital. In the wake of so many mass shootings, armed guards at suburban hospitals were an increasingly common sight, and Lincoln’s background in law enforcement added authenticity to his hire.

It was no surprise to Lincoln that his employer had enough pull to get him the gig, but he was still impressed with how quickly it had come together. If all went according to plan, Julie and Jordan would soon be sneaking into Suburban West.

What would Lincoln do should he stumble upon a pair of armed intruders on his first day on the job? Why, he would have to defend himself. Lincoln would of course be justified in shooting to kill. One victim was a convicted felon and the other a suspected murderer, which would only bolster Lincoln’s self-defense claim.

The sound of ringing jangled in Lincoln’s headphones. His TrueSpy application was picking up a phone call to Julie. Lincoln smiled, imagining this was the first big tug on his fishing line. Would the caller be the person he was expecting? Lincoln listened intently.

“Hello, this is Dr. Devereux.”

Doctor. The word choice was interesting. Was a queen without a court still a queen? Lincoln asked himself.

“We don’t know each other,” a female voice said, “but we may be able to help each other.”

“Who is this?” Julie asked.

Lincoln could not suppress a smile. This was indeed the bite he had been waiting for. Lincoln pantomimed the motion of pulling back on his imaginary rod to set the hook.

“My name is Allyson Brock. I’m the former CEO of Suburban West.”

A pause.

“What can I do for you, Allyson?”

“I received an anonymous note in my mailbox. It came in a blank envelope with my name on the front. No stamp and no return address, and no signature, either. I would like to read it to you, if I may.”

“Yes, of course.”

“‘Dear Ms. Brock. I’m sending you this message because I believe you can help my friend, Julie Devereux, and help yourself at the same time. You lost your job at Suburban West and I want to give you the chance to take revenge on the person responsible for your ouster as CEO-Roman Janowski. I have been asked by my friend to look for a very specific tissue sample. I am being watched too closely to help her. You are not. Call her. She can explain what she’s looking for. You’ll know what to do when you hear what she needs. Believe me when I tell you if she’s successful, it will crush White and do major damage to Roman Janowski. The samples have to be prepared properly, so tell Julie to bring a secret admirer. She’ll know what it means.’ The note had your phone number at the bottom,” Allyson said.

Lincoln gave another hard tug on that imaginary line of his.

“Who sent it to you?” Julie asked.

“I have no idea,” Lincoln heard Allyson say. “It was signed, ‘A Friend.’”

“Lucy,” Julie said in a soft voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I’ll tell you what I’m looking for. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“I think there’s something very wrong at White. Some combination of drugs, something, I don’t know what, causing an allergic reaction, triggering fatal attacks in patients with relatively healthy hearts. I need tissue samples so we can test for allergy-causing antigens. But the samples can’t just come from anybody. They have to be from people who had healthy hearts, who died suddenly, and who had previously broken out in hives.”

The call went silent. Lincoln mimed the motions of reeling in his catch.

“Let me get this straight: you want access to one of our cadavers?”

“That’s right,” Julie said. “But you’ve been fired from Suburban West. I knew about that even before you read me the note, so I’m not sure how you can help.”

“I’ve been fired, yes, but I still have access to my office-I’m allowed to use it while I’m searching for my next position. That was the deal the lawyers worked out.”

“So you have a badge?”

“A badge that can access all of the facilities, yes. I could get you inside. But tell me, do you really think this would hurt Roman?”

“If you can help me find the right sample, I think White will have to clean house, and Roman Janowski would be the first to go.”

Lincoln’s audio feed distorted when Allyson chortled.

“I’d like that very much,” Allyson said. “The sample needs to come from a patient who had hives, is that right? And death from cardiac arrest with no history of heart disease?”

“That’s right on both accounts.”

“I have a friend who can check for me. In fact, I have a lot of friends there. Nobody likes what White Memorial, Roman specifically, has done. Let me get back to you.”

Lincoln tensed with excitement as a lengthy wait put him on edge. In time, the phone rang again.

“Julie, I think there’s a body you can take a sample from. He died on Monday. The body is still in our morgue because the family can’t agree where he’s going to be buried; actually met him a week ago, while I was giving Roman a hospital tour. Albert and Roman talked about a number of things, including scars Albert said he got from hives.”

“Sounds like post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation,” Julie said.

“I’m looking at his medical record right now and that’s what it says. No mention anywhere of heart disease. Does that help?”

Lincoln laughed out loud. It was too easy, too perfect.

“I think it helps tremendously. What was the patient’s name?” Julie’s voice was ripe with excitement.

“Albert Cunningham,” Allyson said. “He was the public address announcer for the Boston Red Sox.”

“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” Julie said. “The hospital will be quiet.”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Do you really want to help me?”

“I really want to hurt Roman Janowski.”

“This might. I think this just might.”

“Then I want to help.”

“Give me your address. I’ll come over tonight if that’s all right with you. I’ll get the badge and we can work out the logistics. Tomorrow, I’ll go get the sample.”

“Works for me,” Allyson said, and she gave Julie her address.

It worked for Lincoln Cole, too. His first shift at Suburban West happened to be scheduled for the next afternoon.