Most Wanted

Chapter Forty-six

Chesterbrook Hospital was a massive modern complex of boxy tan buildings with orange tile rooftops, sprawling with associated medical offices, blood-testing labs, a physical rehab center, and parking lots and garages. Christine got out of the car and joined the stragglers heading to the vigil. She was running late because traffic had turned heavy, so she’d parked in the ER lot, which was the closest to the vigil, which was being held outdoors, behind the hospital, on the South Lawn.

The sky had clouded over, which seemed appropriate for such a solemn occasion, and Christine walked along the walkway, following people to the South Lawn. A hospital employee stationed at the lawn entrance handed her a bottle of water, a white program, and a white ribbon, which she didn’t have time to pin to her dress. Even if she had, it would have felt wrong. She thought about using a blue Porta John on the route, but it reeked, and she was late.

She entered the South Lawn, a lush green carpet where a few hundred people stood facing a temporary wooden stage with forest-green skirting and a matching backdrop covered with CBH logos. At its center was a podium with a microphone, several folding chairs with seated men and women in suits, and uniformed West Chester police officers, in front of an American flag and a forest-green flag bearing the hospital logo.

Christine joined the back of the crowd, looking around. She’d come hoping to learn more about Gail Robinbrecht, and hospital employees were out in such force that they looked like an army of lab coats, blue, green, and maroon scrubs, green lanyards, and clogs. Everyone wore a white ribbon, and each face bore the traces of sadness. There were fresh tears from nurses who must’ve known Gail personally, and still others who carried green balloons and homemade posters with Gail’s picture: GAIL, WE MISS YOU! FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS! CBH FOREVER RIP GAIL.

Christine caught snippets of conversation around her, either from employees talking about Gail-“dedicated nurse,” “so sweet,” “still can’t believe it,” “seems unreal”-or talking about Zachary, who had become the focus of their collective anger-“heartless bastard,” “sick pervert,” “they should fry him,” “he’ll never hurt anyone else.” She felt like an interloper among them, her white ribbon tucked into her purse and the child of the man they all hated growing inside her very body.

The program got underway, and two massive screens flanking the stage came to life, broadcasting a magnified close-up of the speaker, a middle-aged man in a gray suit, at the podium. Some of the crowd ahead of Christine surged forward for a center view of the stage, but others flowed around the right side of the stage, settling for a parallax view, if closer to the front. She joined the latter group and noticed a group of downcast nurses in patterned scrubs in the front row of the crowd, their arms linked together as they stood. Among them she recognized the older nurse and the younger Asian nurse from the memorial, and Christine realized that they were the orthopedic surgery unit, where Gail had worked. Next to them was a reserved section, cordoned off by a green sash, which held a grief-stricken older couple who had to be Gail’s parents, sitting with their other family and friends. They raised their glistening eyes to the stage when the man at the podium tapped the microphone.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he began to say, his voice solemn. He had on rimless glasses and a shaven head, a masculine look he managed to pull off. “My name is Dr. Adam Verbena, CEO of Chesterbrook Hospital, and I welcome you to this program, at which we will remember one of our dearest colleagues, nurse Gail Robinbrecht. Gail worked for the past nine years in our orthopedic surgery unit and was beloved by all of us and by her patients. Today will be a celebration of her life and of all she gave to those around her, because that’s what nurses do, and that’s the way she would’ve wanted it, as those of you who knew her the best will agree.”

Christine glanced at the orthopedic surgery nurses, who nodded in approval, and there were sniffles throughout the crowd. Everyone faced front, except for a handful of children who fidgeted, and Christine realized that the public must have been invited. Older people sat on folding chairs that had been set up on the other side of the crowd, and she spotted a hugely pregnant woman sitting with them, wondering how she felt. Off to the side, she recognized the group of Gail’s neighbors, sitting together: Kimberly and Lainey with their neighbor Dom, Rachel the brunette horsewoman with her boyfriend, Jerri the Indian-American wife, who had seen Zachary in Gail’s kitchen, sitting with her husband, and Phil the good-looking WCU student with the headphones, sitting with his girlfriend and his roommates, who lived two doors down from Gail.

On the stage, Dr. Verbena was saying, “Today, we will have only three speakers, after Father Lipinski leads us in a moment of silence. You will then hear from Dr. Milton Cohen, CEO of the Suburban Health System, Dr. Grant Hallstead, Chief of Orthopedic Surgery, and Ms. Rita Kaplan, Chief of Nursing, who will recall the day that she hired the young Gail Robinbrecht.” Dr. Verbena stepped aside. “Father Lipinski, would you lead us in a moment of silence before your speech?”

Christine took a sip of water, and when her stomach growled unhappily, she found herself wondering how long the program would be. She was regretting not having used the Porta John on the walk down. She looked around for another, but the only one was way in the far back of the crowd and the line was long.

A black-robed Father Lipinski came to the podium, then adjusted the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the hospital community and neighbors, please join me in a moment of silence for Gail Robinbrecht.”

Everyone’s head bowed, and Christine felt vaguely dizzy as she looked down, noticing that her feet were swelling, puffing out of her espadrilles. It must have been due to all the running around she was doing, though it hadn’t happened before. She thought the books had said that her feet wouldn’t swell until the eighth or ninth month.

The moment of silence ended, and Father Lipinski continued, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. At times like this, it is difficult to trust in God’s wisdom, for one of our brightest lights has been taken from us. In addition, at times like this, we may find ourselves questioning His ways…”

Christine began to lose focus as the pastor spoke, and her thoughts strayed to the evidence against Zachary and how he’d been filmed talking to Allen-Bogen and McLeane, though he’d told her he didn’t know them. There was too much evidence to dismiss, even though Christine didn’t want him to be guilty, with every fiber of her being. She shifted on her feet, which were beginning to ache.

Father Lipinski ceded the podium to Dr. Milton Cohen, who was tall and good-looking in a corporate way, with dark hair going silvery gray at the temples. He began to speak, and Christine tried to pay attention, his speech sounding sadly like the others; “wonderful nurse,” “always a smile,” “upbeat attitude,” “made every patient feel special.”

Christine started looking around for a bathroom, noticing that the physical rehab building was across the parking lot, not that far. Its entrance hall was a box of glass, and she could see hospital personnel and people in street clothes inside the lobby. The first floor had to have a bathroom, but she didn’t know if she could sneak away from the vigil without being noticed or rude. She tried to hang in and pay attention.

The next speaker was Dr. Grant Hallstead, and he was younger than she would have expected for someone so responsible. His light reddish hair was cut in layers, and his eyes were brilliant blue, magnified on the screen. He spoke with a preppy accent, his vowels plummy as he added to the consensus; “an excellent nurse,” “brought cheer to our unit,” “always a kind word,” “took extra shifts even when she wasn’t asked,” “had a brilliant future stolen from her.”

Christine couldn’t pay attention because her bladder was filling. She had to get to a bathroom, and the physical rehab building was the closest. She backed away from the crowd and hustled past the stage, noticing more men and women in suits conferring in low tones behind the green curtain.

She hurried off the grass, reached the concrete sidewalk, and scooted through the parking lot of the physical rehab building, ducking a passing Cadillac. She made a beeline for the entrance, threw open the glass door, and mouthed to the security guard, “Ladies’ room?”

“To the right,” he answered, pointing.

Christine hurried past him, made her way through the lobby, then followed the signs to the restrooms. The men’s room was first, and the ladies’ room predictably down a long hall. She scurried along, reached the ladies’ room, and pushed open the door, startled to find three women in suits, looking over some notes for the vigil program.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Christine said, almost banging into them.

“Excuse us,” said one of the women, stepping back. “We shouldn’t have been so close to the door.”

“No, my fault.” Christine headed to the last stall, to give herself some privacy if they were going to use the ladies’ room for their meeting. She closed the stall door, practically threw her purse at the hook on the back, and slid off her underwear just in time to sit down.

Outside the stall, the women were saying, “Tell Rita that Gail’s mom and dad are in the crowd. They’re sitting in the first row on the right, the far right.”

“Got it,” the other woman said. “What are their names again?”

“John and Hilda Robinbrecht.”

“Hilda, really?”

“Yes, okay, let’s go,” the other woman answered, then Christine heard the sound of the ladies’ room door opening and heels clattering out, leaving her finally in peace.

Christine let herself relax on the toilet seat, in no hurry to get up because it felt so good to finally sit down. She looked at her feet, which were still swelling. She straightened her legs to elevate them, and in the next moment, she heard the ladies’ room door bang open again, then came more clattering shoes and the sound of a woman bursting into tears.

“What a jerk!” the woman cried out, between hoarse sobs. “… he has some nerve, really that man has the gall of ten men…”

“It’s okay, honey, it’s okay,” another woman said, her voice soothing.

“No it’s not… I should go out there and bust him… standing up there in front of all those people… so proud of himself… I should tell everyone what a fake he is, he’s friggin’ married!”

Christine kept her feet up, so they wouldn’t know the stall was occupied. It was hard to do, but it was too awkward to reveal that she was there. From the sound of the conversation, someone had been having an affair with a married man. She didn’t want to embarrass them or herself.

“Honey, you have to get a grip. We have to go back out there. People are going to notice you’re not there.”

“They know I’m her best friend… they’ll expect me to cry… he doesn’t deserve to speak at her service… he didn’t deserve her… I know she really loved him… but I told her, ‘he’s using you, he’s never gonna leave his wife, ever’…”

Inside the stall, Christine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Her service?” The two women must have been talking about Gail. Gail must have been the one having the affair, and the married man must be one of the speakers at her vigil. Christine flashed on the orthopedic surgery nurses at the memorial. They had told her the funny nickname of Gail’s best friend. Dink.

Outside the stall, the sobbing resumed. “It’s so unfair that she died right now… when she was going to end it for good… she was trying to date… she knew I was right…”

“Wash your face, come on. We have to go back out. Keep your cool. Do it for Gail. She would want you to, Dink.”

Dink. Christine had been right. She couldn’t wait to hear more. If Gail had been having an affair with a married man and had wanted to break up with him, then the married man could be a suspect in her murder. It was certainly possible. Christine made herself keep her feet high, so they wouldn’t know she was there.

Dink’s sobbing began to subside. “He would never let her go… but he wouldn’t commit to her either… he wanted it both ways… the ego on that man… he’s a total narcissist… I should tell everybody that he’s a fraud…”

“No, don’t do that. That won’t help now, and it will just upset her parents. Here, blow your nose. Let’s go.”

Inside the stall, Christine’s thoughts raced. So one of the speakers could be Gail’s killer, but which one? They were all in hospital administration, all about the same age, and all of them were decent-looking. She couldn’t remember any of their names. She wished she could get her vigil program from her purse but didn’t dare. She strained to keep her feet up, then she heard the sound of water running and the mechanical whirring of the paper-towel dispenser.

“Honey, hurry, really, we should go. They’re all out there.”

“That bastard!” Dink heaved a final sob. “He wasn’t worth her tears-or mine. You’re right, Amy. Screw him!”

“That’s the spirit! Ignore him! Take the high road. You won’t be sorry.”

Christine realized that the existence of a married boyfriend also explained why Gail wasn’t seeing anybody. Maybe Gail had been getting over the loss of someone in Iraq, but she had fallen in love with a married man who was stringing her along. Christine heard some nose-blowing outside the stall, then the door opening and shoes clattering as the women left the restroom.

Christine jumped up, dug inside her purse, and pulled out the program for the vigil, which was folded in half. On the right was a list of speakers, and there were three male names: Dr. Adam Verbena, Dr. Grant Hallstead, and Dr. Milton Cohen. One of them could have been Gail’s killer.

A serial killer.

Christine reached for her phone, hurried out of the stall, and flew out of the restroom.