Trauma

CHAPTER 49

Detective Kowalski from the Boston PD would be showing up soon. Carrie tried to calm her crackling nerves, but was gripped by an icy terror. Six hours after the attack she could feel the man’s powerful hand wrapped around her ankle. The VA Police arranged transport, since she was too rattled to drive, and they also set up the meeting with the Boston PD.

David drove up to the Bryants’ home in a Zipcar rental and followed Carrie to her bedroom for a private conversation. The police would want to know why somebody had tried to kill her, and she wanted David’s help with her answer. For a while, neither could speak. Carrie’s body shook as though suffering a chill. She was exhausted physically and mentally and it was David’s news that pulled her from the fog of fear.

“I know who Bob Richardson is,” he announced. “Emma finally accessed the database the DMV shared with law enforcement and came up with a hundred percent facial match.”

Bob Richardson, according to the bio David printed off the corporate Web site, was a senior vice president at CerebroMed, a Virginia-based biopharmaceutical company focused primarily on discovering drugs affecting cerebral function.

“What the heck is Bob Richardson doing giving me a virtual reality demo?”

“Are there any drug trials involved with what you’re doing?” David asked.

Carrie felt her senses sharpening. Having something to focus on helped her to settle.

“No,” Carrie said. “Unless Goodwin and Trent are doing something Dr. Finley and I don’t know about.”

“Which we know she is.”

“But what?” Carrie asked.

“What if Goodwin is letting Trent experiment on these patients with a drug of some sort — maybe related to PTSD, maybe not — and in exchange she receives money for her advanced neurological procedures?”

Carrie mulled this over. “I thought the virtual reality was insufficient,” she said. “But a drug? Now that could explain the palinacousis, some sort of side effect.”

“Yeah, a side effect,” David said. “One that Goodwin hid by getting those patients off the floor.”

Carrie nodded. “She wanted them gone. They weren’t exhibiting poor judgment after all. She made them sign out AMA.”

“Not every patient has the side effect,” David said. “That was always one of our working assumptions. You just happened to investigate two who did.”

“It would explain why Goodwin didn’t want me to check in on any of my patients post-op. She didn’t want me to discover the side effect and alert somebody. It would have thrown the program into disarray. The vets would be subjected to a battery of tests and maybe the drug would be discovered. Game over.”

David thought. “You’ve got some success stories, though, right?”

“So far I’ve met Ramón Hernandez and Terry Bushman. But Dr. Finley mentioned two others.”

“Maybe the side effects are temporary in some cases, so they just need time to clear.”

“It’s possible,” Carrie said.

“Can you get access to the patient records of the vets who have been treated with DBS?”

“I had asked Dr. Finley if I could see them before I was attacked,” Carrie said. “Why?”

“It would be interesting to see if any other vets left the neuro recovery unit like Abington and Fasciani. And speaking of your boss, what about him?”

Carrie looked incredulous. “Who? Alistair? No,” she said. Alistair was Carrie’s confidant, her mentor, the man who had given her career new life — but she could discount his involvement for other reasons, too.

“He didn’t even know Richardson,” Carrie said, “and he had plenty of opportunities to introduce him to me. I think I have a pretty good read on people, and Alistair’s commitment is to the patients, to this program. He didn’t care that I went looking for Abington and Fasciani. He encouraged it. The problem was Goodwin — who, by the way, signed those AMA forms. She’s the last link in the chain. Alistair has had my back with Goodwin since day one. There’s a reason Goodwin has had it out for me from the get-go. She didn’t want me on staff, and was very vocal about it.”

David looked intrigued. “Goodwin runs the surgical staff, right?”

“That’s right,” Carrie said.

“So what about Rockwell?”

Carrie said, “I was a special hire by Dr. Finley, but Sam Rockwell was on Goodwin’s staff from the start, and a fully accredited VA neurosurgeon.”

“So Goodwin didn’t want you hired.”

“Another reason I think the buck stops with her.”

“She gave you that bogus assignment, knowing you would be at the hospital late,” David said.

Carrie went pale. “You think Goodwin set me up to be killed?”

“It’s possible,” David said. “And perhaps she did the same to Rockwell.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Dr. Finley didn’t know what Goodwin was up to, but Rockwell did?” David said.

Carrie considered this. “Rockwell knew,” she said in a soft voice. “He had to. Maybe he wanted out, or was going to blow the whistle, or something. That’s why they tried to kill him.”

“And he was as good as dead, too,” David said. “At least until he started to wake up.”

A sour, acidic taste burned the back of Carrie’s throat. “Goodwin must have known I was on my way to see him,” she said.

“It’s possible Rockwell’s doc called Goodwin to report a change in his condition. He was her employee, after all, so they probably had some kind of relationship. The other doctor might have mentioned you were coming up to see him.”

“And Goodwin told Trent,” Carrie said. “So what do we tell the police?” Carrie stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed beside David.

“We don’t have much evidence,” David said. “We have a recording that really doesn’t validate anything we just discussed. Everything here is conjecture, not proof. We go to the police with what we have, and the whole operation could go dark. Evidence could be destroyed, or worse, those missing vets might be permanently silenced — like Rockwell.”

Carrie sat back on the bed and leaned against the wall to keep from tipping over. Fatigue seeped into her bones, leaving her completely enervated. A feeling of dread had wormed into her gut and Carrie clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

“What have I gotten myself into?” she muttered, just barely holding it together.

David took hold of Carrie’s hand. He held her gaze until the fear swirling inside calmed like a windless sea. In that moment, the only sound Carrie could hear was her own racing heart. She felt strangely hypnotized by the flecks of gold that ringed David’s penetrating eyes.

For the first time, Carrie noticed the scar across David’s cheek and wondered if he got that in Syria, or some other dangerous place he called the office. For a moment his touch completely possessed her, and blocked out all other sensations.

“Whatever you decide,” David said, still holding her hand, “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Carrie’s mother called from downstairs, “Sweetheart, Detective Kowalski is here.”

Detective Kowalski sipped from the mug of tea Howard Bryant had replenished. After greetings and introductions, it was time to get down to business.

Everyone gathered around the kitchen table: Carrie, Irene, Howard, Adam, and David. Adam hung back, leaning against a wall, and made no effort to shield his glowering expression. His anger appeared reserved for — and directed solely at — David, for reasons Carrie could not fathom.

Everyone was dressed casually, but the proceedings carried an air of formality. To his credit, Detective Kowalski, a trim man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, a snub nose, and kind brown eyes, took his time getting started. His patience helped Carrie to relax, though her hand shook with a persistent tremor every time she sipped her tea. David’s touch had quieted Carrie’s nerves, but the horror of what she’d endured persisted. Irene stood behind her daughter, her hands perched protectively on Carrie’s shoulders.

“So you’ve seen this guy before? That’s what I heard.” Kowalski spoke with a heavy South Boston accent.

It was an effort to focus, but she looked at the color picture of the dead man Kowalski put in front of her. The photograph did not show where he had taped the cyanide capsule to the inside of his wrist.

“At the park,” Carrie said. “I thought he was following me. I guess he was.” She glanced at Adam, who looked distraught.

“Any reason?” Kowalski asked. “I mean, I can’t say I’ve ever come across a stalker who carried cyanide capsules on him before.”

“Can you order those online?” Howard asked.

Kowalski pondered the question. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “I remember some guy took a pill in court after he was convicted of arson. Couldn’t do the time, I guess. Maybe our guy had a ‘get caught’ plan as well.”

“Maybe,” Irene said.

Carrie and David exchanged glances. This was the moment of truth — should they share what limited information they had? She gazed down at the photograph of the man with the shamrock tattoo, taken post-life, and felt five sets of eyes boring down on her.

“We’ve got no ID,” Kowalski said. “Serial numbers are wiped clean from the gun. DNA testing will take some time, same as a dental match. For now he’s a John Doe. I don’t know why this guy was after you, where your paths might have crossed other than the park, but there’s something here. A patient of yours, somebody you saw at the VA, one of your other jobs, during medical school, at a party? I don’t know you. You tell me.” Detective Kowalski took a long, unhurried drink and eyed Carrie over the rim of his mug.

Carrie shot David a sidelong glance and picked up the photograph. She studied it silently for half a minute, then set it back down on the table.

“I don’t know why he attacked me,” she finally said.