Harmful Intent

PROLOGUE
SEPTEMBER 9, 1988 11:45 A.M. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

1
MONDAY, MAY 15, 1989 11:15 A.M.

2
TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1989 9:12 A.M.

3
TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1989 7:49 P.M.

4
TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1989 9:42 P.M.

5
TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1989 10:51 P.M.

6
WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 1989 6:15 A.M.

7
WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 1989 4:37 P.M.

8
WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 1989 11:23 P.M.

9
THURSDAY, MAY 18, 1989 7:52 A.M.

10
THURSDAY, MAY 18, 1989 4:07 P.M.

11
THURSDAY, MAY 18, 1989 6:30 P.M.

12
FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1989 11:25 A.M.

13
FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1989 7:46 P.M.

14
FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1989 8:42 P.M.

15
SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1989 8:11 A.M.

16
SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1989 7:52 P.M.

EPILOGUE
MONDAY, MAY 29, 1989 11:30 A.M.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

HARMFUL INTENT

 

A
Berkley
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1990
by
Robin Cook

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-2105-1

 

A
BERKLEY
BOOK®

Berkley
Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Berkley
and the “
B
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: May, 2002

Titles by Robin Cook

CONTAGION
ACCEPTABLE RISK
BLINDSIGHT
BRAIN
COMA
FATAL CURE
FEVER
GODPLAYER
HARMFUL INTENT
MINDBEND
MORTAL FEAR
MUTATION
OUTBREAK
SPHINX
TERMINAL
VITAL SIGNS
THE YEAR OF THE INTERN
CHROMOSOME 6
TOXIN

As with all my projects, I have benefited significantly from the experience and expertise of friends, colleagues, and friends of friends for the writing of
Harmful Intent.
Since the story bridges two professions, it is understandable that professionals have been the primary source. Those whom I would particularly like to acknowledge are:

 

Physicians:

Tom Cook

Chuck Karpas

Stan Kessler

 

Attorneys:

Joe Cox

Victoria Ho

Leslie McClellan

 

Judge:

Tom Trettis

 

School-based therapist:

Jean Reeds

 

All of them generously donated many hours of their valuable time.

Once again for Audrey Cook,
my wonderful mother

“The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.”

—
Henry VI, Part II

From the first twinges of cramps that began around nine-thirty that morning, Patty Owen was sure that this was it. She had been worried that when the time came she wouldn't be able to distinguish between the contractions that signaled the onset of labor and the little kicks and general discomfort of the final trimester of her pregnancy. But her apprehension proved groundless; the twisting and grinding pain she was experiencing was entirely different from anything she had ever felt. It was familiar only in the sense that it was so classically textbook in its nature and regularity. Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, Patty felt a steady stab of pain in her lower back. In the intervals between, the pain vanished only to flare again. Despite the increasingly acute agony she was only beginning to endure, Patty couldn't repress a fleeting smile. She knew little Mark was on his way into the world.

Trying to remain calm, Patty searched through the scattered papers on the planning desk in the kitchen for the phone number of the hotel that Clark had given her the day before. He would have preferred to have skipped this business trip since Patty was so close to term, but the bank hadn't given him much choice. His boss had insisted that he follow through with the final round of negotiations that would close a deal he'd been working on for three months. As a compromise, the two men had agreed that no matter the state of the negotiations, Clark would be gone for only two days. He'd still hated to leave, but at least he'd be back a full week before Patty was due to deliver . . .

Patty found the hotel's number. She dialed and was put through to Clark's room by a friendly hotel operator. When he didn't pick up by the second ring, Patty knew Clark had already left for his meeting. Just to be sure, she let it ring five more times
in hopes that Clark was in the shower and would suddenly answer, out of breath. She was desperate to hear his reassuring voice.

While the phone rang, Patty shook her head, fighting back tears. For as happy as she'd been to be pregnant this, her first time, she had been troubled by a vague premonition from the start that something bad would happen. When Clark had come home with the news that he had to go out of town at such a critical juncture, Patty had seen her sense of foreboding confirmed. After all the Lamaze classes and exercises they'd done together, she would have to tough it out alone. Clark had assured her she was overly concerned, which was natural, and that he'd be back in plenty of time for the delivery.

The hotel operator came back on the line and asked if Patty wanted to leave a message. Patty told her that she wanted her husband to call her as soon as possible. She left the number for Boston Memorial Hospital. She knew that such a terse message was bound to upset Clark, but it served him right for going away at a time like this.

Next, Patty called Dr. Ralph Simarian's office. The doctor's booming, high-spirited voice momentarily quelled her fears. He told her to have Clark take her over to the BM, as he humorously referred to the Boston Memorial, and get her admitted. He'd see them there in a couple of hours. He told her that twenty-minute intervals meant she had a lot of time.

“Dr. Simarian?” Patty said as the doctor was about to disconnect. “Clark is out of town on a business trip. I'll be coming in by myself.”

“Great timing!” Dr. Simarian said with a laugh. “Just like a male. They like to have the fun, then disappear when there's a little work to be done.”

“He thought there was another week,” Patty explained, feeling like she had to defend Clark. She could be irritated at him but no one else could.

“Just joking,” Dr. Simarian said. “I'm sure he will be crushed not to be involved. When he comes back, we'll have a little surprise for him. Now don't be a bit alarmed. Everything's going to be okay. Do you have a way of getting to the hospital?”

Patty said she had a neighbor who had agreed to drive her in case there were any surprises while Clark was away.

“Dr. Simarian,” Patty added, hesitantly, “with my Lamaze partner gone, I think I really am too nervous to go through this.
I don't want to do anything to hurt the baby, but if you think I could be anesthetized the way we discussed . . .”

“No problem,” Dr. Simarian said, without letting her finish. “Don't you worry your pretty little head about these details. I'll handle everything. I'm going to call over there right this minute and tell them that you want the epidural, okay?”

Patty thanked Dr. Simarian and hung up the phone just in time to bite her lip as she felt the beginnings of another contraction.

There was no reason to worry, she told herself sternly. She still had plenty of time to make it to the hospital. Dr. Simarian had everything in hand. She knew her baby was healthy. She had insisted on ultrasound and amniocentesis, even though Dr. Simarian had advised it was unnecessary since Patty was only twenty-four years old. But between her ominous premonition and genuine concern, Patty's determination carried the day. The results of the tests were extremely encouraging: the child she was carrying was a healthy, normal boy. Within a week of receiving the results, Patty and Clark were painting the baby's room blue and deciding on names, ultimately settling on Mark.

All in all, there was no reason to expect anything but a normal delivery and a normal birth.

As Patty turned, intending to retrieve her packed overnight bag from the bedroom closet, she noticed the dramatic change in weather outside. The bright September sunlight which had been streaming through the bay window had been eclipsed by a dark cloud that had blown in suddenly from the west, plunging the family room into near darkness. A distant rumble of thunder sent a shiver down Patty's spine.

Not superstitious by nature, Patty refused to take this storm as an omen. She edged over to the family room couch and sat down. She thought she'd call her neighbor as soon as this contraction was over. That way they'd almost be at the hospital by the time the next one began.

As the pain reached a crescendo, the confidence that Dr. Simarian had engendered disappeared. Anxiety swept through Patty's mind just as a sudden gust of wind raked across the backyard, bending the birches, and bringing the first droplets of rain. Patty shuddered. She wished it were all over. She might not be superstitious, but she was frightened. All the timing—this storm, Clark's business trip, her going into labor a week early—seemed off. Tears rolled down Patty's cheeks as she waited to phone her neighbor. She only wished she weren't so afraid.

* * *

“Oh, wonderful,” Dr. Jeffrey Rhodes said sarcastically as he glanced up at the main anesthesia scheduling board in the anesthesia office. A new case had appeared: Patty Owen, a delivery with a specific request for an epidural. Jeffrey shook his head, knowing full well that he was the only anesthesiologist currently available. Everyone else on the day shift was tied up on a case. Jeffrey called the delivery area to check on the patient's status and was told there wasn't any rush since the woman hadn't arrived from admitting yet.

“Any complications I should know about?” Jeffrey asked, almost afraid to hear. Things hadn't been going well for him on this particular day.

“Looks routine,” the nurse said. “Primipara. Twenty-four. Healthy.”

“Who's the attending?”

“Simarian,” the nurse replied.

Jeffrey said he'd be over shortly and hung up the phone. Simarian, Jeffrey pondered, thinking it a wash. The guy was technically fine but Jeffrey found his patronizing manner toward patients a bit trying. Thank God it wasn't Braxton or Hicks. He wanted the case to go smoothly and hopefully quickly; if it had been either of the others, that wouldn't have been the case.

Leaving the anesthesia office, he headed down the main OR corridor, passing the scheduling desk and its attendant bustle of activity. The evening shift was due in a few minutes; the changing of the guard inevitably spelled momentary chaos.

Jeffrey pushed through the double swing doors of the surgical lounge and yanked off the mask which hung limply on his chest, dangling by its elastic. He tossed it into the waste receptacle with relief; he'd been breathing through the blasted thing for the last six hours.

The lounge was abuzz with staff members coming on shift. Jeffrey ignored them and passed through to the locker room, which was just as crowded. He paused in front of the mirror, curious to see if he looked as bad as he felt. He did. His eyes seemed to have receded, they appeared so sunken. Below each was a dark indelible crescent-shaped smudge. Even Jeffrey's mustache seemed the worse for wear and tear, though what could he expect after having kept it under the wraps of the surgical mask for six solid hours.

Like most doctors resisting the chronic hypochondriasis induced by medical school, Jeffrey often erred at the other
extreme: he denied or ignored every symptom of illness or sign of fatigue, until it threatened to overwhelm him. Today was no exception. From the moment he'd awakened that morning at six, he'd felt terrible. Although he'd been feeling run down for days, he first ascribed the light-headedness and chills to something he'd eaten the night before. When the waves of nausea came midmorning, Jeffrey was quick to attribute it to too much coffee. And when the headache and the diarrhea started in the early afternoon, he pinned it on the soup he'd had for lunch in the hospital cafeteria.

Only as he confronted his haggard reflection in the mirror of the surgical locker room did Jeffrey finally admit he was ill. He was probably coming down with the flu that had been going around the hospital for the last month. He put the flat of his wrist to his forehead for a rough check of his temperature. There was no doubt about it: it was hot.

Leaving the sink, Jeffrey went to his locker, grateful that the day was almost over. The idea of bed was the most appealing vision he could conjure.

Jeffrey sat on the bench, oblivious to the chatting crowd, and began to twirl his combination lock. He felt worse than ever. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly; his intestines were in agony. A passing cramp brought beads of perspiration to his brow. Unless someone could relieve him, he'd still be on duty for another few hours.

Stopping at the final number, Jeffrey opened his locker. Reaching within the neatly arranged interior, he retrieved a bottle of paregoric, an old remedy his mother used to force on him when he was a child. His mother had consistently diagnosed him as suffering from either constipation or diarrhea. It wasn't until he got to high school that Jeffrey realized these diagnoses were just excuses to get him to take his mother's cherished cure-all. Over the years, Jeffrey had developed a confidence in paregoric, if not in his mother's diagnostic skills. He always kept a bottle on hand.

Unscrewing the cap, he tilted his head back and took a healthy swig. Wiping his mouth, he noticed an orderly sitting next to him watching his every move.

“Want a swig?” Jeffrey asked, grinning, extending the bottle toward the man. “Great stuff.”

The man gave him a disgusted look and got up and left.

Jeffrey shook his head at the man's lack of a sense of humor. From his reaction you'd have thought he'd offered him poison.
With uncharacteristic slowness, Jeffrey took off his scrubs. Briefly massaging his temples, he then pushed himself to his feet and went in to shower. After sudsing and rinsing, he stood under the rushing water five minutes before stepping out and drying himself briskly. Brushing his wavy, sandy-brown hair, Jeffrey dressed in clean scrubs, donned a new mask and a new hat. He felt considerably better now. Except for an occasional gurgle, even his colon seemed to be cooperating—at least for the moment.

Jeffrey retraced his steps through the surgical lounge and down the OR corridor and pushed through the connecting door that led to the delivery area. The decor there was a welcome antidote to the stark utilitarian tile of the OR. The individual delivery rooms may have been as sterile, but the delivery area and labor rooms were painted in pastels, with framed Impressionist prints on the walls. The windows even had curtains. The feeling was more like a hotel than a major urban hospital.

Jeffrey went to the main desk and inquired about his patient.

“Patty Owen is in fifteen,” a tall, handsome black woman said. Her name was Monica Carver, and she was the nursing supervisor for the evening shift.

Jeffrey leaned over the desk, thankful for the momentary rest. “How's she doing?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Monica said. “But it's going to be awhile. Her contractions aren't strong or frequent, and she's only dilated four centimeters.”

Jeffrey nodded. He would have preferred to have things further along. It was standard practice to wait until the patient had dilated six centimeters to put in an epidural. Monica handed Jeffrey Patty's chart. He went through it quickly. There wasn't much there. The woman was obviously healthy. At least that was good.

“I'll have a chat with her,” Jeffrey said, “then I'll be back in the OR. If something changes, give me a page.”

“Sure thing,” Monica said cheerfully.

Jeffrey started down toward room fifteen. About halfway down the hall he got another intestinal cramp. He had to stop and lean against the wall until it passed. What a nuisance, he thought. When he felt well enough, he continued to room fifteen and knocked. A pleasant voice told him to come in.

“I'm Dr. Jeffrey Rhodes,” Jeffrey said, extending his hand. “I'll be your anesthesiologist.”

Patty Owen grasped his outstretched hand. Her palm was
damp, her fingers cold. She appeared considerably younger than twenty-four. Her hair was blond and her wide eyes looked like those of a vulnerable child. Jeffrey could tell the woman was frightened.

“Am I glad to see you!” Patty said, not willing to let go of Jeffrey's hand immediately. “I want to tell you straight off that I'm a coward. I'm really not very good with pain.”