Harmful Intent (16 page)

There were practically no cabs on Huntington Avenue at that time of night. After he tried for ten minutes to no avail, the
Green Line trolley came along. Jeffrey got on, feeling it was more prudent to keep moving.

Jeffrey took one of the seats oriented parallel to the car and balanced the briefcase on his knees. He could feel all of the packets of money that were in his pants, particularly the ones he was sitting on. As the trolley lurched forward, Jeffrey allowed his eyes to roam around the car. Consistent with his experience on Boston subways, no one said a word. Everyone stared ahead expressionlessly as if in a trance. Jeffrey's eyes met those of the other travelers who were sitting across from him. The people who sullenly returned his stare made him feel transparent. He was amazed at how many of them in his mind looked as if they were criminals.

Closing his eyes, Jeffrey went over some of the material he'd just read, considering it in light of the experience he'd had with Patty Owen and Chris's with Henry Noble. He'd been surprised by one piece of information about local anesthetics. Under a section marked “adverse reactions,” he'd read that occasionally miotic or constricted pupils were seen. That was new to Jeffrey. Except for Patty Owen and Henry Noble, he'd never seen it clinically or read it before. There was no explanation of the physiological mechanism, and Jeffrey couldn't explain it. Then in the same article it was written that usually mydriasis, or enlargement, of the pupils was seen. At that point Jeffrey gave up the issue of pupillary size. It all didn't make much sense to him and only added to his confusion.

When the trolley suddenly plunged underground, the sound startled Jeffrey. He opened his eyes in terror and let out a little gasp. He hadn't realized how jumpy he was. He began to take deep, steady breaths in order to calm himself.

After a minute or two, Jeffrey's thoughts returned to the cases. He realized there was another similarity between the Noble and Owen cases that he'd not considered. Henry Noble had been paralyzed for the week he'd lived. It was as if he'd had total irreversible spinal anesthesia. Since Patty had died, Jeffrey had no idea if she would have suffered paralysis had she lived. But her baby had survived and did display marked residual paralysis. It had been assumed that the baby's paralysis stemmed from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but now Jeffrey wasn't so sure. The strange, asymmetric distribution had always troubled him. Maybe this paralysis was an additional clue, one that might be of use in identifying a contaminant.

Jeffrey got off the subway at Park Street and climbed the
stairs. Giving wide berth to several policemen, he hurried down Winter Street, leaving the crowded Park Street area behind. As he walked, he thought more seriously about getting back into Boston Memorial Hospital now that he'd done his reading.

The idea of becoming part of the housekeeping staff had a lot of merit except for one problem: to apply for a job he'd need to provide some sort of identification as well as a valid social security number. In this day of computers, Jeffrey knew he couldn't expect to get by by making one up.

He was wrestling with the problem of identification when he turned onto the street where the Essex Hotel stood. Half a block away from the liquor store, which was still open, he paused. A vision of the man in the tattered suit came back to him. The two of them had been about the same height and age.

Crossing the street, Jeffrey approached the empty lot next to the liquor store. A strategically placed streetlamp threw a good deal of light into the area. About a quarter of the way into the lot there was a concrete overhang sticking out of one of the bordering buildings that looked like it could have been an old loading dock. Beneath it Jeffrey could make out a number of figures, some sitting, some passed out on the ground.

Stopping and listening, Jeffrey could hear conversation. Overpowering any misgivings, he started toward the group. Stepping gingerly on a bed of broken bricks, Jeffrey approached the overhang. A fetid odor of unwashed humans assaulted his senses. The conversation stopped. A number of rheumy eyes regarded him suspiciously in the semidarkness.

Jeffrey felt he was an intruder in another world. With rising anxiety, he searched for the man in the tattered suit, moving his eyes quickly from one dark figure to the next. What would he do if these men suddenly sprang at him?

Jeffrey saw the man he was looking for. He was one of the men sitting in the semicircle. Forcing himself forward, Jeffrey approached closer. No one spoke. There was an electric charge of expectation in the air as if a spark could cause an explosion. Every eye was now following Jeffrey. Even some of the people who'd been lying down were now sitting up, staring at him.

“Hello,” Jeffrey said limply when he was in front of the man. The man didn't move. Nor did anyone else. “Remember me?” Jeffrey asked. He felt foolish, but he couldn't think of what else to say. “I gave you some change an hour or so ago. Back there, in front of the liquor store.” Jeffrey pointed over his shoulder.

The man didn't respond.

“I thought maybe you could use a little more,” Jeffrey said. He reached into his pocket, and pushing away the packet of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out some change and several smaller bills. He extended the change. The man reached forward and took the coins.

“Thanks, buddy,” he managed, trying to see the coins in the darkness.

“I've got more,” Jeffrey said. “In fact, I've got a five-dollar bill here, and I'm willing to bet that you're so drunk, you can't remember your social security number.”

“Whaddya mean?” the man mumbled as he struggled to his feet. Two of the other men followed suit. The man Jeffrey was interested in swayed as if he were about to fall, but caught himself. He appeared drunker than he'd been earlier. “It's 139-32- 1560. That's my social security number.”

“Oh, sure!” Jeffrey said with a wave of dismissal. “You just made that up.”

“The hell I did!” the man said indignantly. With a sweeping gesture that almost knocked him off his feet, he reached for his wallet. He staggered again, struggling to lift the wallet from his trouser pocket. After he got it out, he fumbled to remove not a Social Security card, but his driver's license. He dropped the wallet in the process. Jeffrey bent down to pick it up. He noticed there was no money in it.

“Lookit right here!” the man said. “Just like I said.”

Jeffrey handed him the wallet and took the license. He couldn't see the number but that wasn't the point. “My word, I guess you were right,” he said after he pretended to study it. He handed over the five-dollar bill, which the man grabbed eagerly. But one of the other men grabbed it out of his hand.

“Gimme that back!” the man yelled.

Another of the men had advanced behind Jeffrey. Jeffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out more coins. “There's some for everybody,” he said as he tossed them on the ground. They clinked against the broken brick. There was a rush as everyone but Jeffrey dropped to his hands and knees in the darkness. Jeffrey took advantage of the diversion to turn and run as quickly as he dared across the rubble-strewn lot toward the street.

Back in his hotel room, he propped the license up on the edge of the sink and compared his image to that of the photo on the license. The nose was completely different. Nothing could be done about that. Yet if he darkened his hair and combed it
straight back with some gel the way he'd thought he would, and if he added some black-framed glasses, maybe it would work. But at the very least, he had a valid social security number associated with a real name and address: Frank Amendola, of 1617 Sparrow Lane, Framingham, Massachusetts.

Trent Harding wasn't due to start work until seven, but at six-fifteen he was already pulling off his street clothes in the locker room off the surgical lounge of St. Joseph's Hospital. From where he was standing, he had a straight shot to the sinks and he could see himself in the over-the-basin mirrors. He flexed his arm and neck muscles so that they bulged. He hunched over slightly to check their definition. Trent liked what he saw.

Trent went to his health club at least four times a week to use the Nautilus equipment to the point of exhaustion. His body was like a piece of sculpture. People noticed and admired it, Trent was sure. Yet he wasn't satisfied. He thought he could stand to beef up his biceps a bit more. On his legs, his quads could use tightening. He planned to concentrate on both in the coming weeks.

Trent was in the habit of arriving early, but on this particular morning, he was earlier than usual. In his excitement he'd awakened before his alarm and could not go back to sleep, so he'd decided to get to work early. Besides, he liked to take his time. There was something unbelievably exhilarating about placing one of his doctored Marcaine ampules in the Marcaine supply. It gave him shivers of pleasure—like planting a time bomb. He was the only one who knew about the imminent danger. He was the one who controlled it.

After he'd gotten into his scrub outfit, Trent glanced around him. A few people who were going off shift had come into the locker room. One was in the shower singing a Stevie Wonder tune; another was in one of the toilet stalls; and a third was at his locker well out of sight.

Trent reached into the pocket of his white hospital jacket and pulled out the doctored ampule of Marcaine. Palming it in case
someone unexpectedly appeared, Trent slipped it into his briefs. It felt cold and uncomfortable at first; he grimaced as he adjusted it. Then he closed his locker and started walking toward the lounge area.

In the surgical lounge, fresh coffee was softly perking, filling the room with its pleasant aroma. Nurses, nurse anesthetists, a few doctors, and orderlies were gathered there. Soon they'd be going off shift. There were no emergency cases in progress, and all the preparations for the day's schedule for which the night shift was responsible were complete. The room rang with happy conversation.

No one acknowledged Trent, nor did he try to say hello to anyone. Most of the staff didn't recognize him since he was not a member of the night shift. Trent passed through the lounge and entered the OR area itself. No one was at the main scheduling desk. The huge blackboard was already chalked with the upcoming day's schedule. Trent paused briefly, scanning the big board for two things: to see which room he was assigned to for the day and to see if there were any spinal or epidural cases scheduled. To his delight there was a handful. Another shiver of excitement went down his spine. Having a number of such cases meant there was a good chance his Marcaine would be used that very day.

Trent continued down the main OR corridor and turned into Central Supply, which was conveniently located in the middle of the OR area. The operating room complex at St. Joe's was shaped like the letter U with the ORs lining the outside of the U and Central Supply occupying the interior.

Moving with a sense of purpose, as if he were heading into Central Supply to get a setup pack for one of the ORs, Trent took a loop around the whole area. As usual, no one was there. There was always a hiatus between six-fifteen and six forty-five when Central Supply was unoccupied. Satisfied, Trent went directly into the section that housed the IV fluids and the non-narcotic and uncontrolled drugs. He did not have to search for the local anesthetics. He'd scouted them out long ago.

With one more quick glance around, Trent reached for an open pack of 30 cc .5% Marcaine. Deftly he raised the lid. There were three ampules remaining in the box where there originally had been five. Trent exchanged one of the good ampules for the one in his briefs. He winced again. It was surprising how cold room temperature glass could feel. He closed the lid of the Marcaine box and carefully slid it back into its original position.

Again Trent glanced around Central Supply. No one had appeared. He looked back at the box of Marcaine. Once more an almost sensual excitement rippled through his body. He'd done it again, and no one would ever have a clue. It was so damned easy, and depending on the OR schedule and a little luck, the vial would be used soon, maybe even that morning.

For a brief moment, Trent thought about removing the other two good vials from the box just to speed things up. Now that the vial was placed, he was impatient to enjoy the chaos it would cause. But he decided against removing the other vials. He'd never taken any chances in the past, and it wasn't a good time to start. What if someone was keeping track of how many vials of Marcaine were on hand?

Trent emerged from Central Supply and headed back to his locker to tuck away the ampule that was now in his briefs. Then he'd get himself a nice cup of coffee. Later that afternoon, if nothing had happened, he'd return to Central Supply to see if the doctored vial had been taken. If it was used that day, he'd know about it soon enough. News of a major complication spread like wildfire in the OR suite.

In his mind's eye, Trent could see the vial resting so innocently in the box. It was a kind of Russian roulette. He felt a stirring of sexual excitement. He hurried into the locker room, trying to contain himself. If only it could be Doherty who'd get it, thought Trent. That would make it perfect.

Trent's jaw tightened as he thought of the anesthesiologist. The man's name re-ignited his anger from the previous day's humiliation. Arriving at his locker, Trent gave it a resounding thump with his open palm. A few people looked in his direction. Trent ignored them. The irony was that before the humiliating episode, Trent had liked Doherty. He'd even been nice to the jerk.

Angrily, Trent twirled his combination lock and got his locker door open. Pressing in against it, he slipped the ampule of Marcaine from his shorts and eased it into the pocket of his white jacket hanging within the locker. Maybe he'd have to make some special arrangements for Doherty.

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jeffrey closed the door to his room at the Essex Hotel. It was just after eleven in the morning. He'd been on the go since nine-thirty when he left the hotel to do some shopping. Every moment he'd been terrified of being discovered by an acquaintance, Devlin, or the police. He'd seen several
police officers, but he'd avoided any direct confrontation. Even so, it had been a nerve-racking venture.

Jeffrey put his packages and his briefcase on the bed and opened the smallest bag. Among its contents was a hair rinse. The color was called Midnight Black. Taking off his clothes, Jeffrey went directly into the bathroom and followed the directions on the box. By the time he put the styling gel in his hair and brushed it straight back from his forehead, he looked like a different person. He thought he looked like a used car salesman or like someone out of a 1930s movie. Comparing his image with the small photo on the license, he thought he could pass for Frank Amendola if no one looked too closely. And he still wasn't finished.

Back in the bedroom, Jeffrey opened the larger of the packages and took out a new dark blue polyester suit he'd bought in Filene's Basement and had altered at Pacifici of Boston. Mike, the head tailor, had been happy to do the alterations while Jeffrey waited. Jeffrey didn't have much done to the suit because he didn't want it to fit too well. In fact, he had to resist some of Mike's suggestions.

Going back to his parcels, Jeffrey pulled out several white shirts and a couple of unattractive ties. He put on one of the shirts and a tie, then slipped on the suit. Finally he searched through the bags until he found a pair of dark-rimmed protective glasses. After he put them on, he returned to the bathroom mirror. Again he compared his image with the photo on the license. In spite of himself, he had to smile. From a general point of view, he looked terrible. In terms of looking like Frank Amendola, he looked reasonably good. It surprised him how little facial features mattered in generating an overall impression.

One of the other parcels contained a new duffel bag with a shoulder strap and a half-dozen compartments. Jeffrey transferred the packets of money to these. He'd felt conspicuous carrying the briefcase with him and was afraid it might be a way for the police to recognize him. He even guessed it might be mentioned as part of his description.

Going back to the briefcase, Jeffrey took out a syringe and the vial of succinylcholine. Having worried all morning about Devlin suddenly appearing as he had at the airport, Jeffrey had come up with an idea. He carefully drew up 40 mg of succinylcholine in the syringe, then capped it. He put the syringe in the side pocket of his jacket. He wasn't sure how he would use the
succinylcholine, but it was there just in case. It was more of a psychological support than anything else.

With his plano glasses on and his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jeffrey took one last glance around his room, wondering if he was forgetting anything. He was hesitant to leave because he knew the moment he stepped out of the room, the anxiety of being recognized would return. But he wanted to get into Boston Memorial Hospital, and the only way that was going to happen was if he went over there and applied for a housekeeping job.

 

Devlin rudely shoved his way out of the elevator on his way to Michael Mosconi's office without giving the other passengers time to get out of his way. He got perverse pleasure out of provoking the people, especially men in business suits, and he half hoped one of them would try to be a gallant hero.

Devlin was in a foul mood. He'd been awake for most of the night, uncomfortably propped up in the front seat of his car watching the Rhodes's house. He'd fully expected Jeffrey to come sneaking home in the middle of the night. Or at the very least, he expected Carol to leave suddenly. But nothing happened until just after eight in the morning, when Carol came out of the garage like the Green Hornet in her Mazda RX7 and left a patch of rubber in the middle of the street.

With great difficulty and not very high hopes, Devlin had followed Carol through the morning traffic. She drove like an Indy 500 driver, the way she weaved in and out of the traffic. She led him all the way downtown, but she'd merely gone to her office on the twenty-second floor of one of the newer office buildings. Devlin decided to give up on her for the time being. He needed more information on Jeffrey to decide what to do next.

“Well?” Michael asked expectantly as Devlin came through the door.

Devlin didn't answer immediately, which he knew would drive Michael crazy. The guy was always so wound up. Devlin dropped onto the vinyl couch that faced Michael's desk and put his cowboy boots on top of the small coffee table. “Well what?” he said irritably.

“Where's the doctor?” He thought Devlin was about to tell him he'd already delivered Rhodes to the jailhouse.

“Beats me,” Devlin said.

“What does that mean?” There was still a chance Devlin was teasing him.

“I think it's pretty clear,” Devlin said.

“It might be clear for you, but it's not clear to me,” Michael said.

“I don't know where the little bastard is,” Devlin finally admitted.

“For chrissake!” Michael said, throwing up his hands in disgust. “You told me you'd get the guy, no problem. You gotta find him! This is no longer a joke.”

“He never showed up at home,” Devlin said.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Michael said with progressive panic. His swivel chair squeaked as he tipped forward and stood up. “I'm going to be out of business.”

Devlin frowned. Michael was more wound up than usual. This missing doctor was really getting to him. “Don't worry,” he told Michael. “I'll find him. What else do you know about him?”

“Nothing!” Michael yelled. “I told you everything I know.”

“You haven't told me squat,” Devlin said. “What about other family, things like that? What about friends?”

“I'm telling you, I don't know anything about the guy,” Michael admitted. “All I did was an O and E on his house. And you know something else? The bastard screwed me there too. This morning I got a call from Owen Shatterly at the bank, telling me he just learned Jeffrey Rhodes had upped his mortgage before my lien was filed. Now even the collateral doesn't cover the bond.”

Devlin laughed.

“What the hell's so funny?” Michael demanded.

Devlin shook his head. “It tickles me that this little piss-ant doctor is causing so much trouble.”

“I fail to find anything about this funny,” Michael said. “Owen also told me that the doctor took the forty-five thousand he'd upped his mortgage in cash.”

“Geez, no wonder the guy's briefcase hurt,” Devlin said with a smile. “I've never been hit with that kind of dough.”

“Very funny,” Michael snapped. “The trouble is that the situation is going from bad to worse. Thank God for my friend Albert Norstadt down at police headquarters. The police weren't going to do a goddamn thing until he got involved.”

“They think Rhodes is still in town?” Devlin questioned.

“As far as I know,” Michael said. “They haven't been doing much, but at least they've been covering the airport, bus and train stations, rent-a-car agencies, and even taxi companies.”

“That's plenty,” Devlin said. He certainly didn't want the
police to catch Jeffrey. “If he's in town, I'll find him in the next day or so. If he's skipped, it will take a little longer, but I'll get him. Relax.”

“I want him found today!” Michael said, working himself up into a renewed frenzy. He started to pace behind his desk. “If you can't find the bastard, I'll bring in some other talent.”