Harmful Intent (17 page)

“Now hold on,” Devlin said, bringing his legs off the coffee table and sitting up. He didn't want anybody else horning in on this job. “I'm doing the best anybody could do. I'll find the guy, no sweat.”

“I want him now, not next year,” Michael said.

“Relax. It's only been twelve hours,” Devlin said.

“What the hell are you sitting around here for?” Michael snapped. “With forty-five grand in his pocket, he's not going to hang around forever. I want you to go back to the airport and see if you can pick up his trail from there. He had to get into town somehow. He sure as hell didn't walk. Get your ass out there and talk to the MBTA people. Maybe somebody will remember a skinny guy with a mustache and a briefcase.”

“I think it's better to cover the wife,” Devlin said.

“They didn't strike me as being so lovey-dovey,” Michael said. “I want you to try the airport. If you don't, I'll send someone else.”

“All right, all right!” Devlin said, getting to his feet. “If you want me to try the airport, I'll try the airport.”

“Good,” Michael said. “And keep me informed.”

Devlin let himself out of Michael's office. His mood had not improved. Normally he'd never let someone like Michael tell him how to do his job, but in this instance, he thought he'd better humor the man. The last thing he wanted was competition. Especially on this job. The only trouble was that now that he had to go to the airport, he'd have to hire someone to follow the wife and watch the house. As Devlin waited for the elevator, he thought about whom he could call.

 

Jeffrey paused on the broad steps of Boston Memorial's entrance to marshal his courage. Despite his efforts at disguise, he was apprehensive now that he had reached the hospital's threshold. He was worried he'd be recognized by the first person who knew him.

He could even imagine their words: “Jeffrey Rhodes, is that you? What are you doing, going to a masquerade ball? We heard the police are looking for you, is that true? Sorry about your
being convicted of second-degree murder. Sure does prove it's getting harder and harder to practice medicine in Massachusetts.”

Taking a step back and switching his duffel bag to the other shoulder, Jeffrey tipped his head to look up at the Gothic details over the lintel of the front entrance. There was a plaque that read:
THE BOSTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL ERECTED AS A HOUSE OF REFUGE FOR THE SICK, INFIRM, AND TROUBLED
. He wasn't sick or infirm, but he was certainly troubled. The longer he hesitated, the harder it was to go inside. He was locked in indecision when he spotted Mark Wilson.

Mark was a fellow anesthesiologist whom Jeffrey knew well. They'd trained together at the Memorial. Jeffrey had been a year ahead. Mark was a large black man whose own mustache had always made Jeffrey's appear sparse by comparison; it had always been a point of humor between them. Mark seemed to be enjoying the brisk spring day. He was approaching from Beacon Street, heading for the front entrance—and straight for Jeffrey.

It was the kick Jeffrey needed. In a panic, he went through the revolving door and into the main lobby. He was immediately swept up in a sea of people. The lobby served not only as an entrance but as the confluence of three main corridors that led to the hospital's three towers.

Fearing that Mark was on his heels, Jeffrey hurried around the circular information booth in the center of the domed lobby and walked down the central corridor. He figured Mark would be heading left to the bank of elevators that led to the OR complex.

Tense with fear of discovery, Jeffrey walked down the hall trying to appear casual. When he finally turned to glance behind him, Mark was nowhere in sight.

Although he'd been affiliated with the hospital for almost twenty years, Jeffrey was not acquainted with anyone in personnel. Even so, he was wary when he entered the employment office and took the application a friendly clerk handed him. Just because he wasn't familiar with personnel staff didn't mean they weren't familiar with him.

He filled out the application, using Frank Amendola's name, social security number, and his Framingham address. In the section asking for work preference, Jeffrey indicated housekeeping. In the section asking for shift preference if applicable, he wrote “night.” For references, Jeffrey listed several hospitals where he'd visited for anesthesia meetings. It was his hope that it would
take time for personnel to follow up on the references, if follow-ups were done at all. Between the high demand for hospital workers and the low wages offered, Jeffrey figured it was an applicant's market. He didn't think that his employment in a position in housekeeping would be predicated on a reference check.

After he handed in his completed application, Jeffrey was offered the choice of being interviewed immediately or having an interview scheduled for a future date. He said he'd be pleased to be interviewed at personnel's earliest convenience.

After a brief wait, he was ushered into Carl Bodanski's windowless office. Bodanski was one of the Memorial's personnel officers. One wall of his small room was dominated by a huge board with hundreds of name tags hanging from small hooks. A calendar was on another wall. Double doors filled the third. It was all very neat and utilitarian.

Carl Bodanski was in his mid to late thirties. He had dark hair, a handsome face, and was neatly if not too stylishly dressed in a dull business suit. Jeffrey realized he'd seen the man many times in the hospital cafeteria, but the two had never spoken. When Jeffrey entered, Bodanski was hunched over his desk.

“Please sit down,” Bodanski said warmly, not yet looking up. Jeffrey could see that he was going over his application. When Bodanski finally turned his attention to Jeffrey, Jeffrey held his breath. He was afraid he'd see some sudden evidence of recognition. But he didn't. Instead, Bodanski asked Jeffrey if he would care for anything to drink, coffee, maybe a Coke.

Jeffrey nervously declined. He studied Bodanski's face. Bodanski smiled in return.

“So you've worked in hospitals?”

“Oh, yes,” Jeffrey answered. “Quite a bit.” Jeffrey smiled weakly. He was starting to relax.

“And you want to work the night shift in housekeeping?” Bodanski wanted to make sure there hadn't been a mistake. As far as he was concerned, this was too good to be true: an applicant for housekeeping's night shift who didn't look like a criminal or an illegal alien, and who spoke English.

“That's what I'd prefer,” Jeffrey said. He realized it was a bit unexpected. On the spur of the moment he presented an explanation: “I'm planning on taking a few courses at Suffolk University during the day or perhaps evening. Have to support myself.”

“What kind of courses?” Bodanski asked.

“Law,” Jeffrey responded. It was the first subject that came to mind.

“Very ambitious. So you'll be going to law school for a number of years?”

“I hope to,” Jeffrey said enthusiastically. He could see Bodanski's eyes had brightened. Besides recruitment, housekeeping had a problem of a high turnover rate, especially on the night shift. If Bodanski thought Jeffrey would stay for several years on nights, he'd think it was his lucky day.

“When would you be interested in starting?” Bodanski asked.

“As soon as possible,” Jeffrey said. “As early as tonight.”

“Tonight?” Bodanski repeated with disbelief. This was really too good to be true.

Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders. “I've just come to town and I need work. Gotta eat.”

“From Framingham?” Bodanski asked, glancing at the application.

“That's correct,” Jeffrey said. He didn't want to get into any discussion about where he'd never been, so he said: “If Boston Memorial can't use me, I can head over to St. Joseph's or Boston City.”

“Oh, no. No need for that,” Bodanski said quickly. “It's just that things take a little time. I'm sure you understand. You'll have to have a uniform and an ID card. Also there's some paperwork that has to be done before you can start.”

“Well, here I am,” Jeffrey said. “Why can't we just get it all over with right away?”

Bodanski paused for a beat, then said, “Just one moment.” He got up from behind his desk and left the office.

Jeffrey stayed in his seat. He hoped he hadn't been too eager about starting so soon. He looked around Bodanski's office to pass the time. There was a silver-framed photo on the desk: a woman standing behind two rosy-cheeked children. It was the only personal touch in the whole room, but a nice one, Jeffrey thought.

Bodanski returned with a short man with shiny black hair and a friendly smile. He was dressed in a dark green housekeeping uniform. Bodanski introduced him as Jose Martinez. Jeffrey stood up and shook the man's hand. He'd seen Martinez many times. He watched the man's face as he had with Bodanski, but could detect no sign of recognition.

“Jose is our head of housekeeping,” Bodanski said, with a hand on Martinez's shoulder. “I've explained to Jose your wish to get to work right away. Jose is willing to expedite the process, so I'll turn you over to him.”

“Does that mean I'm hired?” Jeffrey asked.

“Absolutely,” Bodanski said. “Glad to have you part of the Memorial team. After Jose has finished with you, come back here. You'll need a Polaroid for your ID. Also, we have to sign you up for either Blue Cross/Blue Shield, or one of the HMOs. Any idea of your preference?”

“Doesn't matter,” Jeffrey said.

Martinez took Jeffrey to the housekeeping headquarters, located on the first basement level. He had a pleasant Spanish accent and an infectious sense of humor. In fact, he found most everything funny enough to giggle at, especially the first pair of trousers he held up to Jeffrey. The legs only reached as far as Jeffrey's knees.

“I think we'll have to amputate,” he said with a laugh.

After several tries, they found a uniform that fit. Then Jeffrey was assigned a locker. For the moment, Martinez told him to change into the shirt. “You can leave your own pants on,” he added.

Martinez explained that he would be giving Jeffrey a tour of the hospital. The housekeeping shirt would do in lieu of an ID for the moment.

“I hate to take any more of your time,” Jeffrey said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was walk around the hospital during the day when he was most likely to be recognized.

“I got the time,” Martinez said. “No problem. Besides, it's part of our usual orientation.”

Afraid to make an issue of this, Jeffrey reluctantly put on the dark green housekeeping shirt and stored his street clothes in the locker. Keeping the duffel bag on his shoulder, he prepared himself to follow wherever Martinez led. What he wished he could do was put a bag over his head.

Martinez kept up a steady chatter as he showed Jeffrey around. First he introduced him to what housekeeping staff was present. Then they went into the laundry where everyone was too busy to pay much attention. Next was the cafeteria, where everyone was decidedly unfriendly. Luckily there was no one sitting in the cafeteria whom Jeffrey knew well.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, Martinez took Jeffrey through the outpatient clinics and the emergency room. In the emergency room, Jeffrey wanted to turn and duck down the hall at the sight of several surgical residents he'd come to know quite well after their rotations through anesthesia. Luckily for him,
they didn't look in his direction. They were preoccupied with trauma cases from an auto accident.

After the emergency room, Martinez took Jeffrey to the main elevators in the north tower. “Now I want to show you the labs,” Martinez said. “And then the OR area.”

Jeffrey gulped. “Shouldn't we be getting back to Mr. Bodanski?” he asked.

“We can take all the time we need,” Martinez answered. He motioned for Jeffrey to get on the elevator whose doors had just opened. “Besides, it's important for you to see pathology, chemistry, and the OR. You'll be up there tonight. The night shift always cleans them. Night's the only time we can get in.”

Jeffrey moved to the back of the elevator. Martinez joined him. “You'll be working with four other people,” Martinez explained. “The shift supervisor's name is David Arnold. He's a good man.”

Jeffrey nodded. As they approached the OR and lab floor, Jeffrey began to feel a burning sensation in his stomach. He jumped when Martinez grabbed his arm and urged him forward, saying, “This is our floor.”

Jeffrey took a deep breath as he prepared to step off the elevator into the part of the hospital where he'd practically lived for almost two decades.

Jeffrey's jaw dropped. For a second he couldn't move. Directly in front of him was Mark Wilson, waiting to board the elevator. His dark eyes bore into Jeffrey. Mark's eyes narrowed, then he started to speak. Jeffrey expected to hear “Jeffrey, is that you?”

“Are you getting off or what?” Mark asked Jeffrey.

“We're getting off,” Martinez said, giving Jeffrey a slight shove.

It took Jeffrey a few seconds to comprehend that Mark hadn't recognized him. He turned around just as the elevator doors closed, and caught Mark's eyes a second time. There wasn't the slightest trace of recognition.

Jeffrey pushed his glasses higher on his nose. They'd slipped down when he'd stumbled off the elevator.

“Are you okay?” Martinez questioned.

“Fine,” Jeffrey said. He actually was much better. The fact that Mark hadn't recognized him was a heartening sign.

The tour through the chemistry and pathology labs was less stressful than the elevator ride. Jeffrey certainly saw plenty of
people he knew, but no one recognized him any more than Mark Wilson had.

The real stress returned when Martinez took Jeffrey to the surgical lounge. At that time of the early afternoon, there were at least twenty people whom Jeffrey knew well, sitting in the lounge having coffee, enjoying conversation, or reading the newspaper. All it would take was for one of them to realize who he was, then it would be all over. While Martinez ticked off the nightly procedures, Jeffrey studied his shoes. He kept his eye contact with others at a minimum but after almost fifteen minutes of tense anticipation, Jeffrey realized that no one was paying him any attention. He and Martinez could have been invisible for all the notice they attracted.