Harmful Intent (23 page)

Kelly got Jeffrey a piece of ice and wrapped it in a dishtowel for his burned finger. “What kind of contaminant are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I don't know specifically,” Jeffrey admitted, “but I'm thinking about some kind of toxin. Whatever it is, it would have to exert its effects in very low concentration. Plus from what Chris had written, it would have to cause nerve cell damage without causing kidney or liver damage. That eliminates a lot of the usual poisons. Maybe I'll know more when I get my hands on Patty Owen's autopsy report. I'll be very interested to see the toxicology section. I'd seen it briefly during discovery for both trials and I remember it was negative except for a trace of Marcaine. But I'd never examined it closely. It hadn't seemed important at the time.”

With the water boiling furiously in the pot, Kelly tossed in the pasta. She turned to face Jeffrey. “If this is how the toxin got in the Marcaine”—she pointed to the ampule and syringe Jeffrey had set on the counter—“it means that someone is tampering with Marcaine on purpose, deliberately poisoning.”

“Murdering,” Jeffrey said.

“My God,” Kelly said. The full horror was beginning to dawn on her. “Why?” she asked with a shudder. “Why would someone do that?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “That's a question I'm not prepared to answer. It wouldn't be the first time someone's tampered with medication or purposely used it to no good. Who can say what the motivation is? The Tylenol killer. That New Jersey Doctor X, the one who killed patients with overdoses of succinylcholine.”

“And now this.” Kelly was visibly shaken. The idea of some crazy person stalking the halls of Boston hospitals was too much
to take in. “If you believe this might be true,” she said, “don't you think we should talk to the police?”

“I wish we could,” Jeffrey said. “But we can't for two reasons. First of all, I'm a convicted criminal and a fugitive. But even if I weren't, we have to recognize that there is not the slightest bit of proof of any of this. If anyone went to the police with this story, I doubt very much they would do anything at all. We need some sort of evidence before we go to the authorities.”

“But we have to stop this person!”

“I agree,” Jeffrey said. “Before there are any more deaths and any more convicted physicians.”

Kelly said her next words so softly that Jeffrey could barely hear. “Before there are any more suicides.” Her eyes filled with tears.

To hold her emotions in check, Kelly turned to the boiling pasta. She fished out a strand of the spaghetti and threw it at the front of the dish cabinet. It stuck. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Let's eat.”

 

“I'll call you as soon as the procedure is over,” Karen Hodges told her mother. She'd been on the phone for almost an hour and was beginning to feel a little irritated. She felt like her mother should be trying to comfort her, not vice versa.

“Are you sure this doctor is okay?” Mrs. Hodges asked.

Karen rolled her eyes for the benefit of her roommate, Marcia Ginsburg, who smiled in sympathy. Marcia knew exactly what Karen was going through. Marcia's mother's calls were just as nagging. She was constantly warning her daughter about men, AIDS, drugs, and her weight.

“He's fine, Mother,” Karen said without bothering to disguise her exasperation.

“Tell me again how you found him,” Mrs. Hodges said.

“Mother—I told you a million times.”

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Hodges said. “You just be sure to call me as soon as you can, you hear?” She knew her daughter was annoyed, but she couldn't help being concerned. She'd suggested to her husband that they fly to Boston to be with Karen when she went in for the laparoscopy, but Mr. Hodges said he couldn't leave the office. Besides, as he'd pointed out, a laparoscopy was only a diagnostic procedure, not a “real operation.”

“It's real if it concerns my baby,” Mrs. Hodges had replied. But in the end she and Mr. Hodges remained in Chicago.

“I'll call you as soon as I can,” Karen said.

“Tell me what kind of anesthesia you're going to have,” Mrs. Hodges said, hoping to stall her daughter. She didn't want to hang up.

“Epidural,” Karen told her.

“Spell it.”

Karen spelled it.

“Don't they use that for deliveries?”

“Yes,” Karen said. “And also for procedures like laparoscopies when they aren't sure how long it will take. The doctor doesn't know what he's going to see. It might take awhile, and he didn't want me unconscious.

“Come on, Ma, you went through this with Cheryl.” Cheryl was Karen's older sister, and she too had trouble with endometriosis.

“You're not having an abortion, are you?” Mrs. Hodges asked.

“Mother, I have to go,” Karen said. The last question had pushed her over the edge. Now she was angry. After all this talk, her mother thought she was lying to her. It was ridiculous.

“Call me,” Mrs. Hodges managed to get in before Karen hung up.

Karen turned to Marcia and the two women looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Mothers!” Karen said.

“A unique species,” Marcia said.

“She doesn't seem to want to believe that I'm twenty-three and out of college,” Karen said. “Three years from now when I graduate from law school, I wonder if she'll still be treating me the same way.”

“No doubt in my mind,” Marcia said.

Karen had graduated from Simmons College the year before and was currently working as a legal secretary for an aggressive and successful divorce lawyer named Gerald McLellan. McLellan had become more a mentor than a boss to her. Recognizing her intelligence, he had urged her to go to law school. She was scheduled to begin at Boston College in the fall.

Although Karen was the picture of general health, she'd suffered from endometriosis since puberty. Over the last year, the problem had worsened. Her doctor had finally scheduled her for a laparoscopy to decide on treatment.

“You have no idea how happy I am that you're going with me tomorrow, not my mother,” Karen said. “She'd drive me bananas.”

“It'll be my pleasure,” Marcia said. She'd arranged to take the day off from work at the Bank of Boston to accompany Karen to day surgery and then escort her home unless it turned out Karen was to stay overnight. But Karen's doctor thought it very unlikely that would happen.

“I am a little worried about going tomorrow,” Karen admitted. Except for a visit to an emergency room after falling from a bicycle when she was ten, she'd never been in a hospital.

“It will be a breeze,” Marcia assured her. “I was worried before my appendectomy, but it was nothing. Really.”

“I've never had any anesthesia,” Karen said. “What if it doesn't work and I feel everything?”

“Haven't you ever had a shot at the dentist?”

Karen shook her head. “Nope. I've never had a cavity.”

 

Trent Harding moved the glassware from the cabinet next to the refrigerator and took out the false back. Reaching in, he pulled out the .45 pistol and let it rest in his hand. He loved the gun. There was a slight smear of oil on the barrel from the last time he'd handled it. He took a paper towel and lovingly polished it.

Reaching back into the hiding place, he pulled out the clip loaded with shells. Holding the gun in his left hand, he inserted the clip in the bottom of the handle. Then he pushed it home so that it clicked in place. The maneuver gave him a feeling akin to sensual pleasure.

Hefting the gun again, it felt different now that it was loaded. Holding it the way Crockett had on
Miami Vice,
he aimed it through the kitchen door at the Harley-Davidson poster that hung on the living room wall. For a second he debated with himself if he could get away with firing the pistol in his own apartment. But he decided it wasn't worth the risk. A .45 made one hell of a bang. He didn't want the neighbors calling the cops.

He laid the gun on the table and went back to his secret cache. He reached in and pulled out the small vial with the yellow fluid. He shook it and looked at it in the light. For the life of him, he had no idea how they got the liquid from the skin of frogs. He'd bought it from a Colombian drug dealer in Miami. The stuff was great. It had turned out to be everything the guy had promised it would be.

With a small 5 cc syringe, Trent drew up a tiny bit of the fluid, then diluted it with sterile water. Under the circumstances, he
didn't have any idea how much to use. He had no experience to rely on for what he was planning now.

Trent carefully returned the vial to its hiding place, then replaced the plywood and the glassware. He capped the syringe full of the diluted toxin and pocketed it. Then he tucked the pistol into his belt so that its barrel was cold against the small of his back.

Going to the front closet, Trent got out his Levi's denim jacket and put it on. Then he checked in his bathroom mirror to make sure the gun couldn't be seen. From the way the jacket was cut, there wasn't even a bulge.

He hated losing his parking spot on Beacon Hill, knowing he'd have a devil of a time finding another when he returned, but what were his options? He covered the distance to St. Joe's in a quarter of the time it took him to go there on public transportation. That was another thing that bothered him about doctors. They got to park at the hospital during the day. Nurses were not allowed unless they were supervisors, or they worked either the evening or the night shift.

Trent parked in the public lot, but chose a slot close to the employee parking area. He locked his car and strolled into the hospital. One of the lady volunteers asked if she could help him, but he said no, he was fine. He got a
Globe
from the hospitality shop and parked himself in the corner. He was early, but he didn't want to take any chances. He wanted to be there when Gail Shaffer got off work.

 

Devlin burped. Beer sometimes did that to him. He glanced over at Carol, who gave him a disgusted look. She was seated opposite him in the family room, leafing through magazines by angrily flipping the pages. She was obviously irritated.

Devlin switched his attention back to the Red Sox game, which he found relaxing. If they'd been winning, he'd have been nervous they would blow it. But they'd accommodated him by being behind by six runs. It was pretty obvious they were going to lose another one.

At least he'd eaten well. The cold veal chops and salad had hit the spot. So did the four beers. He'd never heard of Kronenbourg before visiting the Rhodes's household. It wasn't bad, even though he would still have preferred a Bud.

The doctor had failed to materialize or call. Although Devlin had gotten a decent meal out of the vigil, he'd had to put up
with Carol. After an evening with her, he could see why the good doctor didn't choose to come home.

Devlin let himself sink a little farther into the comfy couch in front of the TV. He'd removed his cowboy boots and had his stocking feet propped up on one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. He sighed. It was a hell of a lot better than keeping watch in his car, even if the Sox were losing. Devlin blinked. For a second he'd felt himself drifting off to sleep.

Carol couldn't believe this was how she was having to spend one of her last nights in Boston: entertaining a thug who was interested in Jeffrey's whereabouts. If she never saw her soon to be ex-husband again, it would be too soon. Maybe she would like to see him once, just so she could let him know what she thought of him.

Carol had been watching Devlin out of the corner of her eye. For a moment he seemed to be falling asleep. But then he got up to get yet another beer. But soon he was back in the same almost horizontal position with his eyes nearly closed.

Finally, during a commercial, Devlin's head dropped onto his chest. The beer bottle he'd been holding tilted, to pour some of its contents onto the carpeted floor. His breathing became stertorous. He'd fallen sound asleep.

Carol stayed where she was, holding her magazine, afraid to turn a page for fear of rousing Devlin. There was a sudden roar from the TV set as one of the players hit a home run. Carol winced, thinking the noise would surely wake Devlin, but he only began to snore more loudly.

Carol slowly eased herself up out of the chair to a standing position. She placed her magazine on top of the TV.

Taking a slow, deep breath, she tiptoed past Devlin, through the kitchen, and up the stairs. The minute she got inside her bedroom, she closed and locked her door and picked up the phone. Without hesitation, she dialed 911 and told the operator that she had an intruder in her house and needed the police immediately. She calmly gave her address. If Jeffrey could handle his problems his way, she could handle hers. The operator assured her that help was on its way.

Meanwhile, Carol went into her bathroom. For good measure, she closed and locked the door. She put down the seat on the toilet and sat down to wait. In less than ten minutes the front door chimes rang. Only then did Carol emerge from the bathroom, cross through the bedroom and listen at the door. She heard the front door open, then the murmur of voices.

Opening the bedroom door, Carol went to the top of the stairs. Below, she could hear conversation, and then, to her surprise, laughter!

She started down the stairs. In the foyer by the front door, two uniformed policemen were chuckling over something and thumping Devlin on the back as if they were all the best of friends.

“Excuse me!” Carol said in a loud voice from the bottom step.

The three looked up.

“Carol, dear,” Devlin said, “there appears to be some kind of mixup. Somebody called the police about an intruder.”

“I called the police,” Carol said. She pointed at Devlin. “He's the intruder.”

“Me?” Devlin said with exaggerated surprise. He turned his attention to the two policemen. “Now that's one for the books. I was in the family room, asleep in front of the TV. How's that for an intruder? In fact, Carol here had just fixed me a great dinner. She'd invited me . . .”