Mercy (19 page)

Julie was too stunned to speak. Of course she knew the name Brandon Stahl—not only from the news, but also from White Memorial, where he’d worked as a nurse. After his murder conviction, Julie wrote an op-ed for
The Boston Globe
that did not condone his actions, but made a point of saying the tragedy should start a conversation about patient rights, and the right to death with dignity.

A day or so later, the comments section in the online version of the
Globe
article was disturbingly vile. What some people felt compelled to post online went beyond unsettling and bordered on threatening. Julie eventually had to stop reading. She had tried to make it clear in her op-ed piece that she was not an advocate for murder, but rather for patient rights. Judging by the slew of letters sent to White, it was a distinction lost on many.

But that was several years ago. Why on earth would Brandon Stahl be calling her now? And how on earth did he have Julie’s cell phone number? Her head became dizzy with questions, but she was with it enough to accept the charges. She had to know what he wanted.

*   *   *

LINCOLN COLE
had parked his van in the lot across from the soccer field, where he could watch Julie without using his powerful binoculars. This had been another slow day of doing lots of nothing at all. Lincoln was beginning to wonder where this job was headed. Not all of Lincoln’s clients paid in cash, or paid this well, so Lincoln was happy to stay patient. The talking heads on sports radio jabbered on about Sunday’s Pats game. It amazed him how much mileage they could get from one little running back controversy. So what if a guy missed practice and got sent home? He deserved it. And besides, the game had evolved to make the running back the real walking dead.

Lincoln thought of changing stations when the TrueSpy app on his computer began to chirp. Evidently, Dr. Julie had received a phone call. Sure enough, out the window Lincoln could see she had moved away from the crowd with her phone pressed to her ear.

For just this reason, Lincoln kept his laptop charged and running on the seat beside him at all times, like a terminal from back in his patrol car days. TrueSpy automatically broadcast Julie’s phone calls through his computer speakers, but Lincoln made sure the entire conversation got captured as a digital transcript as well.

The start of the call left Lincoln puzzled.

“Hello, this is a collect call from—”

“Brandon Stahl.”

“—an inmate at MCI Cedar Junction. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes,” Julie said.

Brandon Stahl?

Lincoln knew the name. The case had garnered big press around these parts. But why would a notorious prisoner want to call Dr. J? He thought they had worked for the same hospital, so maybe that was the connection.

“I don’t have long, so I have to speak quickly,” Brandon Stahl said. Stahl spoke in a subdued manner, not much edge.
Not the kind of guy who thrives behind bars,
Lincoln thought.

“Go ahead,” Julie said.

“We worked for the same hospital, White Memorial.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been in prison for three years.”

“I know that as well.”

“They think I killed Donald Colchester.”

“They don’t think. You were convicted. What’s this about?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. Not enough time. But can you make arrangements to come visit me in prison? Tuesdays are typically good.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because you’re asking lots of questions about takotsubo cardiomyopathy, and someone thinks that condition is the reason I’m going to die in prison.”

When the call ended, Lincoln made sure the TrueSpy app had properly captured a transcript of the conversation. His employers would want to know about this development right away.

CHAPTER 24

Imposing
.

That was the first word that popped into Julie’s head as she stood at the base of a twenty-foot-high wall topped by razor wire. The sun appeared as a pale disc behind a thin cover of clouds. It was Election Day in the Commonwealth, but the inmates would not be voting. Julie did up the top button of her camel hair coat to protect herself from a chilly November wind. The gray prison walls matched a bleak landscape that held all the warmth of a morgue.

Aerial photos of MCI Cedar Junction that Julie had sourced online showed something that resembled a college campus with concrete and brick buildings nestled close together, grassy areas for inmate recreation, blacktop basketball courts, and even a regulation-size baseball field. From the ground Julie found it stark and profoundly intimidating. The massive walls kept out all noise, even birdsong, and the eerie quiet heightened her anxiety.

Julie parked in the visitor lot adjacent to the institution rotary and locked her car as required by prison rules. She followed signs to the visitor-processing trap and wondered again why it had such an ominous-sounding name. She half expected to find protesters camped out front of the prison entrance, but without news cameras they had no audience and no reason to be there.

She pulled open the glass and metal doors to the front entrance and stepped into an austere lobby, sterile as any hospital ward. Julie swallowed hard as she approached the reception area, barricaded behind Plexiglas. She knew to leave her valuables in the car, including the engagement ring Sam had given her.

Underneath her coat, Julie had on black slacks and a white blouse because she had no idea what one should wear to a prison visit. She wanted something benign, not too dressy, but not too casual either, and hoped she had struck the right note. Turned out she was the best dressed here. Some of the other visitors (all of them women, who came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors) wore uniforms for retail jobs, or had on casual clothing such as baggy sweats and oversized shirts. These were hardened women who appeared to have led hard lives and were connected somehow to the hard men locked inside. Julie interacted with people from all walks of life at her job, so this part of the experience was not especially unnerving.

A heavyset woman wearing the red shirt/khaki pants uniform of a Target employee tried to pull open the entrance door. It was locked from the inside and Julie then understood the meaning of the visitor trap. This was a prison. You could get in, but you could not get out.

Following prison policy, Julie had scheduled her visit forty-eight hours earlier, and slept poorly for two nights. Her thoughts swirled with possibilities as she tried to make a connection between a high-profile inmate in the state’s maximum-security prison and her deceased fiancé. She got in line behind four other women and waited her turn at the processing window. Nobody spoke. This place did not lend itself to friendly chitchat.

A stern-faced woman dressed in a blue uniform took Julie’s ID and ran it through a series of checks. Julie spent several minutes filling out the necessary forms. Once approved, Julie slipped her coat inside a locker and then passed through a metal detector on her way to the secured steel door just beyond. A trap guard, bigger than BC quarterback Max Hartsock, opened the heavy door as soon as everyone in the group had cleared the metal detector.

Julie followed the phalanx down a long, brightly lit corridor. There were no shadows here, probably by design. The door slammed shut behind her and Julie’s heart jumped a little.

They marched in silence with the guard leading the way. Julie listened to the lonely slap of her footsteps against the linoleum flooring. The life energy here was utterly alien. She could not imagine a worse place a person could be.

Taking her assigned seat on a tall-backed metal stool, Julie turned it to face a scuffed Plexiglas divider marked by handprints and coated with a film of prison grime. Her side of the room was a big open space. A meager splash of sunlight filtered in through a row of hopper windows ten feet off the ground and covered in mesh wire. Other visitors took up the remaining stools and waited. They appeared practiced at this and far more at ease than Julie, who clutched her hands in nervous anticipation.

On the other side of the glass partition was a room big enough to walk single file. Julie could see a single metal door off to the left. At precisely 12:30
P.M.
a loud buzzer sounded and a guard opened the door. In shuffled a row of severe-looking men, who, like the visitors, came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.

Each man took a seat at his assigned window and the room instantly filled with chatter, indiscriminate as at any party. A man carrying a large manila envelope seated himself in front of Julie. She recognized him from various media reports, but he looked like a phantom of the image splashed across the evening news.

Julie’s first thought was that Brandon Stahl was too frail to survive in here, among such men. He had a thin build, delicate face, and a smallish head topped by a wavy mop of brown hair that descended past his forehead to tickle his eyes. A full goatee, peppered with gray hairs, could not offset the liability of Brandon’s high cheekbones, and did not give him the prison look of the other inmates. He had on a beige uniform reminiscent of the nurse’s scrubs he’d once worn. The short sleeves revealed no tattoos, not that they would have made him any more threatening. His sunken eyes, dark like the rings surrounding them, conveyed profound sadness. Years behind bars had not hardened Brandon, but appeared to have drained him of life force.

After he settled, Brandon pushed a few strands of hair away from his face, picked up the phone on his side of the divider, and indicated Julie should do the same.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Brandon said into the phone.

He had the compassionate, gentle voice of a nurse—a tone she knew so well. Compared to the other voices Julie heard rattling about the visitation room, abrasive and angry as blaring horns, Brandon spoke with the sweet timbre of a flute.

Someone thinks that condition is the reason I’m going to die in prison.
Brandon’s words came back to her. Was it possible Julie was speaking with an innocent man?

“Needless to say, I was surprised by your call,” Julie said. “I’m eager to know how you think your case is connected to Sam Talbot. And how you even know anything about him, or me, for that matter.”

“You’ve been putting out a lot of queries online. That’s how I know about you.”

Julie believed him. She and Michelle had spent several hours posting to various Web-based resources looking for a takotsubo expert. This man serving a life sentence had been her only bite.

“I didn’t know you had access to the Internet in prison.”

“It’s limited,” Brandon said. “But that’s not how I found out about you.”

“I thought you said—”

“That’s how my secret admirer found out about you.”

“Secret admirer?”

“I have someone who believes in my innocence. He or she, I don’t know, discovered your posts and brought them to my attention. My admirer also included your cell phone number.”

The revelation unnerved Julie more than a little. Someone knew enough about her to pass along private information to a convicted murderer.

“Do you have any idea who this secret admirer of yours could be?”

“None,” Brandon said. “But I’ll tell you this. It’s someone who really knows medicine.”

“A doctor?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“What can I do for you, Brandon? Why is it you wanted to meet with me?”

Brandon thought a moment.

“How much do you know about my story?”

“Only what I’ve heard on the news.”

This was a bit of a lie. Julie had done extensive research on the Colchester murder case before her visit. She wanted to be prepared, but did not want Brandon to think she came here with any prejudgment. For this meeting to be of value, Brandon had to believe Julie could be an ally in his fight.

“I didn’t kill Donald Colchester. Donald wanted to die, but I didn’t help him.”

This part of Brandon Stahl’s case had been well documented during the sensational trial that took place several years ago. Donald Colchester suffered from end-stage ALS. The ravages of his disease had taken a significant toll, and prior to his death, Donald had become totally paralyzed. Though he was never a patient in Julie’s ICU, Donald lived at White Memorial as a permanent resident in the long-term acute-care floor where Brandon once worked as a nurse.

Julie had reviewed Donald Colchester’s medical records before this visit. She saw no reports of recurrent infections, pneumonia, sepsis, or kidney inflammation, all of which were common when an ALS patient neared death. He had maintained his body weight, and had no unexplained or refractory fevers, no changes in his level of consciousness. His labs showed no decrease in oxygen saturation, or an increase in tumor markers. Eventually he would present with all of those symptoms and more. But at the time of his death, Donald Colchester, same as Sam Talbot, was paralyzed and wanting to die, but incapable of committing suicide.

“You say you didn’t kill Donald Colchester, but then how do you explain the recording?” Julie asked.

“I just told him that I’d help him die because he was so miserable. That’s all he ever wanted. I said it thinking he would forget it or get over it. I just wanted to give him a little bit of comfort because he was in so much pain. I told him I’d use morphine, so he’d know it wouldn’t hurt. Sometimes words heal more than medicine, you know? All I did was give him a little hope that his suffering would end soon, but I never would kill him—and I didn’t.”

The recording was the smoking-gun piece of evidence presented at Brandon Stahl’s trial. And it had come into existence in a rather scandalous way. Donald’s father, William Colchester, a Massachusetts state legislator representing the Fourteenth Suffolk District, became convinced the insurance company and hospital were denying Donald medical services that would improve his quality of life.

The senior Colchester received support from Very Much Alive and other players in the world of health-care checks and balances. According to Michelle, with whom Julie had spoken about Colchester’s case in generalities, denying care was a common practice these days, and something her organization would have fought staunchly to address.