Charlie's Requiem Novella (2 page)

Chapter 2

Charlie

Kirkman Specialty Clinic

Orlando, FL

Another scorcher
,
I thought.
The
Florida heat can be such a bitch.

I pulled into the medical center parking lot, looking for that rare shaded space. It was hard to find. Newer buildings like this one tended to have small trees and an immature landscape. Construction is always cheaper when you start with a blank slate, meaning a flat, empty piece of land. Finding some shade would be nice since it would keep the car’s interior from getting baked while I visited. November normally brought temperate weather, but a weird warm front was touching Orlando as it cut across the southern half of the state. North of us, it was nice and cool, but we were going to have a few days of unusually hot weather.

Finding no shade, I reluctantly pulled into a space near the back of the lot. Thankfully, I was there on business and not as a patient. My company doesn’t like phone calls from our clients complaining that their customer parking spaces were taken by my car. They don’t want their patients inconvenienced by having to walk a few extra feet because the spaces toward the front are taken by non-patients like myself. I have no problem with that. I am fit and 28 years young. It’s just humorous that the front three spots have a sign warning anyone not to park there. These spaces were reserved for the doctors. Just saying.

The Kirkman Specialty Clinic was just like most of the other clients on my route. A square piece of prefabricated concrete with a layer of sprayed-on stucco. Faux columns stood sentinel at the double-glass door entrance, giving the structure some modicum of class. It didn’t work. It looked like all the other medical buildings I visit; Industrial cheap, gilded with cut-rate trappings. Inexpensive bronzed light fixtures oxidized in the Florida summer. Less than two years old, the hardware on the building was rusting and would have to be replaced, probably with more cheap hardware. A waste of money, if you ask me. But then again, no one said that doctors were good at anything other than their own profession. No one says that other than the doctors themselves. I have been on the job over six years and the stories I have heard of lost wealth were staggering. The doctors thought they were just as awesome in the stock market or land deals as they were in their own profession. Many found out they weren’t. But that’s a whole different story.

I popped the trunk on my Ford. I never would have bought a Ford, but I have to admit, the car is pretty sweet. Most of my friends were in a Toyota or some other Japanese or Korean car. Those models just had more “cool” when you’re young. But this company car has taken good care of me these past two years. My upgrade would be coming soon; and I was going to be able to pick from three different models. I will probably get another Fusion.

I rolled my oversized sales briefcase behind me. It had all the new pamphlets and samples for our line of drugs. I hated that thing, just because it was so clunky looking. But given the amount of crap I have to bring with me, a large bag is a must.

“Hi, Charlie!” the receptionist sang.

“Hey Peg. How’s it going?”

“Slammed as usual!” She replied with an expectant grin.

I handed over the loot. A large brown bag with handles from a local department store. The bag was only a disguise. You see, the Kirkman Specialty Clinic was a cardiology center, one of the finest in Central Florida. The loot was three dozen doughnuts. Not good for the patients to see three dozen doughnuts going into a heart center’s break room.

Peg gave me a conspiratorial smile and took the bag to the back. I sat down in the reception area, glancing at the patients around me. The room wasn’t too full, but I expected that. The only doctor here at this time was the senior partner. The other two were still at the hospital and wouldn’t be back for another hour. It didn’t matter though. Dr. Kramer was the senior partner; while the other two hadn’t been out of their residencies for more than three years. He’s a good man. Pushing 65, he has the reputation that the other two doctors use to enhance their status in the medical community. Their practice is a referral practice, and many of the patients often drive over an hour to see them. Dr. Kramer brings them in. He is the rainmaker. He likes me.

We share a common background since both of us graduated from the University of Florida. His undergraduate and medical degrees were from there, before his residencies at Duke University and Cleveland Clinic provided him with his specialty certification. I spent four years at Florida, getting my degree in chemistry while medaling on the school’s swim team. We won several SEC championships while I was there. Dr. Kramer likes that. We both bleed orange and blue.

Dr. Kramer makes the buying decisions for the practice and has more influence on the other two doctors than I ever could. If you’re in sales in the sunshine state, it helps if you are a Florida grad. And unlike most of the other salespeople in my profession, I have the scientific background to be intelligent about my products. It also helps that the drugs I sell really work. It makes my job much easier. And because Dr. Kramer likes me, I get good treatment from the staff. It also helps that I bring goodies for them; and doughnuts are always well received.

Peg came back to the desk and waved, holding up two fingers. Two minutes or twenty minutes to see the doctor. Only time will tell, so I smiled and waved back. I scanned the table beside me, bypassing many of the uninteresting magazines, finally finding one that I could read without wondering if the world would survive humanity. There is only so much celebrity gossip and mundane scandal you can read about before realizing that we worship people that don’t deserve our time, let alone our entertainment money. I’ve been in the operating room, watching a cardiologist thread a microscopic camera into a man’s ventricle and remove a life-threatening blood clot so that he could go home to his wife and children. I’ve watched emergency room staff restart dead hearts, breathe life back into drowned children and perform tasks that two generations ago would have been considered miracles. I never find them on the cover of the magazines. I guess if they got into a fight at a Las Vegas nightclub...

“Charlie! The doctor can see you now!” Peg said. So it was two minutes after all.

I rolled my cart behind me as I made my way back to his private office. Others in my profession have warned me about certain offices and some specific physicians having less than a professional approach to our relationship. In some offices, it can be a bit unnerving meeting with the doctor in his private room. One of the reasons I was hired was because of my age, as well as my background. And let’s not kid around, you can get hired based on your looks. But I know Dr. Kramer and he is a good man and I’ve never gotten a bad vibe from him. Being fit and young, I can engender unwanted conversations. When you sell, you have to sell yourself as well as your product. Some doctors take that the wrong way. So I go by Charlie, which is short for Charlotte. Why Charlie? Hey, it’s just too prissy.

Chapter 3

Day 1

Azalea Park Medical Clinic

Orlando, FL

The sunny day was pleasantly warm as Carol left the Urgent Care center. Lunch could not have come quick enough given the number of emergencies they had to handle this morning. With the flu season ramping up, the clinic had seen more than the typical number of runny nosed, body aching and lung hacking patients stumble in for treatment. All of these patients had failed to have the flu vaccine and most had waited too long to get to the clinic for the Tamiflu to be of optimal effect. Tamiflu is an anti-viral medication rather than a vaccine. For it to work on the flu virus, the patients needed to start taking the drug less than 48 hours from the onset of symptoms. Most of the patients had shown up after their symptoms had peaked three to five days into their infection, meaning the medication probably wouldn’t help all that much.

She had 30 minutes to grab a bite to eat. She left her lab coat in the office, instead wearing her green scrubs without cover. It was warm enough on this November day to forego her white jacket, although HIPPA laws required that she was supposed to have a cover when leaving the office. She justified this oversight because she was going to use the drive through at a local fast food joint to get a drink and a salad, so she wouldn’t be leaving her car.

She wandered over to the employee parking lot across the street from the clinic. She was fumbling with her phone, trying to get it out of her large and disorganized purse, when she noticed a young, thin man walking parallel to her. She stopped, pretending to search her purse for her keys, all the while keeping an eye on her unwanted guest. She noticed that he stopped as well. She continued to blunder about in her purse and assess her stalker, buying herself time to decide what to do.

He walked with a bit of a limp, his gate uneven. At first, she thought he had injured his leg. Then she realized that as he walked, his right side failed to swing and move normally. It was like his right arm was paralyzed. He began to circle around from where she had just come from, blocking her way back to the clinic. Her heart began to race as she realized the intent of this young and strange looking man. She quickly and smoothly removed a bottle of pepper spray from her purse and clicked it open. She continued toward her car, hastening her footsteps and quickly closing the distance between herself and the safety of her Honda.

Suddenly, she heard his footsteps racing toward her. She glanced back and saw that the young man had rapidly closed the distance between them. She would never make it to the car in time. She screamed and started running between the cars. His backpack kept catching on the edges of the automobiles as she ran amongst them. She heard his breath as he closed the gap between them. Terror filled her heart while the running took her breath, making it hard to scream. At one point, he grabbed her arm, only to have her break away as she sprinted between the rear bumper of a van and the front of an S.U.V. She heard him curse, and at one point, he mumbled loud enough to be heard.

“You’ll never hurt me again!” he hissed.

What was he talking about?
She thought. She didn’t recognize him
.
Maybe he was a disgruntled patient,
she found herself thinking as she dodged back toward the clinic.

As she sprinted back across the street, he grabbed her with his left hand. She spun around and bringing up the pepper spray, she hosed his face with the caustic liquid.

The young man cried out, letting go of her with his good hand, he covered his face and crashed to the street. Carol ran back into the office, crying out for help. A minute or two passed before she was calm enough to relate her story. When the doctor and a male nurse finally made it outside, the young man was gone.

They called the police and a couple of patrol cars arrived within minutes. After taking her statement, the two officers called in the description of the suspect. A white male, short cropped brown hair with a noticeable limp or paralysis of the right side. Jeans, polo shirt and a backpack last seen near the intersection of Colonial Drive and Bumby Avenue. The police assured the young woman that it was likely an attempted purse snatcher or carjacker, but with no weapon noted, the report would only suggest assault with possible strong armed theft. Given his rambling murmurs, it was likely that the young man was looking for quick money to feed his drug habit. She was told not to worry anymore about it and that she had done well to protect herself. The clinic let her go home, but she did stop on the way to replace the used can of pepper spray.

~ * * * ~

Orlando police officer John Drosky had been on the force for nearly eight years. In all that time, he had never had to draw down on a suspect. He found that most situations required a calm voice and open heart. The few times he had deployed his weapon were as backup to an already violent situation. In all three of those situations, the suspects had surrendered to one of the other police officers on the scene.

The call announcing the assault at the Urgent Care clinic came over his radio. The incident had occurred only a half a mile away, and Drosky replied to dispatch that he had received the A.P.B. The young officer turned at the next cross-street and reversed back toward the intersection of Colonial and Bumby, his head on a swivel as he searched for anyone matching the description given by the victim.

The officer had traversed about a quarter of a mile back, driving on a street one block south of Colonial Drive, when he saw a young man walking with a strange gait down the sidewalk. One look at his face, red and flush from tears and a possible dousing by pepper spray, told the policeman all he needed to call in a possible suspect sighting from the clinic attack.

Drosky stopped the vehicle and turned on his blue strobe lights. He exited the vehicle and rocked the hood forward on his Safariland SLS holster, freeing his Sig 226 for a quick draw. He slowly approached the young man, noting the lack of movement of his right arm. The physical description couldn’t have been more accurate. The backpack, jeans and polo shirt were a perfect match in color. The young man moved as in a daze, mumbling under his breath as he slowly wandered down the sidewalk. He moved without a purpose, his mind unfocused even though Drosky’s police car stood just a few yards away with its lights flashing.

“Sir!” the office said. “Stop right there and keep your hands where I can see them!”

The officer had his right hand on his service pistol, ready to draw it if any sign of violence were to occur. The policeman pointed with his left hand at the boy.

“Sir!” he repeated. “Stop and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The young man, really a teenager, suddenly looked up and noticed the officer. He gave the policeman a funny look, like he had just woken up, and did the craziest of things. He smiled.

“Sir! Please do me a favor and stop. Keep your hands away from your body.”

The teenager stopped and turned to the officer, his hands away from his body, palms open and facing out.

“Young man,” the officer said in a more quiet tone, “please lay face down on the sidewalk.”

The teenager responded as ordered. He unsnapped his backpack, letting it drop to the ground. The young man went prone, and officer Drosky came up behind him and helped him spread his legs and arms, almost like a snow angel.

“Son,” the officer said. “Do you have any weapons? Any drugs or needles I need to know about?”

The boy pointed at his backpack, but said nothing. After carefully patting him down, the officer placed the boy in handcuffs. Another patrol car rolled up allowing Drosky a chance to search his backpack. The officer was surprised to see high school books and notepads, all neatly packed and perfectly maintained. After removing all of the school items, he opened the flap on the side of the bag. He shook his head and reaching in with gloved hand, gently removed a kitchen butcher knife.

“I have a weapon,” Drosky announced.

A shame, the officer thought. If the stupid kid hadn’t had the knife, he could have been out on the street tonight. Even though he hadn’t brandished it to the victim, it wouldn’t sit well that it was in his possession.

“What is your name?” Drosky asked.

No reply. Both officers tried to get the young man to talk. He refused to say a word. Instead of being afraid, or belligerent or acting like most other young drug addicted youths did, the boy just lay there with a slight smile on his face. Drosky had never seen a perp look so sedate, so content with his lot in life. Most druggies talked. They denied or pleaded with him. This one just didn’t. No words. No violent or angry attitude. Nothing about this guy indicated he was capable of assaulting another human being.

Drosky radioed in that the suspect was in custody and ready for him to transport. He had his wallet and learned that although he was still 17, the presence of a large knife linked to a violent attack mandated that they take him to the 33rd street jail for processing with the criminal adults.

Drosky just shrugged. It wouldn’t be pleasant for this young man, being thrown into prison with adults that would love to see such a pretty young man come into their midst. Hopefully, the judges would see that. He had no criminal record that they could pull up when he called in his name and address.
Such a waste,
Drosky thought.

They put the young man into the back of Officer Drosky’s patrol car. He sat without complaint, even though his right side appeared to be non-functional.

“I’m taking you to the 33rd street jail,” the officer said. “When you get there, let them know who to call so you can get some help.”

The boy/man just sat in the back seat, the simple smile still plastered on his face.

“Son,” the officer said. “Look at me, please.”

The boy turned and looked at the policeman.

“Who are you going to call? Do you have anyone you can contact?”

The boy stared at him, and finally gave his head a slight shake.

“Jesus, can’t you say anything? Talk to me!”

The boy murmured something and smiled at the kind policeman.

“What did you say? Can I help you in any way?”

“No,” the boy finally said with a sedate grin on his face.

“Good lord, son. Why in the hell are you smiling like that? Don’t you know where you’re going?”

The boy nodded.

“Then why in God’s green earth are you smiling?”

“I’m free,” he whispered. The boy turned his head and faced forward. Officer Drosky made a note in his report to consider a psyche evaluation. The kid wasn’t right, and he needed help. As they drove down to the jail, Drosky could only hope his report would push the kid in the right direction. With nearly 4000 inmates or suspects at the jail, he knew deep in his heart that the kid would probably be lost in the system.
Damn it,
he thought
.

The minutes passed silently as they made their way to the jail. No other words were uttered as the sally port opened and the officer drove into the holding area where the suspects were removed from his car and processed into the legal system. The sally port, a secure, controlled entry into the jail, reminded Drosky of the gates in Jurassic Park. It was a reality check for the prisoners that they were entering a dangerous and unpredictable place. Most of the arrested would comment on the doors the first time they saw them. His prisoner said no words.

As the doors closed behind him, Drosky looked at the kid in his rear view mirror.
This kid isn’t going to last one week in there,
he thought.
Well, nothing I can do now. He made his own bed, now he’ll have to sleep in it.
At least, that’s what Officer Drosky told himself as he led the young man into the bowels of the jail. Telling himself that was the only way he could sleep at night.

Processing the young man was remarkably smooth. The only thing that put a wrench into the whole procedure was the boy’s lack of desire to contact anyone. He answered every question and cooperated in every way other than providing a next-of-kin phone number. The staff at the jail tried to look up the boy’s last name in the directory, but no phone number came up. He didn’t tell them that he had been living with his mother who only had a mobile phone and no land line. Not that it would have helped to have a land line. His mother had kept her maiden name and the boy had his father’s last name.

The young man smiled when he thought how he had told his mom that he was keeping his dad’s last name. She had pressed him to change his last name to hers when he turned 18, hoping to provide her with yet another knife to stab his father with. When he denied her this, she looked like she was going to explode. The girlfriend let him know later that day how much she disapproved of his disrespect for his mother. That wasn’t a pleasant night. But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. No one would hurt him again! His grin became a bit wider at the thought.

“We need to send a patrol car over to his address,” the booking officer told Drosky. “He’s not 18 yet and his parents need to be notified.”

“I can do it,” he replied. “My shift ends at five, and I can make it my last stop.”

“Here’s my number,” the officer said. “Call me when you make contact and give them this.” She handed the officer a business card with the BRC (Booking and Releasing Center) phone number on it.

“I don’t know if he’s going to be processed as an adult or child,” she continued. “It’s late, but I’ll be setting up an initial hearing with the judge this afternoon or early evening. I’d like to know where he will be processed, either here or at juvie.”

“I should know by five or so,” the officer replied. “I’ll call you directly when I meet with his parents.”

“Thanks John,” she replied. “I appreciate you looking into this.”

“Atta girl!” came a snide remark from one of the other processing clerks. “Saint Beth to the rescue! I mean, come on. Just process the stupid shits and quit trying to save the world. They’re all a bunch of perverts and assholes!”

Beth just shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“No problem, Beth. I’ll touch base with you as soon as I see what’s going on.” John finally replied as he stood and left the office.

The young man was processed. Fingerprints and pictures were taken and the digital images were placed into the county’s database. He was led to a large holding cell where he joined several other suspects that had been arrested earlier that day. The young boy looked about and saw a few other souls milling about or sitting in the spacious room. No one paid any attention to him other that a quick first glance to size him up. He presented them with no threat, and they all looked away once again. He quietly sat down on a padded bench and leaned back against the wall and thought about what he had done that morning. His father would be relieved that he didn’t have to deal with his ex-wife anymore. Closing his eyes, he quickly fell fast asleep, getting his first good rest since he was at his father’s house two weekends ago.
Finally
, he thought,
life was good
.