Claws and Effect (9 page)

“Take more than a little slip of a girl like you to knock me down.”

“He's right. Tussie, you're getting too skinny. You're working too hard,” Harry said.

“Runs in the family. The older we get, the thinner we get.”

“Sure doesn't run in my family,” Miranda called out from the other side of the table, worked her way around the three-bean salad, and joined them.

“Do you think poor patients will steal?” Harry asked Tussie.

“No,” she said with conviction.

“Aren't hospitals full of drugs?” Miranda paused, then laughed at herself. “Well, that's obvious but I mean the drugs I read about in the paper—cocaine, morphine.”

“Yes and those drugs are kept under lock and key. Any physician or head nurse signs in, writes down the amount used and for what patient, the attending physician then locks the cabinet back up. That's that.”

“But someone like Hank Brevard would know how to get into the drug cabinets, storage.” Harry's eyebrows raised.

“Well—I suppose, but if something was missing, we'd know.” Tussie's lower lip jutted out ever so slightly.

“Maybe. But if he was smart, he could replace cocaine with something that looks like it, powdered something, powdered milk of magnesia even.”

Slightly irritated, Tussie gulped down a bite of creamy carrot salad. “We'd know when the patient for whom the drug was prescribed didn't respond.”

“Oh hell, Tussie, if they're sick enough to prescribe cocaine or morphine, they're probably on their way out. I bet for a smart person who knows the routine, who is apprised of patients' chances, it would be like stealing candy from a baby.” Harry didn't mean to be argumentative; the wheels were turning in her mind, that was all.

“You watch too much TV.” Tussie's anger flashed for a second. “If you'll excuse me I need to talk to BoomBoom.”

Harry, Miranda, and Herb looked at one another and shrugged.

“She's a little testy,” Miranda observed.

“Pressure,” Herb flatly stated.

“I guess. Guess I wouldn't want to be working where someone was murdered. See, Miranda, imagine a murder at the post office—The body stuffed in the mailbag.” Harry's voice took on the cadence of a radio announcer's: “The front and back door locked, a fortune in stock certificates jammed into one of the larger, bottom postboxes.”

“Harry, you're too much.” Miranda winked at her.

“And remember what I said about your curiosity, young lady. I've known you all your life and you can't stand not knowing something.” Herb put his arm around her.

16

It was that curiosity that got Harry in trouble. After the meeting she cruised by the hospital when she should have driven home. The puddles from the melted ice glistened like mica on the asphalt parking lot.

Impulsively, she turned into the parking lot, drove around behind the hospital to the back delivery door, which wasn't far from the railroad tracks. She paused a moment before continuing around the corner to the back door into the basement.

She parked, got out, and carefully put her hand on the cold doorknob. Slowly she turned it so the latch wouldn't click. She opened the door. Low lights ran along the top of the hallway. The dimness was creepy. Surely, the hospital didn't have to save money by using such low-wattage bulbs. She wondered if Sam Mahanes really was a good hospital director or if they were all cheap where the public couldn't observe.

She tiptoed down the main corridor which ran to the center of the building, the oldest part of the complex, built long before the War Between the States. She counted halls off this main one but wished like Hansel and Gretel she had dropped bread crumbs, because if she ducked into some of these offshoot halls she wouldn't find her way out quickly. Bearing that in mind, she kept to the center hall corridor.

If she'd thought about it, she would have waited for this nighttime exploration until she could bring Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. Their eyes and ears were far better than her own, plus Tucker's sense of smell was a godsend. However, she'd taken them home after work, whipped off her barn chores, and hopped over to the rectory for the meeting.

She thought she heard voices somewhere to her right. Instinctively she flattened against the wall. She wanted to find the boiler room. The voices faded away, men's voices. A closed door was to her right.

Stealthily she crept forward. A flickering light to her right told her a room lay ahead. The voices sounded farther away, and then—silence.

The door behind her opened. She hurried away, slipping into the boiler room. She'd found her goal. Again, she flattened against the wall listening for the footfall but the boiler gurgling drowned out subtle sounds.

She quickly noted that another exit from the boiler room lay immediately in front of her on the other side of the room.

Glancing around she took a deep breath, walked to the boiler. The chalk outline of Hank's body had nearly worn away. She knelt down, then looked at the wall. Though it was scrubbed, a light bloodstain remained visible. Shuddering at the picture of blood spurting from Hank's throat, jetting across the room, she started to rise.

Harry never made it to her feet. A clunk was the last thing she heard.

17

Sheriff Rick Shaw and Deputy Cynthia Cooper hit the swinging doors of the emergency room so hard they nearly popped off their hinges.

“Where is she?” Rick asked a startled ER nurse.

The young woman wordlessly pointed to yet another set of doors and Rick and Cynthia blasted through them.

A woozy Harry, covered with a blanket, lay on a recovery-room bed. A quiet night at the hospital, no other patients were in the room.

Jordan Ivanic, a sickly smile on his face, greeted the officers. “Why does everything happen on my watch?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Dr. Bruce Buxton growled at him. Bruce considered Jordan a worm. He had little love for any administrative type but Jordan's whining and worrying curdled his stomach.

“Well?” Rick demanded, staring at Bruce.

He pointed to the right side of Harry's head. “Blow. Blunt instrument. We've washed the blood off and cleaned and shaved the wound. I've taken X rays. She's fine. She's stitched up. A mild concussion at the worst.”

“Harry, can you hear me?” Cynthia leaned down, speaking low.

“Yes.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

“No, the son of a bitch.”

Her reply made Cooper laugh. “You'll be just fine.”

“Who found her?” Rick asked Jordan.

“Booty Weyman. New on the job and I guess he just happened to be checking the boiler room. We don't know how long she was there. We don't know exactly what happened either.”

“I can tell you what happened,” Rick snapped. “What happened was someone hit her on the head.”

“Perhaps she fell and struck her head.” Jordan tried to find another solution.

“In the boiler room? The only thing she could have hit her head on is the boiler and then we'd see burns. Don't pull this shit, Ivanic.” Rick rarely swore, considering it unprofessional, but he was deeply disturbed and surges of white-hot anger shot through him. “There's something wrong in this hospital. If you know what it is you'd better come clean because I am going to turn this place upside down!”

Jordan held up his hands placatingly. “Now Sheriff, I'm as upset about this as you are.”

“The hell you are.”

This made Bruce laugh.

“Dr. Buxton.” Cynthia leaned toward the tall man. “When did you get here?”

“I came a little bit after the meeting at the rectory, the God's Love group, you know. Herb's group.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Stopped at the convenience store. So I guess I got here about eight forty-five.”

“Did you go to the boiler room yourself?” Rick asked the doctor.

“No. She was brought to me. When Booty Weyman found her, he had the sense to call for two orderlies. Scared to death.” Bruce remembered Booty's face, which had been bone white.

“Well, if you won't be needing me I'll go back to my office.” Jordan moved toward the door.

“Not so fast.” Rick stopped him in his tracks. “I want the blueprints to the hospital. I want every single person's work schedule. I don't care who it is, doctors, receptionists, maintenance workers. I want the records for every delivery and trash removal for the last year and I want all this within twenty-four hours.”

“Uh.” Jordan's mind spun. “I'll do my best.”

“Twenty-four hours!” Rick raised his voice.

“Is that all?” Jordan felt like he was strangling on his voice, which got thinner and higher the more nervous he became.

“No. Have you had any patients die under mysterious or unexplained circumstances?”

“Certainly not!” Jordan held his hands together.

“You would say that.” Rick got right in his face.

“Because it's true. And I remind you, Sheriff,” Jordan found a bit of courage to snap back, “whatever has occurred here has occurred in the basement. There are no patients in the basement.”

“Get out.” Rick dismissed him with a parting shot. “Twenty-four hours, on my desk.”

“I'm glad he left before he peed his pants,” Bruce snorted.

“I did not pee my pants,” Harry thickly said.

“Not you, Harry. Just relax.” Cooper reached for her hand.

Rick whispered to Bruce, “Do you think Harry is in danger?”

“No. Her pulse is strong. She's strong. She's going to have a tender spot on her head.” He pointed to the three tiny, tight stitches. “These will drive her crazy.”

“The blow was that hard?” Cynthia carefully studied the wound.

“No. If it was that hard, Deputy, we'd have seen a fracture in the skull. Whoever hit her knew just how hard to hit her, which is interesting in and of itself. But the skin on the skull is thin and tears quite easily. Also, as you know, the head bleeds profusely. If I hadn't stitched up what was a relatively small tear, the wound would have seeped for days. She might scratch it, infecting it or tearing it further. Something like this doesn't throb as much as it stings and itches.” He smiled warmly. He had a nice smile, and it was a pity he didn't smile more often.

“Do you have any idea what she was doing here? Did she mention coming to the hospital at the meeting?” Cynthia asked.

“No.”

Rick sighed, a long, frustrated sigh. “Mary Minor Haristeen can be damned nosy.”

“Drugs.” Harry tried to raise her voice but couldn't.

“What?” Cooper bent low.

“Drugs. I bet you someone is stealing drugs.”

Bruce sighed. “It's as good an explanation as any other.” He rubbed his hands together.

“I'd like to keep her here overnight for observation.”

“I'll bring her home and stay with her,” Cynthia declared.

“You said she was in no danger.” Rick, understanding Cynthia's concern, stared at Bruce.

Bruce cupped his chin in his hand. “From a medical point of view, I don't think she is. She might suffer a bit of dizziness or nausea. Occasionally vision will be impaired. Again, I don't think the blow was that hard.”

“She has a hard head.” Rick smiled ruefully.

“You got that right, Sheriff.” Bruce smiled back at him.

18

“Ow.” Harry touched her stitches as Cynthia Cooper drove her home in her own truck.

As they walked through the kitchen door the two cats and dog ran up to their human, all talking at once. She knelt down, petting each one, assuring them that she was fine.

“We can skip breakfast, Mom, if you feel punk,”
Tucker volunteered.

“No, we can't.”
Pewter meowed so loudly that Cynthia laughed, walked over to the kitchen counter, and opened a can of food.

“I'll do that.”

“Harry, sit down. I can feed the cats and dog.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Murphy, now on Harry's lap, licked her face.
“We were scared. We didn't know where you were.”

“Yes, don't leave us. You need a brave dog to guard you.”
Tucker's lovely brown eyes shone with concern.

Harry rose to make a pot of coffee. Mrs. Murphy walked beside her.

“Sit down. I'll do it.” Cynthia laughed to herself. Harry had a hard time accepting help. “Besides, I need to know what happened and your full concentration is necessary.”

“I can concentrate while I make the coffee.”

“All right.” Coop put out the food as Pewter danced on her hind legs.

She then put down Tucker's food.

“Thank you.”
Tucker dove in.

“Okay. I went to the God's Love meeting. Regular cast of characters. On the way home I thought, why not cruise the hospital.” Harry noticed Mrs. Murphy sticking to her like glue. “Murphy, I'm fine. Go eat.” The tiger cat joined Pewter at the food bowl.

“I'm with you so far.” Coop smiled, wondering how Harry would explain nosing around the basement.

“Well, I zipped into the parking lot and I don't know, the idea occurred to me that I might go around the back. I did that and then, uh, no one was around so I thought, ‘Why not just take a peek?' I wasn't being ghoulish. I just wanted to see the room where Hank was killed.”

“What time was this?”

“Um, eight-thirty or nine.”

“Go on.” Cynthia began frying eggs.

“Okay. I parked the truck. I got out. The door was unlocked. I opened it. Boy, the lights are dim down there. Cheapskates. Well, I walked down the hall. I passed a closed door on my right and up ahead, a wash of light spilled out onto the hallway and I heard voices. Low. Sounded like men's voices. I froze. I couldn't hear too much because I was outside the boiler room. Anyway, I kind of slid down, peeked into the room and no one was there. They left but I don't know how. I mean I noticed doors in there but I didn't hear any open or close. I tiptoed over to the chalk marks for Hank's body. Not much of them left. I knelt down and I looked over to the wall. At least I think that was the wall where the blood splashed. The light is pretty good in the boiler room. There's discoloration on that wall. I started to get up and—that's all I remember.”

“Whoever hit you, hit you hard enough to knock you out but not hard enough to do damage, real damage. That tells me something.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Coop slid the eggs onto a plate Harry handed to her. “Either your assailant is a medical person who knows his stuff, or your assailant knew you and didn't want you dead. Or both. Everyone who knows you knows you can't resist a mystery, Harry. But the fact remains that the assailant was merciful, if you can stand the term, given your stitches.”

“Ah.” Harry hadn't thought of that, but then she hadn't had time to think of anything.

“Merciful, hell,”
Tucker growled.
“Wait until I sink my fangs into his leg.”

“I'll scratch his eyes out,”
Mrs. Murphy hissed.

“I'll regurgitate on him,”
Pewter offered.

“Gross!”
Mrs. Murphy stepped back from the food bowl as Pewter pretended to gag.

“Ha ha,”
Pewter giggled.

“Lot of talk around here,” Harry teased her animals.

Coop, now sitting at the table, leaned across it slightly. “Harry, just what in the hell did you think you would find?”

Harry put down her fork, her eyes brightened. “I asked myself—what goes on in a hospital? Life or death. Every single day. Right?”

“Right.” Coop shook pepper on her eggs.

“What if there is an incompetent doctor or technician? One false move on the anesthesiologist's part and—” She snapped her fingers to signify the patient dying instantly. “One misapplied medication to a critically ill patient or one angel of death.” Noticing Coop's noncomprehension she hastened to explain. “A nurse who wants to ease patient suffering or who decides old people can just die and get out of the way. There are hundreds of secrets at a hospital and I would imagine hundreds of potential lawsuits. We all know doctors cover for one another.”

“Yes.” Cynthia thoughtfully chewed for a moment. “But given that they have to work together and cooperate closely, I suppose that's natural. Cops cover for one another, too.”

“But you see where I was heading. I mean what if there's a problem person, an inadequate physician?”

“I understand. I'm still trying to link this to Hank Brevard.”

“Yeah, me, too. The head of maintenance wouldn't exactly be in the know if the problems were medical.” She paused. “Unless he had to hide evidence or bury it or he was stealing drugs.”

“Be pretty damn hard to cart a body or bodies out of the hospital. Or down into the basement. Now, drugs, that's another matter.”

“Then, too, people do just fall into things. Pop up at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Harry jabbed at her eggs.

“True.”

“Or maybe Hank had a problem. Gambling. Just an example. They nailed him at work. It might not have anything to do with the hospital but I think it does. If he owed money I'd think a killer would shoot him somewhere else. There are easier ways to get rid of somebody than the way he was killed.”

Coop reached for the toast. “That's what I think, too. Rick isn't saying much. But we're all traveling down the same path.”

“I even thought it might have something to do with harvesting body parts. A patient dies. Okay, now how would the family know if the liver or kidneys have been removed?”

“The undertaker would certainly know if there'd been an autopsy but—he wouldn't necessarily know if any body parts or organs had been removed.”

“If the family requests an autopsy, and most do, it would be so easy. And in some hospitals aren't autopsies a matter of course?”

“I don't know. They aren't in Crozet.” Coop tapped her fork on the side of the plate, an absentminded gesture.

“Let's go with my thesis. Organs. A healthy kidney is worth five thousand dollars. In any given week a hospital the size of Crozet, a small but good place, will have, I would think, at least three people die with healthy organs. I mean that's not far-fetched. A black market for body parts.”

“No, I guess it isn't far-fetched. We can clone ourselves now. So much for reproduction.” Her light eyes twinkled.

“Don't worry. Old ways are the best ways.”

The two women laughed.

“Where to hide the organs before shipping them out?” Cynthia knew how Harry thought.

“I've seen those containers. They're not big. They're packed with dry ice. They'd be pretty easy to stash away in the basement. A nurse or doctor might find that kidney upstairs but who goes into the basement? Hank was in on it. The key is in the basement. Maybe it really was part of the Underground Railroad once. There'd be lots of places to hide stuff in then.”

“Well, it's a theory. However, I don't think organs last very long. And donor types need to match. Still, it's something to investigate.”

“And I can help.”

“There she goes again.”
Tucker shook her head.

“What I want from you is: keep your mouth shut. Don't you dare go back into that hospital without me. Whoever hit you knows you, I think. You show up again and the blow might be—” Coop's voice trailed off.

“Is Rick mad at me?”

“Of course. He'll get over it.”

“Who found me?”

“Booty Weyman, new on the job. Poor kid. Scared him half to death.”

“Who stitched me up?”

“Bruce Buxton—and for free.”

Surprised, she said, “That was nice of him.” Glancing at the old railroad clock on the wall, Harry said, “I've got to feed horses, turn out, and get to work.”

“You feel good enough to go to work?”

“Yeah. It hurts but it's okay. I'll stuff myself with Motrin.”

“How about if I help you feed? One other little thing, don't tell people where you were or what you were doing. You've got until you walk into the post office to come up with a good story. The last thing we need on this case is to draw everyone's attention to the basement. It's much better if the killer or killers get a little breathing room. Whatever they are doing, if indeed it does involve the hospital, let them get back to it. Rick is even delaying talking to Sam about this for twenty-four hours. The trick is to get everyone to let down, relax.”

“You need someone on the inside.”

“I know.”

“Larry Johnson still goes to the hospital. He's true blue.”

“Larry is in his seventies. I need a younger man,” Coop replied.

“Old Doc might be in his seventies but he's tough as nails and twice as smart. I'd put my money on him any day of the week.”

“Well—I'll talk to Rick.”

“The other thing is, Larry's a deep well. Whatever goes in doesn't come out.”

“That's true. Well, come on, girl. If you're going to work we'd better get cracking in the barn.”

“Hey, Coop, thanks. Thanks for everything.”

“You'd do the same for me.”

As the humans pulled on their coats, Mrs. Murphy said to her friends,
“She's right about one thing. A hospital is life and death.”