Code 15 (30 page)

Morgan looked squarely at him. “I’m not a police officer, Mr. Cochran, and two weeks doesn’t give me much time.”

“I understand, but anything that would refute Dr. Canfield’s autopsy report and his . . . his editorial comments would greatly help your case.”

“Editorial comments?”

“He included a letter that accused you of being under great personal stress. He suggested that it might be the cause of your faulty medical judgment.”

Morgan wanted to scream.

“Can he do that?”

“It may not be considered proper procedure, but there’s no law against it.”

“I thought his job was to offer an objective opinion regarding Faith Russo’s cause of death. He’s a pathologist, not a psychiatrist. He has no right to make unfounded and unqualified statements regarding my emotional state.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Dr. Connolly.”

“Why would the board even look at such a letter?”

“Normally they wouldn’t. But coming from Dr. Canfield . . . well, they probably will. He’s one of the board’s most respected consultants. They’ve asked him to offer opinions on several cases over the years. They hold him in very high regard.”

“Great,” Morgan said, crossing her arms and pushing back in her chair. “What’s the point in even defending myself?”

“As I mentioned before, it’s impossible to predict what the board will do. In addition to being the key caregiver in a particularly bad Code Fifteen case, you have a highly respected pathologist who’s claiming you’re responsible for it. If you want to help yourself, find something of substance in your defense that the board won’t be able to ignore.”

“What I need is more time. Will they give me a postponement if I request one?”

“Not without a compelling reason,” he said, coming to his feet. Morgan remained seated.

“You have my card. If you should have any questions, please call me.”

“Thank you,” Morgan told him with a polite but faint smile.

After Cochran left, Morgan sat in the office pondering her ever-worsening predicament. Entangled in a Gordian knot of uncertainty, one fact seemed clear: she had to find Mason Kaine. Ben was right. For all she knew Kaine could have moved out of Florida a year ago. It would be pointless to try to enlist the help of the police department, but based on her conversation with Adele Kaine, she didn’t think she needed to.

After another minute or so, Morgan stood up and left the room. She was not a woman prone to paranoid ideations. But as she made her way down the hall, she’d swear the entire machinery of Florida’s medical authority was conspiring against her.

DAY THIRTY

 

 

Gideon knelt down on the shallow incline of his multitiered rock garden.

Scrutinizing his work, he was at last satisfied that the spacing and alignment of the purple and white impatiens were perfect. Pushing himself to his feet, he brushed the crusted dirt from his jeans. He then made his way down an azalea-lined gravel trail until he arrived back at his house. He climbed the four steps leading to a wooden deck and then walked over to the railing.

From the middle of his shoulder blades, a razor-sharp pain climbed upward and then over his neck before sinking into the depths of the base of his skull. Determined to ignore the stress-induced pain, he gazed out over his beautifully landscaped property.

Subconsciously, his grip on the railing tightened until the last drop of blood was squeezed from his hands. The news that AHCA had failed to impose any significant sanctions on Dade Presbyterian had quickly disseminated through the hospital. When word reached him, he was infuriated. At a minimum, he had expected the inspection team to require the hospital to pay a substantial fine and to order a temporary suspension of the cardiac program pending an in-depth review of its safety record.

The flames of Gideon’s anger were further fanned by the knowledge that, in the absence of significant penalties from AHCA, the Code 15s wouldn’t receive any media attention. From the beginning, he had counted heavily upon television and the newspapers crucifying Dade Presbyterian hospital for their unsafe practices.

Irrespective of what had happened to this point, he couldn’t allow AHCA’s spineless dereliction of duty to weaken his resolve. Righteousness would always be on his side. This time, he vowed to himself, he would leave nothing to chance. He would create a Code 15 of such staggering proportions that the media would have a field day with it. A public outcry would result that would echo all the way to Tallahassee. AHCA would have no choice but to return to Dade Presbyterian and do what they should have done the first time.

His determination renewed, Gideon released his grip on the railing and went into his house. Entering the sunroom through a set of white French doors, he strolled over to a wicker love seat that overlooked his garden. A large ceiling fan cast a welcomed stream of cool air across his face and neck. He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and soon became deeper.

His last thought before falling asleep was that he would not allow Morgan Connolly to do anything more to interfere with his plans. To his dismay, he would have to change his tactics. He could no longer afford to indulge himself by tormenting her. It was time to arrange for her death. He owed at least that much to his sons.

DAY THIRTY-ONE

 

 

Morgan’s second session with Will Johnson was even more free-flowing and productive than the first.

They spent most of the time discussing her interview with AHCA, her conversation with Adele Kaine, and the other events that had transpired since they had last spoken. At no time was Will judgmental or did he make her feel as if her concerns were irrational or groundless. Most important, she was confident that nothing they talked about would leave his office.

“We still have a few minutes left,” he told Morgan, flipping his notepad back to the first page. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

Having a captive expert in human behavior sitting directly across from her was an opportunity too appealing for Morgan to pass up.

“Anything?”

He nodded.

“I know you spend most of your day trying to talk people off of the ledge. I’d like to discuss something a little different.”

“I’ll try and shift gears,” he said, sporting a cautious grin.

“I’d like to know what type of person might become irrational as the result of a severe grief reaction?”

He picked up his container of coffee and took the last swallow.

“What you’re asking for is a personality profile of an individual who might be predisposed to such a psychotic breakdown.”

“Exactly.”

He flipped a few pages back in his notes.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mason Kaine, would it?”

“Let’s just say we’re two physicians discussing an interesting psychiatric case.”

“Fine. Any standard psychiatric textbook would say that the type of breakdown you’re describing is rare. On the other hand, there are numerous case reports in our scientific journals suggesting it’s a more common phenomenon than we once believed, and that it doesn’t necessarily mean the individual is psychotic.”

“Is there a particular personality type that would be more prone to an extreme grief reaction?” she asked.

“Inflexible, highly structured individuals. Somebody who was confident in his or her convictions and didn’t require the moral input or approval from those around them. Other characteristics might include aversions to change and problems with anger management.”

“How about unappeasable and unwilling to negotiate?” Morgan inquired.

“Absolutely.”

“Would this individual enjoy setting others up for failure in order to aggrandize themselves?”

Will chuckled. “I see you’ve already done some reading on the topic. Coals to Newcastle bringing me into this conversation.”

“How prone would such a person be to committing a violent act?”

“That’s hard to say. But anybody could become violent if subjected to enough frustration from an unresolved conflict, especially if they felt that one of their loved ones had been unfairly victimized. Throw revenge into the mix and violence would become much more likely.”

“I’m glad I didn’t become a shrink,” she said, coming to her feet.

“I think we should get together again.”

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

“Is coming here really that bad?” he asked.

“No, as long as there’s an end in sight.”

Will stood up. “I think we’re getting close,” he told her, walking her to the front door and then down the driveway. “I’ll check my calendar and give you a call.”

Morgan climbed into her car. Still hoping to keep her sessions with Will as confidential as possible, she said, “Call me on my cell phone. It’s a lot easier than trying to get me through my office.”

“No problem,” he assured her, closing the car door.

Morgan weaved her way easily through the noontime traffic. She thought about nothing except what Will had told her about irrational grief reactions. From what little she knew of Mason Kaine, he fit the profile. But unsubstantiated theories and conjecture wouldn’t be enough for the police, Dade Presbyterian Hospital, or the state of Florida. With the AHCA investigator’s words of warning echoing in her mind, Morgan feared her time would run out before she could gather the information that would exonerate her with the board of medicine.

But what terrified her even more was that if she couldn’t learn more about Mason Kaine—if she couldn’t crawl into his warped mind—she wouldn’t be able to stop him. Tangled within a confusing mesh of unanswered questions, there were two certainties. The first being that left to his own devices, Kaine would kill again, and the second being Dade Presbyterian hadn’t seen the end of their Code 15 problem.

DAY THIRTY-TWO

 

 

Located in downtown Fort Lauderdale, the Broward Center for the Performing Arts was a modernistic architectural achievement that was kept solvent by its many philanthropic supporters.

As soon as the curtain came down on the first act, Morgan and Ben strolled out to the lobby.

“The entire cast is incredible,” she told him above the buzz of the equally enthusiastic patrons congregated around the concession area. “How do you like it?”

“I’m enjoying it.”

“Really? Because I thought I caught you nodding off during the
Chorus Line
number.”

“No way,” he insisted.

Before she could tease him any further, Morgan felt her pager vibrate. The unexpected page and what it might bring sent her upbeat mood into a tailspin.

With a pained frown, she checked the message. “It’s the ER.”

“I thought you were off.”

“I’m never off,” she moaned, clearing the message. “It must be important. I’d better call in. I’m going to go over by the window so I can hear better.”

“Do you want anything?”

“Get me a big chocolate bar,” came Morgan’s immediate response.

Ben looked at her sideways. “Really?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No. I . . . I was just thinking about that huge chocolate soufflé you had for dessert. On the way out of the restaurant, the waiter told me he’d never seen anybody eat an entire one by themselves.”

“Then he’s obviously never waited on a pregnant woman. If you disapprove of my cravings, I’ll be happy to get my own Snickers.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he answered, lifting his hands in total surrender.

Morgan walked over to a thirty-foot floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the theater’s main entrance. She removed her cell phone from her purse and tapped in the number.

“Emergency room. This is Dr. Pierre.”

“Hi, Amy. It’s Morgan. What’s up?”

“I’m sorry to bug you, but we just had a mock, unannounced disaster drill. We thought we might need you, but we got through it okay. Everybody did a great job.”

“What was the scenario?”

“Fifty kids trapped in an overturned bus.”

“That’s pretty creative,” Morgan said, after allowing a huge breath of relief to slowly escape her lungs. “How did you handle the triage?”

“We transferred most of them to the pediatric trauma center at Ryder. Anybody critical or over the age of fourteen we kept here.”

“Sounds fine to me. Why don’t we get everybody together for lunch tomorrow? We can go over the drill in detail.”

“I’ll organize it, but we’d rather hear about your date.”

Morgan allowed herself a short laugh. “Is anything personal or sacred in that place?”

“Not if you want to go to the theater with south Florida’s most eligible bachelor.”

She smiled. “I appreciate your interest in my personal life, but you might mention to the gang that the only item on the agenda will be the disaster drill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Morgan made her way back across the lobby, she caught sight of Ben talking to a slender woman who looked vaguely familiar. After a minute or so, he shook her hand and walked back over.

“Everything okay in the ER?” he asked, handing her the candy.

“It was nothing. Who were you talking to?” Morgan asked with no reluctance.

“Sheryl Grantham.”

“The radiologist?”

“Uh-huh.”

Squinting in her direction, Morgan said, “I didn’t recognize her. I guess I’ve never seen her in anything except scrubs. She looks great,” Morgan added with a sigh, taking a serious second look at the Snickers bar.

“Sheryl and her husband are good friends with the Allen bys. She told me that their son was in a serious accident.”

“Mike? At UF?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God. When?’