Cuffed

Cuffed

A Short Story

Written by James J.
Murray

Published by Interaction
Media Publishing, LLC

Copyright 2015 James J.
Murray

This book is licensed for your personal
use only. It may not be re-sold or distributed to other people. If
you would like to share this story with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading
this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your
use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the intellectual property and hard work of this
author.

About the Author and Some Important
Acknowledgements

Years ago I was that pharmacist behind
the prescription counter. I worked a graveyard shift for five years
as a retail pharmacist while working on my advanced clinical
degree. I often thought that one night I would be robbed of either
money or narcotics—or possibly both—during those long quiet
evenings behind the prescription counter.

Parts of this story are
fictionalized for an extra dose of drama. The basic
story—that
a rough-looking guy came in one night and
presented me with an altered prescription—actually did happen,
however. It’s also true that the man got himself caught in the
blood pressure machine precisely at the time the police arrived. It
was a memorable experience with an interesting outcome.

This story has been in the
back of my mind for a couple of decades and I’m delighted to now
share it with you. I hope you enjoy this and my other works,
especially my upcoming novel
Lethal
Medicine
, which will be out later this
month.

Like
Cuffed
,
Lethal Medicine
draws on
my past pharmaceutical experiences to create a story intertwined
into a lethal concoction of Murder, Mayhem and Medicine.

None of this would have been possible
without the support and encouragement of my wife Ginger. She
managed house, kids and a job long ago while I worked nights to
further my career. More recently she encouraged me to unlock my
brain, share my imagination and write the stories that have been
bouncing around my gray matter all these years.

I thank my fellow authors of the Author
Social Media Support Group who initially encouraged me to write
this story of an ill-fated prescription forger. And I thank my
fellow writers in the Writing Workshop II Group and also the Long
Form Critique Group. They offered advice and critiques to refine
and tighten this story for publication.

My publishing agent, Joel Scott,
deserves some special thanks for guiding me through the
ever-changing publication process and for believing that I might
have a bit of writing talent.

To all of my Facebook and Twitter fans,
I am grateful for your support and your continued promotion of my
weekly “Prescription For Murder” blog. Know that you are truly
appreciated.

And finally to you, my reader, who has
taken time out of your life to allow me to share a little of my
real and imaginary world. I thank you from the bottom of my
heart.

James J. Murray

Website: 
http://www.jamesjmurray.com/

Blog: 
http://jamesjmurray.wordpress.com/

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/jamesjmurraywriter

Twitter:
https://twitter.com/JamesJMurray1

Cuffed

I parked in the lot of the
24-hour pharmacy at precisely 9:55 P.M. and walked toward the store
to begin my shift—the graveyard shift. I heard thunder in the
distance.
A storm’s rolling in,
I thought.
It’s going to
be slow tonight.
I shivered and pulled the
coat collar tighter around my neck.

As I arrived at the prescription
counter, the pharmacist I was relieving patted my shoulder and
said, “It’s all yours.” He grabbed his coat, turned and walked out
as if I no longer existed.

A few customers roamed the aisles and a
couple of people stopped by to pick up prescriptions called in
earlier. At midnight, the assistant manager—flat butt, no hips, a
pimply-faced string bean—walked over and handed me the keys to his
kingdom.

He repeated his nightly
script. “Sam, my man, time for me to go home and take care of the
wife—if you know what I mean.” He looked like he was twelve and I
thought of asking him if
he
knew what that meant, but I resisted. He gave me
a smug smile, spun around and walked out of my life for another 24
hours.

Now in charge, I relaxed and prepared
to do some studying. That’s the whole reason I work this
upside-down shift—so I can study and still pay the bills. I sleep
some in the morning, go to class for an advanced clinical degree in
the afternoon and work all night.

Fortunately, the overnight shift is
always dead, but I never say that. Not in front of the customers
anyway. It’s bad karma, what with all the robberies and shootings
in the news. But it’s quiet most of the time. Even though the
drugstore is located in the heart of San Antonio’s medical center,
with seven hospitals within a two-mile radius, there’s little store
traffic during the wee hours of the morning.

A quick set of instructions to Jeremy,
my clerk and the only other employee in the store, kept him busy
in-between helping the occasional customer.

I heard a strange noise,
like metal clanging, and realized that rain was pelting the
roof.
Maybe it’s hail. It’s going to be an
easy night.

I pulled out the research paper I had
been working on for the last week and continued my analysis of
recent cardiac drug studies. My goal was to develop a noteworthy
comparison solely to impress my clinical professors.

When I began to formulate a
particularly witty conclusion, I heard the door chime. I looked up
robotically. The pharmacy is situated at the rear of the store and
elevated about a foot above the retail space. I usually looked up
when the door chimed since I had a panoramic view of the entire
store and anyone entering it.

This customer was a twenty-something
white male. He was dressed in oversized jeans about to fall to his
knees and a hoodie. Walking in, he pulled the hood down, retrieved
a baseball cap from his back pocket and put it on
backwards.

He rubbed his face with jittery hands
and I got suspicious. I realized I was profiling him and almost
turned my attention back to my research paper. A funny feeling in
my gut, however, made me decided to keep an eye on the man a little
longer.

He looked around, spotted
the prescription counter and shuffled toward me. He looked down
every aisle before approaching the pharmacy. Acid churned in my
stomach and inched up my esophagus like an expanding bubble.
This is it,
I
thought.
I’m about to be
robbed.

The man circled the store
twice before walking up to the counter. He grimaced slightly as he
stood there. I looked at his hands for a possible gun or a note
demanding the store’s cash—or worse yet, all the narcotics. His
hands were empty but they were shaking.
A
meth head,
I decided.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he
grinned. I saw a few empty spaces where teeth should have been. I
hesitated for as long as I dared, squared my shoulders and walked
toward him. I positioned myself behind the cash register, the only
barrier in sight.

He handed me a piece of paper. “I’m in
a lot of pain. Can you rush this?”

I looked at the form. It was a special
triplicate prescription, the kind doctors use only for strong
narcotics. The order was for Percocet tablets, a popular
pain-reliever containing oxycodone. I frowned and looked at him. He
frowned also, stepped back and asked, “What?”

Words failed me. I shrugged my
shoulders and said nothing. Looking at the paper again, I
recognized the physician’s signature. I’d seen it often enough on
other late night prescriptions. I exhaled audibly, decided to
ignore the incongruity of a street dude presenting a legitimate
narcotic prescription and said, “No problem. It’s an unusual order
from an ER physician. I’ll see if I have it in stock.”

While I walked to the narcotic safe, I
studied the paper and stopped dead in my tracks. The prescription
had been altered. An obvious number one had been added in front of
the original quantity of twenty. The change to one hundred and
twenty tablets was subtle but the ink was not quite a
match.

I was holding a
forgery!
Now what?

Verify,
popped into my mind. Before I did anything else, I had to
confirm that the doctor had not sloppily changed the original
quantity. I walked to the other end of my workspace, as far from
the register as possible, and called the emergency room. The doctor
confirmed that only twenty tablets had been ordered.

“
I should never have
prescribed oxy,” the physician blurted out. “That guy came in with
a nasty gash to his torso. I stitched him up and prescribed
hydrocodone. He said he was allergic to it.” The doctor was silent
for a moment before adding, “It was a jagged wound, could have been
self-inflicted now that I think about it. Cancel the order and call
the police.”

I agreed and hung up. I
mentally reviewed company policy as stated in the handbook.
“When presented with a suspected forged
prescription, call the police if you can. Always be discreet and
keep yourself safe
.”

Feeling isolated, I glanced toward the
patient waiting area. The man was staring at me. I smiled, he
smiled and I could taste bile and stomach acid burning my throat. I
managed to shout out, “Got you covered. Take a seat and I’ll have
it out in about 10 minutes.” He nodded and sat in one of the
customer chairs opposite the counter.

Moving to the computer, I pretended to
process the order. I stopped abruptly, as if a call had just come
in, and answered a dead line. I slowly dialed 911, identified
myself and quietly reported, “I’ve got a forged prescription in
progress and need immediate assistance.”

The 911 operator took pertinent
information and said, “Stall for time. The streets are slick and
all police cruisers in the area are dispatched to traffic
accidents.” She promised to redirect one as soon as
possible.

About that time a familiar customer
walked up to the counter. She was a nurse from one of the hospital
ER’s, a different one from where the forgery originated. Usually
with dark circles under her eyes from a long night, she’d come in
to shop and wind down from her shift before heading home. After
several times of merely waving, we started talking and became
friends.

She brushed rain out of her hair and
asked, “How’s it going tonight, Sam?”

I looked from her to the forger and got
back with the 911 operator. “Please hurry. He’s staring at me and
I’ve got another customer here.” I disconnected and walked up to
the nurse. “Hi, Mary. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“
Yeah, I waved but you
didn’t look up.”

“
I’m kind of busy right
now.” I turned toward the forger. He seemed to be concentrating on
my every word. “I have to take care of this patient.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward
the man. “I have a quick question for the pharmacist.” She looked
back at me. “How strong are these asthma inhalers you have out
front here? My son’s running out of his prescription and I forgot
to ask one of the docs to write a new one.” She nodded toward the
front door. “With this rain, I’d hate to go back for a
script.”

“
I don’t think they’d be
strong enough from what you’ve told me about his asthma. I could
call one of your ER docs and take a phone order.”