Fatal Reaction (14 page)

CHAPTER 34

The smell of marijuana drifted through a slightly open window as Noreen made her way through Windsor Towers, a low-end apartment complex that catered to petty criminals, the poverty-stricken, and for some reason, to Dr. Marco Prusak, whom she planned on holding accountable for Dorian’s recent run of bad luck.

Marco lived in apartment 24, and Noreen surveyed for potential witnesses before confronting him about the envelope.

The blue light of a television flickered behind the blanket-covered window of the adjacent unit. Pounding bass shook the door across the hallway. The tenants screamed loudly inside, either in the midst of a heated argument, or caught up in a tryst rough enough to make a porn star blush.

Noreen lifted her bag onto her shoulder and held her gloved hand over the peephole while she knocked.

“Who is it?” Marco asked. Noreen answered with a second knock. “I said, ‘Who is it?’” Marco cracked the door enough for him to peer out.

Noreen forced her way in, slamming the door behind her.

“What are you doing? Get out of my house!”

Noreen kicked him as hard as she could in his groin, and he doubled over with a loud, “Oof!”

“We need to talk.” She uncapped the syringe she took from her coat pocket and held it to his throat. “Get up.” Marco was on his knees, his arms wrapped tightly over his stomach. “Now.”

Marco drew a breath and managed to get to his feet. He was hunched over and shuffled backward, nearly tripping over the bottom of his blue-and-white pajama pants, striped, to match his button-down shirt.

“Please, what do you want?”

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

Marco nodded.

“Sit.”

Marco backed into a kitchen chair and sat, as instructed.

“Give me your hands.” Noreen set her bag on the table and held the syringe tight in her mouth. She didn’t take her eyes off Marco for a second.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble.”

She grabbed his wrists and wrapped them in a band of duct tape. She cut with a kitchen knife and spat out the syringe. “Then why did you start it?” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Noreen didn’t have to know Marco well to know he was scared. “Where are the reports?” She flipped through the stacks of religious tracts piled on every horizontal surface.

“What reports?”

“The originals of the ones you delivered to Dr. Carmichael’s office this morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Noreen withdrew a vial from her bag and set it down, hard, on the table. “Since you’re a doctor, I’m sure you’re aware of the paralyzing effects of succinylcholine.” She shook the syringe in her hand, indicating its contents.

Marco turned his dark eyes away from her. “Yes,” he muttered.

“And insulin?” She showed him the IV setup and the insulin bag. Marco nodded. “You’ll tell me what I want to know, or I’ll put as many bags of it into you as it takes to kill you. Your blood sugar will drop, your brain will starve, and if you’re lucky, you’ll lapse into unconsciousness before you die, slowly. Is that what you want?”

“No,
please
.”

“Then cooperate.” Noreen pulled a chair up in front of him. “Let’s start with an easy question. It was you who delivered those reports to Dr. Carmichael’s office, wasn’t it?” She depressed the plunger until the needle tip glistened with liquid. “Wasn’t it?” She moved it close enough to Marco to leave a wet spot on the thigh of his pants.

“Yes, yes it was me.”

“How many copies are there?”

“Two,” he said.

“Two including the ones you left for Dr. Carmichael?” Noreen made a show of thumbing the plunger.

“Yes.”

“And where is the other set?”

“They’re at my lab, at County.” Marco was too scared to be an effective liar.

“
Where
in your lab?” Noreen figured she’d give him just enough rope to hang himself.

“In the locked file cabinet behind my desk.”

“And who else have you told?”

“Told what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Marco. Who have you told about the surgeries?”

“No, no one. I swear it.”

Noreen pressed the needle tip to Marco’s skin. “Why Dorian? You obviously have an endgame, but I haven’t figured out what it is.”

Marco’s gaze settled past her, on his refrigerator and the photograph of an infant, the only thing hanging on it.

“I asked you a question.” Noreen advanced the needle, but not the plunger. “You’re out to ruin Dorian. What did he do to you?”

Sweat beaded on Marco’s forehead, and his breathing bordered on panting.

“I’m only going to ask you nicely one more time, Marco.
Why Dorian?
”

Marco refused to answer.

It was clear that getting an answer was going to take more-drastic coaxing.

CHAPTER 35

Ten unanswered phone calls left Ana with no other option than to show up at Dr. Sanders’s office and wait him out.

The receptionist, Shannon, to whom she’d spoken several times, finished the call she was on, glanced up from her computer screen, and hung up the handset on the receiver. She was younger than Ana expected, midtwenties, and dressed in a low-cut shirt more appropriate for a nightclub than a doctor’s office. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to speak with Dr. Sanders.”

“Do you have an appointment?” The familiar, sharp tone quickly emerged.

“I don’t, no, but—”

“Then you’ll have to make one. He’s double-booked through today and doesn’t accept walk-ins.”

“I’ve been calling for days. I need to speak with him about my sister.”

“In that case, HIPAA requires you to have her permission.”

Ana, well aware of privacy regulations, slammed her hands on the desk. The young woman jumped. “That’s going to be a problem considering my sister is
dead
.”

“Keep your voice down,” Shannon said, shushing her.

A couple emerged from the examination room, beaming with pride. The husband, a dark-haired man in a tailored business suit, patted his wife’s swollen belly.

The wife, a petite, older woman who looked like she’d been recently crying, reached out and shook the hand of a homely, but gentle-appearing man in his midfifties, with a comb-over hairstyle that attempted to hide his rather severe balding. “Thank you, Dr. Sanders.”

“You’re very welcome. Make sure she gets some rest,” he said to the husband.

“Absolutely. I’ll wait on her hand and foot.” The husband kissed his wife’s forehead and smiled.

“I’ll see you back in a month after the amniocentesis. Shannon will call to set the appointments.”

“So we’re all set?” the wife said.

“For now. Congratulations, again.”

Ana waited until the couple left to chase Dr. Sanders down the hallway. “Excuse me, Dr. Sanders.”

Shannon, slow on her four-inch heels, tried to keep up. “Stop,” she said. “You can’t just go back there.”

“Dr. Sanders, I need to speak with you.”

There was an audible click as Dr. Sanders stopped his dictation and turned around. “Can I help you?”

Ana held up her hand. “I’ve been calling for days. Please, I need to talk to you about my sister, Sydney Dowling.” She pulled his card from her jeans pocket. “I found this at her house. If you’ll give me just a few minutes, I can explain.”

“I tried to stop her,” Shannon said.

Dr. Sanders swept aside the thin patch of hair sliding down his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t speak with you about another patient without her consent.”

Ana’s eyes welled up with tears. “And I’m afraid I can’t get that because she was
murdered
.”

The receptionist held out her cell phone and dialed. “Dr. Sanders, I have Security on the line. What do you want me to do?”

“Please, just a few questions,” Ana begged.

Dr. Sanders turned to Shannon and sighed. “Tell them everything is all right, and let my next patient know I’m running a bit late.” He looked at Ana. “Ten minutes. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

The receptionist shot Ana a dirty look, which Ana promptly returned with one of her own.

“Thank you. Really, thank you.” Ana shook Dr. Sanders’s freshly washed hand, and the smell of soap wafted off him.

“Follow me, please.” He led Ana to his spacious, well-appointed office.

Two dozen similarly framed degrees hung behind a massive, cherry desk, displaying a variety of impressive credentials. A pair of cream-colored leather chairs sat facing them, the orange accent pillows complementing the orange-and-brown floor-to-ceiling drapes.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Dr. Sanders gestured for Ana to have a seat.

“I’m sorry for barging in. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“What is it you think I can help you with?” Dr. Sanders put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and smoothed his hair.

“I need to know why my sister came to you when she was seeing another surgeon.”

Dr. Sanders leaned back and interlaced his fingers. “Sydney came to me for a second opinion after her hysterectomy. It’s not uncommon for a woman who’s lost the ability to have children to have an emotional reaction, but Sydney was desperate. She felt that maybe her surgeon had been too aggressive, or that she’d consented to an unnecessary procedure. She had done some research and I believe was considering a lawsuit.”

“What kind of research?”

“There are alternatives to hysterectomies, at least temporary ones, for women of childbearing age. The goal is to keep the reproductive organs viable for birth if that is the patient’s wish, and I believe it was Sydney’s. Her main question was if her condition was severe enough to warrant an immediate procedure.”

“And was it?”

Dr. Sanders massaged his temples. “I don’t know. I asked Sydney for a copy of the pathology reports, but she was unable to get them. Her surgeon’s office said they didn’t have them, and County Memorial said they were ‘lost.’” He made air quotes with his fingers.

“How can the reports be ‘lost’? Everything at County is electronic.”

Dr. Sanders shrugged, and his stethoscope slid down his shoulder. “I suppose accidents do happen. There could have been a registration mix-up, or the report could’ve been attached to a wrong account, but it seemed odd to me that Dr. Carmichael would’ve operated without having ever received the results.”

Shannon appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sanders, your next patient is here.”

“I’ll be right there. I’m sorry,” he said to Ana, “I have to go.”

She felt no closer to an answer. “Is there anything else?”

“Just this.” Dr. Sanders pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer and handed it to her. “I ran a CA-125 and an LPA test. They’re somewhat vague, and a bit unreliable, but as far as cancer antigen tests go, there should have been some abnormal result—a residual positive given how recently after Sydney’s surgery the tests were taken. Sydney’s symptoms didn’t line up, clinically, with her diagnosis. She was never offered chemotherapy, or radiation, and both tests came back completely normal. There’s a margin for error here, no doubt, but the fact of the matter is, Sydney showed no signs of ever having cancer.”

CHAPTER 36

Dorian parked in the hospital’s two-story garage, and his phone rang for the fifth time since leaving Noreen’s.

“Damn it, Mitchell. Leave me alone.” His voice echoed against the concrete structure.

The calls alternated between Mitchell Altman and Simon Walker, neither of whom he had any interest in talking to, at least not while he had no idea how much they knew about what he’d done.

What he would take back if he could
.

Stephanie Martin’s case came when he was desperate, not only for money, but for fame, and at a time when he needed to secure his foothold at County. Months had passed since the successful completion of his animal trials, and he was in limbo, waiting on a donor for the first human transplant. Unlike other organs, the possibility of getting a viable uterus was slim, the donation pool cut by more than half with the majority of recent donors being male. Of the female candidates with their reproductive organs intact, none was a match to Stephanie Martin, whose husband had donated a large sum of money to the hospital and paid another hundred thousand dollars to Dorian to ensure that Stephanie was at the top of the list.

He could say it was Noreen’s idea, testing their patients for donor matches and convincing Sydney Dowling that she needed a hysterectomy, but he’d had a hand in coming up with the plan. Fear of death was a powerful motivator and all but forced Sydney’s compliance. Dorian didn’t foresee the transplant’s failure, or others’ interest in where the donated uterus came from.

Sydney Dowling had put the pieces together.

Marco Prusak had put the pieces together.

Dorian walked through the main entrance and hurried toward the bank of elevators.

The overhead page called him, almost immediately, to dial Mitchell’s extension.

The secretary manning the front desk waved to get his attention. “Dr. Carmichael, you have a call.” It was as if someone had put out an APB.

Dorian ignored her and pressed the elevator’s call button.

“Dr. Carmichael.” The woman spoke louder, and when he didn’t answer, picked up her phone.

The doors opened and as soon as Dorian was inside, he pounded the button to close them.

One floor up, Mitchell Altman joined him. “Dorian, we’ve been looking for you.”

“What do you want, Mitchell?”

The elevator ascended.

“Stephanie Martin took a turn for the worst. Simon’s been calling you.”

He and Simon had their own demons.

“Screw Simon.”

“Like it or not, Dorian, you answer to him. This isn’t personal. Whatever happened between you two, get over it. The Martins’ attorney contacted me first thing this morning. We’re in some serious shit here. No, correction.
You’re
in some serious shit.”

The elevator doors opened, and Mitchell followed Dorian all the way to Pathology.

“Did you hear me?” Mitchell kept up his badgering. “Simon says Stephanie’s not going to make it, Dorian. She’s septic.”

“I don’t have time for this right now. Tell Simon to call an Infectious Diseases consult to manage her antibiotics.” Dorian threw open the doors to the lab and found Brenna, shuffling papers and nodding to the beat of her music.

Dorian stood in front of her, but she didn’t immediately look up. “Where’s Marco?”

“It’s
your
job to call the consult,” Mitchell said, “not Simon’s.”

Dorian pounded his fist on the desk.
“Where’s Marco?”

Brenna yanked out her right earbud. “Dr. Prusak? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

Dorian looked around the lab, at the neat stacks of files and specimens, and started sorting through them.

“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked.

Dorian ignored him, searching the cabinets and drawers for what he knew had to be there.

“Dorian, what are you doing?” Mitchell grabbed his arm, and Dorian shoved him hard enough to knock him off his footing.

Mitchell’s jacket pocket caught on the edge of a file cabinet drawer, and the metal sliced his hand as he tried to break his fall. “Damn it.” He held his injured hand to his chest. His bald head turned the bright red shade of sunburn. A purple vein throbbed at his temple. “Call Security,” he said to Brenna, “now.”

Brenna dialed, clearly shaken.

“You’re finished here, Dorian.” Mitchell wrapped his bleeding hand in a wad of paper towels.

Two security guards, David and Kurt, appeared in the doorway.

“Dr. Carmichael, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” David said.

“I’m
not
leaving without the paperwork.”

“What paperwork? What are you talking about?” Mitchell said.

Dorian turned to Brenna. “Where’s the paperwork on Stephanie Martin?”

Brenna shook her head. “Which? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tissue typing, antibody screens, all of it.”

“Dr. Carmichael,” said Kurt, the larger of the two guards, as he moved in on him, “please, come with me.”

“Not without the paperwork
.
”

Brenna typed Stephanie’s name into the computer and shrugged. “There’s nothing.”

Dorian scoffed. “You know what I’m looking for isn’t there.”

Kurt took another step closer and puffed out his chest. “Dr. Carmichael, I’m only going to ask once more.”

“And I’m still not leaving.” Dorian swiped his hand across the desk, sending a computer monitor crashing to the floor. Sparks flashed across the shattered screen.

Brenna screamed.

David dialed his cell phone. “This is County Memorial Hospital Security, requesting police backup.”

Dorian couldn’t give up. The proof was too damning, and it opened too many doors.

Stephanie Martin might die.

Sydney Dowling was already dead.

Even though he was facing arrest, leaving peacefully wasn’t an option.