For Everything a Reason (8 page)

It almost had.

Joseph felt his eyelids grow
heavy. He closed them and listened to the rhythmic breathing of the man at his
side. Less than a minute passed before Joseph was asleep.

Chapter
Fifteen

Detective Thomas Carter flipped his cell phone shut,
ending his brief conversation with Captain Mendoza. He returned to Tyler’s
side, and both stood looking down at Joseph Ruebins’ physician.

The desk he sat behind looked
way too big for him, took up almost the entire room, and left just enough space
for both the detectives to fill the compact office. The desk, though big enough
to perform open-heart surgery upon, had very little on display apart from a
brass name plaque, which read:
‘Doctor Martin Greenwood’
, and a pencil
and penholder.

“So, Doctor Greenwood, what can
you tell us about Joseph Ruebins’ condition?” Carter asked.

Greenwood turned to the window
of his office for a moment, the expression on his face sombre. Clearing his
throat, he said. “Truthfully, I’m still not sure.”

“Meaning?”

“Until all our tests have been
completed, I cannot give you – or Ruebins – a satisfactory diagnosis. Or
prognosis, for that matter.”

Carter leaned over, placing his
hands flat against the desk. “Doctor, is it at all possible that Joseph Ruebins
is faking this whole episode?”

Greenwood grinned slightly.
“Nothing’s impossible, Detective. The brain is a very complex organ. Joseph may
be suffering from anything as mundane as a mini-stroke, or experiencing a
series of schizoid embolisms.”    

“No, that’s not what I mean.”
Carter said, shaking his head. “Is it possible he’s faking it, knowingly?
Consciously?”

The doctor’s frown deepened.
“Why would he do that?”

Carter shrugged. “Who knows,
attention?”

Greenwood shook his head. “In
fairness, Detective, I don’t think you can get much more attention than
becoming Heavyweight Champion of the World.”

“Tell that to Charles Manson or
William Gacy,” Carter countered.

“Is that who you think is
laying in that hospital bed, a potential Manson or Gacy?”

“That’s what I’m here to find
out.”

“Okay, Detective, let me tell
you this. Joseph Ruebins has most definitely suffered some sort of haemorrhage
or stroke, but until the results of his MRI scan return, I just can’t be too
sure what?”

“So he’s definitely not
acting?”

“Not even Denzel Washington
could force just one side of his face to collapse, not even if there was an
Oscar in it for him.”

Seemed like a fair point.
However, the handprint he’d found left a nagging sensation that Ruebins wasn’t
telling them everything. “How long before his test results come in,” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, I’ll have a guard posted
at his door for the night. Until we know what it is we’re dealing with.”

“I don’t like the idea of
putting one of my patients under house arrest,” Greenwood said.  

“No – you’re right,” Carter
agreed. “But if what you’ve just told me is true, then you are putting a
witness into protection.”

“What?” Greenwood asked.

“If Joseph Ruebins didn’t kill
our man, then he’s just become our star witness. And one I’d rather keep alive
– if that’s okay?”

“This is insane. If Jones’s
killer knows Ruebins is a threat, then why not kill him too? Why leave a
witness – any kind of witness – to chance?”

Carter leaned closer to the
doctor, their faces only inches apart. “Because, Doctor, he should have died by
now, shouldn’t he?”

This obscure question sealed
the doctor’s lips closed for a moment or two. “What?” he managed to say, once
he’d peeled them open.

“The mix-up,” Carter clarified.

Whatever the doctor planned to
say never emerged.

Carter stood back, allowing
Detective Tyler to take his place. She smiled warmly, which bled away some of
the tension that had been there.

“Doctor,” she started, “my
notes show that a Mister Rueben Jackson should have been sharing the same room
as our victim. But instead, Mister Ruebins was put there.”

“So?” Greenwood asked, the
obvious eluding him for now.        

“So, where is Mister Jackson
now?” Tyler asked.

“He’s deceased. Passed away
some time last night.” He spread out his hands. “Terminal illness, may I add.
He’d have died whether or not he spent the night in intensive care, geriatrics,
or even in the hands of God himself. Bowel cancer. Secondary tumours had spread
to every major organ in his body.”

“Exactly,” Carter agreed,
drawing alongside Tyler.

The doctor looked from one face
to the next. “And?”

Carter said, “And would a
killer have wasted precious time adding another victim to his list, knowing
that they weren’t going to see the night through, anyway?”

“But that would mean the
killer…” he trailed off, finally understanding the ramifications.

“Precisely our point,” Carter
said. “That would mean the killer must have had access to all the patients’
history or medical notes.”

“But…”

“Yeah – but, only the hospital
staff have access to them,” Carter finished.

“My God…” Greenwood breathed.

“So who does have access?”
Carter asked.

Greenwood pursed his lips.
“Almost everyone working on this level – nurses, doctors, even the orderlies.”

“I need a list, Doctor. And
sooner rather than later.”

“Okay,” Greenwood acknowledged.

“I also want the names of every
visitor that came to see Henry Jones, relatives, friends, colleagues,
unknowns.”

“I’ll contact the nurse who was
in charge.”  

“Good,” Carter said.

The doctor flashed him a quick,
nervous smile, glad to be of help. Then his face resumed its serious look. “But
what about Joseph, how much real danger is he in?”

“One thing’s for sure, even if
Ruebins didn’t get a look at our man, the killer got a hell of a good look at
him. I don’t want anyone entering his room alone. Not you, not his wife and
kid, not even me – not until we’ve posted a guard outside. Okay?”

“I understand,” Greenwood said.

“If our killer is part of this
hospital, then they’re gonna find out about the mix-up soon enough. And once
they do, things might just get even uglier for Mister Ruebins.”

“Christ,” Greenwood cursed.

Carter stepped back away from
the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Now, I need to know who deals
with the patients’ bodies, once they’ve passed away.”

“The morgue. Why?”

“Because Doc, I want to know
where in the hell half my evidence has got to,” Carter responded, harshly.

“Like?”

“Like the original bed sheet,
for one thing.”

Chapter
Sixteen

The small hospital bed had become Joseph’s entire world.
Jake and Marianna sat at the bottom playing a game of cards, while Eugene
Profit lay slumped in a chair at his side. His dinner, a plate of cold ham and
mashed potatoes, with peas soft as sludge, was mostly untouched on the tray
just to his left. The TV in the corner of the room was switched on, but with
the sound muted, the flicker of changing pictures went mostly unnoticed.

It had been a few hours since
his MRI scan, and now understanding that nothing new would be revealed until
tomorrow, they were filling the hours until visiting time was over. Joseph had
spent the last few hours fearing another attack was close, but so far, he’d
stayed bright and alert and hadn’t as yet felt the presence of darkness or
dizziness.  

Throughout the day his right
arm had continued to gain sensation, to the point were Joseph was able to feel
the bed sheet underneath his fingers. His face was still a Halloween mask,
swollen on one side and a collapsed mess on the other, but his words fell with
less confusion tied to them and were clearly heard by those around him.

Joseph looked up and caught
Marianna’s eyes. They were filled with worry and doubt, and Joseph reached out
to pat her free hand. “Everything’s fine,” he said, hoping to reassure her.

She nodded, the fact that her
husband could now speak clearer, proof at the very least that Joseph’s
condition wasn’t deteriorating. Still, the sudden appearance of an armed police
guard outside the room was worry enough. Detective Carter had stated that it
was for Joseph’s protection – possibly thinking that that would soothe
Marianna’s nerves, now understanding that her husband wasn’t in trouble with
the authorities – but it had actually magnified her concern with the fear that
he was in real danger from someone outside. The detective had said he would
return later to offer an update. Marianna checked her watch constantly, waiting
for news that the killer had been caught, and all that they needed to worry
about now was Joseph’s recovery.

Eventually, just as day was
giving way to night, the detective entered the room, alone this time.
Understanding that all were doing their best to protect Jake, he looked
straight at Eugene Profit, nodded slightly, and turned his attention to Joseph
and Marianna.

Profit climbed to his feet,
making a real show of how hungry he was by rubbing his belly and expressing
that he could eat a whole cow if one was available in the cafeteria downstairs.

“You feel like a bowl of cold
slop?” Profit asked the boy.

Jake smiled. “Cold slop and
ice-cream?”

“Yeah, okay.” Profit agreed.

Jake jumped off the bed.
“Great!”

“Mom, Pop, do you want me to
bring something back for you to eat?”

Both shook their heads. “No
thanks,” they said in unison.

“Okay,” Jake said, taking
Profit’s hand and leading him outside.

Once the door clicked shut,
Detective Carter moved over to the bedside. He pulled up a chair, shrugged out
of his jacket, and draped it over the back.

“Joseph’s doctor says he’s
making good progress,” he said.

“I am,” Joseph agreed,
directing the detective’s attention to him.

“Good,” Carter said. “There are
still a few unanswered questions I need cleared up.” 

“Such as?” Joseph asked.

“Mainly, how the handprint got
onto the curtain that separated your bed and Henry Jones’?”

“What handprint?”

“Your handprint.”

Joseph turned to Marianna,
seeking guidance and understanding.

She asked, “What do you mean,
Joseph’s handprint?”

Carter replied, “The print that
somehow found its way onto the partition, a good three feet away from Joseph’s
bed. A distance that I believe would be impossible for any man to reach, even
someone with the reach your husband is capable of.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, please think hard.
Are you one hundred percent sure you didn’t get out of bed, even for a moment,
and cross the room to the other bed?”

“Why is this so important to
you?” Marianna asked.

Carter scratched at the grey
stubble on his chin. “Because the sooner I can rule Joseph out of the
investigation, the sooner we can focus our attention elsewhere. Meaning, Joseph
will remain a lot safer if we’re tracking the actual killer.”

Joseph held up his hand.
“Honey, the detective’s only doing his job.” Then he tipped his eyes toward
Carter. “What can I say that I haven’t already? I woke up to find the old guy
exposed, so did what I could to get his attention. Unless I blacked out,
somehow found my feet, and in a daydream climbed out of bed, then I promise you
I just reached out and pulled on the curtain – no big deal.”

Carter sat silent for a second,
hopeful that Ruebins would add to his explanation, and finally put the issue to
rest. But Joseph quieted, too, and looked expectantly towards the detective. A
wordless Mexican standoff ensued.

Finally, Carter asked, “Okay,
let’s move on. When you woke up this morning, what was happening on the other
side of the room?”

“What do you mean?” Joseph
asked.

“Were any of the orderlies
attending to Mister Jones, or were nurses or doctors examining him?”

Joseph shook his head. “I’ve no
idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I woke up in here,
alone.”

“Great. See no evil, hear no
evil, right?” Carter said.

Joseph looked back
apologetically. “I wish I had seen something, at least then you’d believe me.”

Marianna spoke up. “Detective,
aren’t there security cameras throughout the hospital?”

“Yeah, but only facing
entrances and exits, mostly within the main lobby. We’re reviewing them now –
but as you can imagine, there’s a hell of a lot of people traipsing in and out
all day.”

“What about security? I’ve seen
guards in the hospital, a couple of times already,” she added.

“Nothing too heavy,” Carter
replied. “There’s a few posted in ER, one or two patrolling the corridors, but
this isn’t exactly a high security prison.” Marianna’s gaze turned towards the
doorway, the one the armed guard stood behind.

Carter offered a sympathetic
nod. “Well – not ordinarily, that is.”

Marianna cut straight to the
chase. “How much danger is Joseph in, Detective?”

Carter searched her eyes. They
were dark, beautiful, full of fear and, most importantly, desperate for the
truth. Carter looked towards Joseph. His eyes were also dark and fearful, but
could it be because he was close to being revealed as a cold-blooded killer?

He gave her the most honest
answer he could. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” He reached out, taking hold of
the lowered safety railing, and then used it to help pull himself up. As he
did, his weight forced the bed to move fractionally.

He stopped dead.

“This bed,” he began, “is it
the same one you slept in last night?”

Joseph frowned. “Yeah, why?”

“Nothing,” he answered, but it
was obvious this new wrinkle was something.

“What is it?” Marianna asked.

“Wait here,” he told Joseph.

Joseph almost laughed. “I ain’t
going anywhere.”

Carter was already halfway out
the door.

***

The young police officer turned to face Carter as he
appeared. “Sir,” he acknowledged, respectfully.

“Don’t let anyone inside while
I’m gone,” Carter instructed.

“Sir?”

“Not even a doctor or nurse –
no matter what they say. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Carter spun on his heel and
headed quickly down the corridor. He took a short ride in an elevator, climbing
just the one level, and made his way to the geriatrics ward. Strips of
bright-yellow police tape sealed the room he stopped outside. He pulled the
tape away, opened the door and stepped inside.

Now that the room had been
cleared of its human occupants, it possessed an overpowering antiseptic smell.
Carter hit the light switch. The single fluorescent tube flickered to life with
a loud electronic buzz and the harshness of the white light jabbed painfully at
Carter’s eyes for a moment. Two empty beds now occupied the room. Henry Jones,
what was left of him, sat chilling in the morgue, awaiting processing and a formal
identification.

He crossed the small room and
moved directly to the side that Joseph Ruebins had been positioned on. The
fluorescent light above cast bright slivers of light across the linoleum floor.
He placed his hand on the bare mattress, looked to the floor, and discovered
instantly what he’d come to find.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Bending over, he ran his
fingertips over the surface of the floor and felt the distinctive groove that
had been pushed into the material of the floor. He stood straight, spotting a
second imprint six feet from the first and parallel to the side of the bed. Now
using both hands, he pulled the bed towards him, by about eighteen inches, the
wheels underneath allowing him to do so with ease, until the rollers fell
perfectly into the two small channels.

“Goddamn it,” he cursed,
chiding himself for being so stupid the first time around.

He jumped onto the bed and laid
himself flat, favouring the side closer to the curtain. Reaching out his
fingers brushed against the material on the first grab. With just a few more
inches, his hand would quite easily be capable of tugging on a handful of
curtain. Like Joseph Ruebins had.

“Son-of-a-bitch is telling the
truth,” he murmured out loud.