Small Crimes (22 page)

He
turned and glared at me, but it was forced and unnatural. Then he looked away.
We stood silently for what seemed like minutes before he muttered something
about me waiting where I was. 'I'll be right back,' he said.

I
watched as he walked away, his gait self-conscious. He was about to enter the
house, but he backed up to let the two EMTs out. They held a short conversation
before he slid past them and went inside.

The
stretcher the EMTs were carrying was empty. As they were loading it into the
back of the ambulance I asked how my mom was.

'I
think her hip is badly bruised, but not broken,' one of them said to me.

'Shouldn't
you be taking her to the hospital?'

He
shrugged. 'If they don't want to go, you can't make them.'

The
two of them finished loading up the ambulance and then drove off. I sat for
another few minutes on the curb and then stood up and got into my car. While I
sat there I thought about the police holding up the ambulance on me. When I had
called, I had spoken to the switchboard operator, and she had probably relayed
my message to the desk sergeant, Schilling. It had probably been his idea.
Still, I was sure Bill knew about it. As I thought about it, I realized I
didn't care. Just as I realized I didn't care that my parents had thrown me
out. Let them all do whatever they wanted to. As soon as I could, I'd be out of
Bradley. Then none of it would matter.

I
had my eyes closed and head tilted back when there was a short rap on the
driver's side window. I opened my eyes and saw Bill leaning over, frowning. I
rolled down the window.

'You
weren't planning on driving off, were you?'

I
shook my head. 'I was just waiting here for you.'

'That's
quite a mess in there,' he said.

I
didn't bother answering him.

He
waited for a few seconds, realized I wasn't going to say anything, and then
continued. 'Your parents claim you have photos that belong to them. They want
them back.'

'They're
pictures of my kids.'

'They
say they'll file charges against you if you don't return them.'

'Let
them.'

'If
that's what you want.'

He
started fingering his handcuffs. He had them half slid off his belt before I
stopped him.

'This
is ridiculous,' I said. 'I'll go in and talk to them.'

He
shook his head. 'They don't want you in their house. Why don't you hand me
those photos. It would be a pretty stupid thing to have to arrest you for.'

'Yeah,
it would be,' I agreed. 'Especially since if I was brought in tonight, I'd make
a stink about that ambulance being held up on me. Someone might actually care
about it.'

I
could see his eyes dull a bit, but he didn't say a word. I let out a lungful of
air. 'Why don't you go back in there and tell them that if they want I'll give
them their pictures back, but if I do, I'll also be driving to Albany tonight
so I can take my Own in the morning. Let's see what they say to that.'

Bill's
mouth twisted into a smirk as he shot me a disgusted

look,
but after a ten-count, he turned and went back into the house. When he came
back he told me I could keep the photos.

'You
need anything else from me?' I asked.

He
shook his head, his eyes as lifeless as glass.

'I've
got a duffel bag with my clothes in there. It's in my bedroom. You want to
accompany me while I go in and get it?'

"They
don't want you in there.' I could see in his eyes the last thing he wanted to
do was run another errand for me. It just about killed him, but he gritted his
teeth and told me to wait where I was while he went in and retrieved my bag for
me.

As
he went back into the house, I got out of the car and stretched. My muscles
ached and I was dead tired. As I stretched, Bill came out of the house with my
duffel bag. For a moment it looked as if he were going to hand it to me, but as
I reached out for the bag he dropped it at my feet.

'About
your being shot at,' he said, 'here's a suggestion. Why don't you get in your
car and keeping driving 'til you get someplace where somebody gives a damn?'

Chapter 13

I
found a roadside motel in Eastfield to spend the night. The room they gave me
had a dirty, stale feel to it and seemed more like a bunker than a motel room.
The walls were concrete, the flooring a mix of industrial carpeting and cement,
and the mattress had to have been at least thirty years old and in worse shape
than the one I had in jail. It was the type of place where you kept your shoes
on, and still checked where you stepped so you wouldn't walk on any left-behind
hypodermic needles or used rubbers. Still, I was out before my eyes closed.
Completely out, no dreams, nothing. It was as if a switch had been thrown.

The
room was still dark when I opened my eyes. My neck and joints ached and I had a
rotten taste in my mouth and generally felt lousy. With some effort, I
contorted my neck and upper body so I could look at the two-dollar alarm clock
next to the bed. It was only a few minutes past five. I pushed myself out of
bed, got into the shower and tried to get as clean as I could. It wasn't easy;
the shower wasn't the type you could really get clean in. The soap they gave
was a small sliver, the water stayed mostly cold and only at the end made it
close to lukewarm, and the lone towel that was left folded in the bathroom
couldn't have cost more than fifty cents and was about as thick as tissue
paper.

I
wanted to get out of there quickly and escape the griminess

of
the place, and was dressed and in my car by five thirty. The first thing I did
was drive to an all-night gas station and buy some doughnuts, aspirin and road
maps. I brought all the stuff out to my car, and after wolfing down the
doughnuts and chewing on a few aspirin, I unfolded the road maps and planned
out a trip to Montreal. Before heading off, I called my parole officer, Craig
Simpson, on a payphone and left a message that I had to miss our meeting
because of a job interview. I knew Craig well enough to know that while he'd be
annoyed by my canceling our appointment, he'd let it slide.

I
had thought long and hard about seeking out Junior for the stunt he pulled the
night before, but I had this nagging feeling about Charlotte that I couldn't
shake. When I thought back about our day together and how she had acted after
she'd left the hospital, it seemed bizarre to me. Almost as if she suspected me
then of wanting her to overdose Manny. I had this image of her in my mind, of
when we had driven to Burlington, how she sat closed and withdrawn, and how
she'd occasionally peek at me when she didn't think I was looking. I shuddered
involuntarily as I thought about it. It was more than that, though. It didn't
make any sense for her to jump to that conclusion as quickly as she had. There
was something not quite right there and I was going to find out what it was. As
much as I wanted to pay Junior back, this seemed more important.

Even
though it was only six in the morning and the sun hadn't yet had a chance to
rise, the air had a clammy feel to it and you could tell the day was going to
be overcast. It was the type of weather that would get into your bones. I put
the top down anyways. I don't know, I guess after seven years cooped up in
jail, I now wanted as much air as I could get. Driving to Montreal was only a
half-hour longer than the ride to Albany, but I didn't get any sense of peace
from the trip. I had too many thoughts and worries nagging at me.

I
reached customs by nine thirty and got to the first hospital, a little before
ten. It took some persistence and wheedling on my part, but the woman working
in the records room was too polite to stonewall me for long. After a while she
checked their files and told me that Charlotte never worked there. I went
through the same deal with three more hospitals until I found one that
Charlotte had worked at. When I asked the clerk in their administration office whether
I could speak with someone familiar with Charlotte's work history, she asked me
to wait a few minutes, and then got on the phone and tried to locate someone
for me. Less than ten minutes later I was brought into the office of the Chief
of Surgery.

The
Chief of Surgery, Dr Henri Bouchaire, was a cheery-looking fellow, about
thirty-five, with light brownish hair and long sideburns. He stood up
immediately to shake my hand, and when he sat back down, he pressed both his
hands flat together so they formed an apex, and rested the tip against his
chin.

'I'd
like to thank you for taking the time to see me,' I said.

'That's
quite all right.' He paused to show me an anemic smile. 'I understand you have
several questions that you would like to ask concerning a nurse we once
employed. Charlotte Boyd, is that correct?'

'That's
right.'

'And
you are?'

I
fished my driver's license out of my wallet and handed it to him. Fortunately,
I was able to renew it while in jail. He gave it a cursory look and handed it
back to me.

'My
name's Joe Denton,' I said. 'I'm a retired police officer from Vermont and I'm
investigating Ms Boyd for a hospital that she is currently employed at. To be
honest, I'm surprised to be talking to you. I expected to be meeting with her
past supervisor.'

'Yes,
normally that would be the case.' He seemed to lose his train of thought for a
moment. As he looked at me, the thin smile he was showing weakened. 'Is your
investigation for a general background check or did, uh, a specific incident
occur?'

'A
specific incident occurred.'

'Which
was?'

A
patient died who shouldn't have.'

All
his cheeriness left him. He looked down at his desk for a few seconds before
meeting my eyes. 'Did this, uh, patient die of respiratory failure?' he asked.

I
wanted to kick myself for not researching this better, but I took a gamble and
nodded. He separated his hands and started slowly massaging his temples.

'Are
you okay, Doctor?' I asked.

He
nodded and dropped his hands to his desk. 'I've been afraid of this,' he said.

'So
you had some unexplained deaths here also?'

He
both sighed and nodded at the same time. 'Mr. Denton, could you please tell me
what your hospital's medical staff suspects?'

It
looked like not only did I hit a long shot, but one that was going to pay off
big. 'Morphine overdose,' I said as calmly and evenly as I could.

'Dear
Lord,' he murmured.

And
you think the same thing happened here?'

'We
had four patients who died of respiratory failure which I found suspicious,' he
said. 'Let me explain. Overdosing a patient with morphine will cause
respiratory failure. During the post-mortem the only change is diffused
cerebral edema, and the problem is that it is very nonspecific to link to a
morphine overdose.'

'But
you suspected Ms Boyd?'

'Yes.'
He sighed. 'Their deaths did not seem consistent with their medical conditions.
They were all her patients. And her demeanor afterwards seemed, uh, unnatural
to me. But there was no evidence, at least none that could be used in court, to
support my suspicions. The morphine levels in the IV bags were where they were
supposed to be and I don't believe the instrumentation was tampered with. But
after the first three deaths, I personally marked all the morphine IV tubing. I
found with the last patient that it had been changed.’

‘What
does that mean?'

"That
she could have used a syringe to inject morphine into the IV tubing and
replaced the tubing afterwards. Later, there would be no evidence of what she
had done.'

'Why
would she bother replacing the tubing?'

'In
case we looked for a needle hole.'

I
leaned back in my chair and thought about it, and tried to muster as indignant
a look as I could. 'So you confronted her and forced her to leave your
hospital?'

He
nodded. He was beginning to look a little green around the gills.

'You
did more than that, didn't you,' I said. 'You forced her to leave Montreal.'