Authors: Daniel Palmer
Mercy (28 page)
“How are things with Knox Singer going?” Romey asked.
Allyson’s counterpart had come from Boston Community Health, better known as BCH. Knox had already given Romey an earful on how things were going.
“I think we’re making progress,” Allyson said in a voice too sweet, too saccharine.
“Any trouble spots?” Romey was much better at lying.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Allyson said.
“Good,” Romey said. “I read the report from Dr. Lucy Abruzzo. It seems you two had a good meeting.”
“We did. She’s a very directed person, not much small talk with her. It was an extremely productive working session, and I’m sure there are efficiencies we can gain by leveraging the resources of her pathology department.”
“Dr. Abruzzo may have a certain way about her, but she’s supremely competent. I’m sure whatever ideas she’s come up with will benefit our respective hospitals and our patients.”
When they reached the rehab unit Romey walked the floor, checking in on the rooms.
“No available beds,” he noted.
“We’ve been busy,” Allyson said. “It’s good for the hospital and the patients. They have to go somewhere.”
“Shouldn’t some of them have gone to White? You’ve seen the numbers, or have you forgotten?”
Romey led Allyson beyond the nurses station, out of earshot of the staff. A few patients were out on guided walks around the floor. Most got around with the aid of a walker.
“I hadn’t forgotten, Romey,” Allyson said. “But it’s a lot easier to move these patients on paper than it is in real life. They have families nearby and don’t see the benefit of going to White.”
“Because you haven’t made them see the benefit.”
“I thought my job was to run this hospital,” Allyson said with some bite.
Romey returned a half smile.
“The staff is a reflection of their leadership, is all I’m saying. If the staff believes it’s better for their care, the patients will believe it, too.”
Romey put his hands behind his back and walked with an exaggerated tilt from side to side, like he was out on a leisurely stroll. He popped into a unit where a frail, thin man could barely be seen beneath all the tubing connected to his body. Romey went to the patient’s bedside after Allyson introduced him to the nurse.
“Hello, I’m Roman Janowski, CEO of White Memorial and the newest member of the board here at Suburban West. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
A nose cannula supplied oxygen to this patient, but Roman knew for a fact he had been on mechanical ventilation not too long ago. He also knew this patient had chronic COPD and no hope of ever living anywhere but at Suburban West or some other long-term-care facility.
The man spoke in a whispered voice, weak with disease, and introduced himself as Albert Cunningham. Albert was a Vietnam War veteran, and onetime public address announcer for the Boston Red Sox.
Romey was patient with Albert, who got winded easily as he recounted his bio. The young nurse seemed taken by Romey’s attentiveness and evident compassion. Suits rarely mingled with the guests. Romey might not have been blessed with six-pack abs, but he made up for it in other ways. At the end of their brief conversation, Romey took hold of Albert’s hand to shake good-bye and commented on the substantial scarring there.
“Is that from the war?” Romey asked.
Albert explained it was a leftover from a bad case of hives.
“Seems like something’s trying to get me at every turn,” Albert said. “My lungs might be crap, but at least the ticker’s still going strong.”
Romey wished him well. Then he and Allyson were back in the corridor.
“Nice fellow,” Romey said. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Allyson returned a blank stare. She had no idea how to respond. “Um, he’s sick and needs to get better. I’m sorry, but I thought that’s what a hospital was for.”
“He’s not going to get better, and he’s eating your profit. He doesn’t belong at White—or here, for that matter. He belongs at a long-term-care facility or a nursing home.”
“He refuses to go there. He thinks that’s where you go to die.”
“So you send him home, and then he comes back here again.”
“What would you like me to do, Roman? Put him on an ice floe with old and sick Eskimos?”
“I guess what I’d like is to go to your office so we can talk in private.”
* * *
ALLYSON SAT
behind her expansive desk in a spacious top-floor office. Romey stood and gazed out the window at the parking lot below. Not a great view, not great furniture or carpeting, but what could be expected from a suburban hospital bleeding red ink?
Allyson did not want her pro golf career to eclipse her accomplishments as a businessperson with a passion for health care. She had an open-door policy, and was happy to meet any doctor or nurse who had ideas on how to improve Suburban West’s operation. She was loved here. Knox Singer was Romey’s guy, and a perceived threat. Something had to give.
“Allyson, you’ve done a great job here at West.”
“You’re firing me, aren’t you?”
Romey turned to face her, with arms behind his back, and his eyes momentarily to the floor. He paused before finally meeting her harsh gaze.
“The board agrees that this pond isn’t big enough for two fish to swim.”
“Oh, are you setting me free? Is that it?”
“I like the visual.”
“It’s better than the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’ve been gutted, flayed, and served for dinner.”
“We all have our perspectives.”
Romey took a folder from his Tumi carrying case and set it on Allyson’s desk.
“You’ll find the terms are quite favorable. And of course I’ll be an unqualified reference.”
“That fills me with such warmth, I can’t tell you.”
“Just be grateful I’ve given you a graceful exit. I could have buried you, Allyson, and taken Suburban West over in the same day.”
Allyson sent an icy smile. “Forever in your debt, Roman.” She opened the folder and perused the three-page document within. “I’ll have my lawyer look this over and get back to you.”
“Have it signed by tomorrow,” Roman said. “Or I’ll make it ugly for you.”
With that parting salvo, Romey strolled out of Allyson’s former office.
Sherri Platt’s suburban street reminded Julie of Sam’s neighborhood. Julie did not have to look for reminders of Sam; they were everywhere, and she never felt prepared for them. The episodes always left her sad, depleted, yet she wanted those remembrances to continue. They made her feel close again to Sam.
She had parked on the street. The sloping driveway accommodated tandem parking, and Julie did not want to block in the blue Toyota Corolla already parked there. The Toyota probably belonged to Sherri Platt. Julie did not know Sherri very well, had no idea of her personal life. Several reporters covering the Brandon Stahl trial had referred to Sherri as unmarried, a description that stuck in Julie’s mind because it seemed superfluous, as if marriage somehow defined a woman.
That was years ago. Now Sherri could be married, or living here by herself, or with her parents. Julie had no way of knowing.
Sherri lived in a brick, two-story, single-family home with a small, hilly front yard. It was 4:30 in the afternoon and the sun had already set. And to think winter was still weeks away. No lights were on inside the home, and the garage door was closed. Someone had left an outside light on, so Julie could see the lawn was free of fallen leaves. A few pruned shrubs planted in a bed of light brown mulch provided a nice backbone to the thoughtful landscaping. The only thing differentiating Sherri’s house from the others on the quiet street was an eerie feeling Julie could not shake.
She rang the doorbell, then cinched her overcoat tighter. No answer, so she rang it again. Two chimes sounded, hollow to her ears.
Julie looked around. Nothing suspicious here, quiet suburbia as far as the eyes could see. Standing on the front steps, Julie phoned Sherri, and then texted. Nothing. She turned the doorknob. Her desire to get Sherri’s confession trumped better judgment.
To Julie’s surprise, the knob turned. She opened the door a crack and called out into a darkened room.
“Sherri? Are you home?”
Julie opened the door a bit wider and jumped when an orange cat streaked from the darkness, slipped out the door, and brushed against her legs. She snatched the cat off the front step before it could venture any further. The cat made a weak protest—a soft meow. Julie set the pet down inside and it scampered off into the darkness, somewhere in the stillness of the silent home.
A moment passed before Julie became aware of something sticky on her hands, and felt certain the cat had just peed on her. In the dark it was hard to tell, so Julie used her phone’s built-in flashlight for a better look.
She gasped as she saw a partial paw print, colored red, stamped on the palm of her right hand. Julie put her hand to her nose and breathed the familiar scent. Coppery. Metallic. Blood. She wiped the blood off on her pant leg and went inside the home. She called Sherri’s name. No response. Her heart beat erratically. Perspiration dappled the back of her neck.
Feeling the wall for a light switch, Julie found one to the right of the door. No foyer here. The light illuminated a well-appointed living room with hardwood floors. The furniture was a bit old, a bit tired, and Julie wondered if Sherri lived here with her parents. It was immaculate, though, with no turned-over chairs, or broken mirrors. No signs of struggle. Where had the blood come from?
Julie set her gaze on a set of bloody paw prints forming a trail that vanished through a square entranceway. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Julie called Sherri’s name again. No response again, so she ventured further into the home. She took a gulp of air and froze when the floor creaked from her weight. She took more steps forward, following the bloody paw trail through the entranceway. She knew it was irrational to head upstairs. She should call 911 and get the hell out of there. But she was a doctor and Sherri could be inside somewhere, injured, in need of help.
Julie peered up a dark stairwell and found a light switch on the wall. She flicked it on and now had a view into a kitchen and a hallway space adjacent to the stairs. A coat rack stood by a door to what Julie thought was the garage. No men’s coats hung there, and the boot tray held only women’s shoes. The home was remarkably uncluttered and the décor suggested a lone female resident. If Julie had to take a guess, she would say Sherri Platt lived alone.
Julie searched for anything out of the ordinary, a sign of an intruder, something that might necessitate a hasty retreat. All appeared normal, except for the bloody paw prints that were harder to see on the carpeted stairwell. Julie followed them up.
“Sherri?” Julie’s voice sounded anxious. “Sherri, it’s me, it’s Julie from White Memorial. Are you all right? Please answer me.”
Julie’s voice sank into the upstairs gloom. She took each step slowly, pausing to listen. A faint meow emanated from a darkened doorway above. Julie picked up a sickly-sweet odor, a musty kind of smell. She gripped the handrail tight and felt a knowing in her gut. Something was horribly wrong here.
At the top of the stairwell Julie heard the cat’s meow coming from a darkened doorway. She reached into the doorway, feeling around blindly until her fingers found the light switch. A bright glow spilled out into the hallway and a blur shot from the door at Julie’s feet. She jumped, but relaxed when she saw it was just the orange cat with bloody paws.
Julie swallowed a breath and walked into the light. Sherri Platt lay facedown and spread-eagled on the floor. Her pink terrycloth bathrobe was splattered in crimson. The blood came from a hole blown through the back of Sherri’s skull. There was no weapon on the ground, but Julie did not think this was a self-inflicted injury. Sherri’s hair was matted and stuck together at the site of the wound.
Julie made a low moaning sound as she rushed to Sherri’s side. She did her best to avoid the blood, but it covered too much surface area around the body. Bloody paw prints marked the pristine tile like gruesome ink stamps. Sherri’s head was tilted to one side, her expression a blank. Areas on Sherri’s face were mottled with purplish markings, the result of lividity. Parts of her legs, visible where her bathrobe had splayed open, had the same ghastly shade.
Julie knelt at Sherri’s side and felt for a pulse. She found none. None was expected. The skin was cool to the touch, and Julie felt the stiffness of rigor mortis. The blue of Sherrie’s eyes had faded to the hue of a cataract and a dark stripe cut horizontally across the sclera. Tache noire, the black spot of death.
Julie stood shakily and turned to face the bathroom mirror. She drew in a ragged breath, eyes wide with horror reflected back at her. Written on the mirror in crude lettering with red lipstick were three unmistakable words.
FOR BRANDON STAHL
Java du Jour, a new coffee shop that had opened near White Memorial, sold copies of
The Boston Globe
. Michelle bought one and brought it over to the table where Lucy and Julie sat sipping their morning coffee. The day after Sherri Platt’s murder,
The Globe
ran a feature front-page story. It had also made national news because of the macabre connection to Brandon Stahl. Three days later, the story was relegated to the Metro section of the Boston papers. Without leads, there was little to hold the interest of a media-saturated public with a short attention span. The national outlets left coverage to the local press. With no suspects, police had opened a tip line seeking the public’s help in finding the killer.
The going theory was that Sherri Platt was the victim of some zealot, one of Brandon Stahl’s supporters, a misguided defender of patient self-determination, who had developed a personal vendetta against Sherri because of her testimony. When Brandon lost his appeal this deranged individual snapped, and took revenge.
Many of the initial news reports included a photograph of Julie taken off the Internet without her knowledge or permission. Trevor was horrified and begged to stay home from school on Monday, anxious about all the attention he would receive. Julie relented, but had to go the police station for more interviews, so Trevor went to his father’s.