The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (8 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jackson City Police Station

11:00 am

WHEN I GOT THERE, Harris was standing just inside the door to his office. He turned his head toward me and stared into my eyes.

“Look,” I said, feeling defensive, “if this is about Carey or Keyes, I want a lawyer—”

“Relax, Dr. James. I just wanna talk about the hospital,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. You take anything in your coffee?”

“Cream.”

Harris pressed the intercom button on his phone, “Jody, could you bring in two cups of coffee, one with cream.”

Harris leaned his chin on his hand and just sat there studying me for a long minute. Finally, he said, “Have ya ever considered being a detective?”

“You offering me a job? I could use one, being as I’m shut out of my practice—”

“Doesn’t pay as well as plastic surgery, but ya seem to have a knack for it.”

“Should I go out and buy myself a Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe?”

“Ahem … I read through your research notes for your op-ed piece in the
Chronicle
.”

“Probably should’ve never sent that in.”

“Well, you make a convincing argument. And your research is very thorough.”

“I’m nothing if not thorough. I used to drive my nurses and wife crazy.”

“What made ya start lookin’ up all that stuff on the hospital in the first place?”

I rubbed my eyes. I wasn’t sure where this was leading, but I’d rather have Harris as a friend than an enemy, so I told him the short version of my story. “I came back to town in 2002 after my surgical residency. I wanted to be close to my dad in his twilight years. As you know, we had a little farm that I pretty much ran until I had to go away for my surgical training. Even then, I still came back. Dad sold the tobacco farm and moved to a nursing home, and gave me the money from the sale to set up my practice. Back then, Herb Waters and I were the best of friends. I used to go visit him in his office. Within a year, hospital prices started sky-rocketing, and he got irritated every time I asked him to lower them. He said no one else complained.”

“How’s that?” Harris asked.

“Herb didn’t get it or care. It just pissed him off.”

Harris asked in his raspy voice, “Why’d Waters raise the prices so high?”

“To make the hospital more profitable. The board kept raising prices to improve the margins, and then they started adding charges to patients’ bills. Things like a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a dietary consultation, and bedside oxygen used to be free, but after Waters took over, everything in the hospital was given a significant charge. He even stopped free coffee for the on-duty doctors and nurses.”

“And that made you mad,” Harris said rather than asked.

“It didn’t make me happy. Listen, Waters is trying to sell the Jackson City Hospital, and I assure you, it’s not because he gives a shit about providing better hospital services to the public. It’s about lining the pockets of Waters and his partners in crime.”

“Maybe. But how does that affect you? You’ve got a private practice, or rather had a practice and your own surgery center. Why stick your neck out?”

“It’s just my nature. People are getting screwed. I had to say something. That’s the way my dad raised me.”

The detective sucked the molten brew between his teeth. Then he said, “Well, I’m sure that letter ya wrote to the paper pissed off a lot of people at the hospital. Knowin’ the temperament of your old buddy Herbie, ya should’ve expected repercussions. He’s not someone ta fuck with.”

“Sure, a little negative press makes for bad blood between old friends, but that’s no reason to kill someone.”

“
Kill
someone? You’re saying that Herb Waters murdered those two— “

“Yes. I am. I think it’s certainly
possible
. Herb Waters wants to shut me up—”

“
What?
Enough to commit
two murders
?”

“Hell, yes! I can’t put my finger on it but Waters is up to something illegal. He’s using the hospital for something. There’s probably a smoking gun somewhere.”

“But why would Waters kill Boyd Carey?”

“I don’t believe anybody wanted to kill Dr. Carey. I think they were after me, but encountered Carey instead. He got the needle instead of me. Which is just as good as murdering me, apparently, because now I might be going to jail for life, or worse.”

“Hmmm,” Harris responded. “I don’t know, Doc. That’s pretty thin.”

“Yeah, well, do your job and investigate Herb Waters!”

“Ha! I can’t. It’s
way
too thin. Frankly, it sounds a little crazy. To open an investigation, I’d need to show just cause. Right now, I’ve got squat.”

After a long pause, as if throwing me a bone, he said, “But let me know if you find out anything.”

“What
I
find? Isn’t that your job? Can’t you just subpoena documents and statements from Waters and whoever else could be involved in a scam?”

“We have absolutely nothing at all to connect Herb Waters to any murder. Frankly, I’d be embarrassed to go in front of the judge to ask for a warrant.” He paused. “Of course, I’m not the one who needs information. You are.”

That statement pissed me off. I laughed bitterly at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Look, Detective, I’m a plastic surgeon. I’m not a private investigator. You want me to fix your nose? No problem. I can give you a classic Roman—like frickin’ Tom Cruise. But investigating a murder? No way. Not my bag.”

“Suit yerself, Doc,” Harris said. “But if I were facing murder one and attempted murder charges, I’d be makin’ like Jason Bourne tryin’ ta save my ass.”

His words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Grunting, I stood to leave. As I turned to walk away, Harris said, “By the way, I told the guards you’re allowed access to your office now.”

“Thanks,” I said with a wave of my hand, not turning back or breaking stride.
At least I’ll have somewhere to crash tonight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Penthouse, Jackson City Hospital

Jackson City, North Carolina

3:11 pm

HERB WATERS WAS PLAYING a video game and racking up points when the security buzzer went off. “Hold your fucking horses,” he yelled. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

He was at 48,000 points, trying to break his personal record of 50,000. One last obstacle to beat, and the game was his. Ignoring the door buzzer, he clutched the joysticks even tighter and madly worked the controls,
his face and body contorting from the effort.
Bam!
He hit the target! 52 K! “Yes!” He cackled. “I’m the king of the fucking world!”

Waters went to the door and greeted Friedman and Phillips with a diabolical grin on his face and with slaps on their backs. Despite being annoyed with Waters for being slow in letting them in, the two hospital administrators were pleased to see their boss in a good mood. Waters could be impossible to work with when he was upset.

It had been four weeks since Friedman and Phillips had last seen Waters. Usually they met with him weekly, except when Waters was out of town on business, but for the past six months, the meetings had been reduced to once a month. This wasn’t a problem, as Friedman and Phillips were adept at running the hospital and its subsidiaries on their own. But Waters liked to keep a dictatorial control on everything.

Harley Friedman and Craig Phillips were the same age, forty-three, but that’s where their similarity ended. Friedman looked like a college professor: balding head with tufts of reddish brown hair around his oversized ears, oversized black glasses with thick lenses, wrinkled shirt, bow tie, sports jacket, and baggy trousers. Of average height, he had rounded shoulders, skinny legs, and a bulging belly. In sharp contrast, Phillips could have graced the cover of
GQ Magazine
: six-feet tall, thick wavy hair he kept fashionably styled and neatly trimmed, the “pretty” face of a leading man, and the buffed physique of a professional athlete. Obsessed with exercise, Phillips had a well-equipped gym in his Hanover Building office that he used three or four times a day. He wore sweats most of the time, changing to Brooks Brothers suits and crisply starched shirts when he left his office.

Phillips laid papers over the twenty-foot long, mahogany table, while Friedman rattled off the main talking points. As always, he kept it brief and made it quick.

Waters had no patience for timidity and little time to discuss hospital business. Despite his reputation as being a goof-off in college, he was extremely smart and a fast study. He grasped and retained information well, and he had a keen ability to quickly connect the dots and see the big picture. Waters was always quick to assess the financial status of Jackson City Hospital, and although his remarks were few, they were always spot-on.

“Why are revenues down for hospital bed usage?” Waters barked.

Friedman was quick to answer. “We had a number of patients cancel due to Dr. James stalking his office manager in the ICU and the two murders at his—”

“That’s ancient history,” Waters interrupted. “The new contract with Blue Sky has been operational for five weeks. The twenty percent increase in hospital services payments is on-line now. That additional revenue should more than compensate for the eighteen percent drop in bed vacancy for the same period.”

“But the increase in charges takes time to reach our ledgers.”

“Bullshit!” Waters bellowed as he slammed his fist on the table. “Craig, get Harley straight on this.”

Phillips, always the cool head, spoke calmly and confidently. “The twenty percent increase does override the eighteen-point-aught-three percent loss, which works out to a net gain of 143,000 dollars and fifteen cents.”

Waters maintained a stern look but inwardly he was pleased, not only with the $143,000 but also the fifteen cents. Accounting for every last penny was important to Waters.

“Yes, but the money isn’t in the hospital account yet,” Friedman explained. “It takes a couple days for funds to transfer from the insurance carrier to the hospital.”

“We own the goddamned insurance company! It’s fuckin’ ours! Claims should be expedited! And funds should transfer instantaneously!” Waters fumed. Although no one could tell from his demeanor, he loved these parlays. “The public doesn’t judge us on how well our insurance company does; we’re judged on the performance of the hospital.”

Friedman took the jabs Waters meted out. He was resilient, knowing that his ten percent of Jackson Healthcare Systems, Inc.’s profits, like Phillips’, would be over $16 million for the quarter.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Waters announced he would be out of touch for the next three weeks. “Don’t need me,” he barked. Then he dismissed them curtly with, “I have to make an important phone call.”

Waters waited for Phillips and Friedman to leave by the stairs and exit the Penthouse, then went to his luxurious bathroom to shower and shave.

Freshly bathed, Waters stretched out naked on the Penthouse’s king-sized bed and adjusted the pillows so he could sit up and watch television. He turned on the secured video-conferencing program he often used. The seventy-inch screen filled with a live feed of a naked woman lying on a large round bed with two cheetahs. Wind blew sheer drapes, showing glimpses of azure water outside the window. The animals sat rigidly upright, like the sphinxes standing guard at an ancient Egyptian pyramid, poised and attentive to the woman’s fondling.

The woman, like the animals, was exquisitely beautiful. She said not a word as she seductively gestured for him to come to her. She slithered on the satin sheets and licked her full lips to form wet kisses directed toward the camera. Silently observing her graceful movements, Waters became sexually aroused. When she licked her fingers and began caressing herself, he took his penis in his hand. Soon they were on their respective beds, panting, spent, while the big cats, still motionless, purred.

Finally, she sat up and said, “I miss you, darling. You haven’t called in over a week. Are you seeing someone else?”

“Elayna, baby, you’re the only girl in my life right now.”

“Good. I like it that way. Come see me soon. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Waters said. “It’ll be three weeks before I can get away.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Scott James Surgery Center

3:45 pm

AFTER LEAVING HARRIS, KEYES drove me to my office.

My heart sank as we pulled into the parking lot of the surgery center. The side of the building had KILLER DOCTOR spray-painted on it, in three-foot-high letters. At least my building was a few blocks away from the hospital. Along with the trees, that gave it some degree of privacy.

Not only had vandals painted
my wall, they’d wrecked my car. There was my Mercedes, covered in red and blue spray paint, with KILLER DOC painted on the windshield. The windows were smashed and the leather seats slashed. The tires and stereo system were gone.

Two teenagers, skateboarding in the parking lot, ducked behind the building just as I got out of Keyes’ Honda. As I unlocked my office door, the two yelled, “Cop killer!” and ran toward the nearby apartments. I looked for a policeman, but Harris had removed them all and I was alone.

A mound of mail greeted me as I entered the office. I went immediately to the waiting room to check my orchids. Now that my practice was dead, my flowers were dying, too. Many of the blooms had fallen off and the soil was bone dry. Most of the water in the small pool I had designed to keep the orchids healthy had evaporated. It was too low to keep the waterfall going, and the motor had burned out.

Orchids are the diamonds of cut flowers. So prized are they for their beauty, they are the most commonly used flowers for corsages, bouquets, and floral arrangements. The sweet smell of the aromatic orchid will last until the flower wilts. After two weeks, my orchids had lost most of their life.

I walked past the waiting room and took the mail to my office, where I sat in my chair and picked out a dozen handwritten letters, hoping to find one that would pick me up. Three were from patients praising my work and expressing sadness for the false accusations—all saying, in so many words, “We believe in you.”

I sorted out the bills. I knew from previous months that they would total over $30,000. Alicia had taken the money earmarked to cover these costs. There were no funds in any of my accounts, and I had no surviving credit card accounts as back up.

After tossing a dozen or so advertisements in the trash can, I turned to the mail I’d been saving for last: One envelope from Family Court and one from the North Carolina Board of Medicine. My heart sank as I read the first letter: an order forbidding me from seeing my children.

Gritting my teeth, I opened the second letter and began to read: “The North Carolina Board of Medicine has determined that your felony charges make you unfit to practice medicine in this state. You will cease and desist providing surgical and non-surgical care.”

Unable to read another word, I tore the letter into small pieces. Then I put my head on the desk and cried. I’d read about other people being depressed, but I’d never really felt depression, myself, before now. I’d always thought depression was something for mentally weak individuals, not people like me. I’d always been in charge of others and in control of my emotions. Depression became real to me during my stint in jail.

I missed, most of all, my kids. I really wanted to see them, but Alicia wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t even let me to talk to them on the phone. I was worried about the effect all this was having on them. Their mother seemed to believe the vicious lies about me, so my marriage was probably over. And there was a good chance I was going to a penitentiary for a crime I didn’t commit.

It became crystal clear to me that I had no future.

I walked to the hallway where Officer Wilson had been shot and looked at the bloodstains—now dried—that had dripped down the wall and then pooled on the carpet, after the bullet had ripped through the doomed man’s skull.

Oh, God, I’m going to be convicted, and I’m going to get the death penalty. I’m a dead man.

The loss of my children and the loss of my medical license gave me a real sense of futility. Bankruptcy was certain, and that was the least of my problems. I’d been charged with two murders and an attempted murder, and I had no defense. The prosecutor was asking for the death penalty, as the local newspaper had reported, and the crimes were so horrific that the jury would probably grant it. At least my death would be painless. Since the gas chamber was eliminated in North Carolina in 1998, the only available execution method was lethal injection.

I was very familiar with the procedure. I had advocated for it in 2001, and had even gone to legislative sessions in Raleigh, where I’d testified to lawmakers about how animals were humanely put to death whereas cruel and torturous methods were used on humans. It looked like I would become a benefactor of the legislation I had promoted.