"You shouldn't ask!" Laurie agreed. "Not until I get more information. Then I'll sit you down for a convincing PowerPoint presentation."
"Why do I have a bad feeling about the goal of this supposed presentation?"
"Because you are worried I'm going to change your mind."
"Fat chance, Laurie, I'm having my knee fixed come Thursday."
"We'll see," Laurie said confidently. "Come on! I'll ride down in the elevator with you. I need to pick up some material I just had printed."
As they walked down the hall toward the elevator, Laurie asked Jack about his previous case, the last of the three homicides Lou was interested in. She'd heard Lou's description that morning about the detective sergeant's daughter and the baseball bat.
"It's a good one," Jack said, manipulating the crutches like a pro. "It was another opportunity for our PAs to shine. Steve Mariott noticed there were no footprints in the copious amount of blood on the floor. I mean, in and of itself, it doesn't mean a whole lot, but it made him look at the scene a little closer than he might have otherwise, which turned out to be key. The victim's forehead was bashed in, with even a bit of brain tissue extruding, but the overall shape of the wound wasn't concave like you'd expect a bat to cause. I made a mold of the injury, and its tramline."
"You mean it's more like having been caused by a sharp edge?" Laurie questioned as they boarded the elevator.
"Exactly," Jack said, grabbing both crutches in one hand so he could press the button for the basement. Laurie leaned over and hit the button for the first floor. The OCME printer was in the computer room, which was part of the administration area.
"Steve had noticed a bit of blood on the cast-iron edge of a granite coffee table. He'd even taken a picture of it, as well as the bat. I think Satan Thomas, in a drunken, drug-addled stupor, fell while trashing the apartment and hit his forehead on the edge of the coffee table. To prove it, I've sent one of the daytime PAs back to the scene to get a mold of the table's edge."
"That's terrific," Laurie said. "Lou is going to be pleased."
"I think the girlfriend is going to be the most pleased."
The door to the elevator opened. Laurie gave Jack a quick hug and thanked him for volunteering to do her case.
"I'll think of a way you can pay me back," Jack said with a wink and a smile.
After the elevator door closed, Laurie hustled down the main corridor toward the office printer in the computer room. She was determined to take advantage of this unexpected free time. With the hospital records of Riva's two cases, she planned on working more on her matrix by creating more categories and filling in the boxes she could. What Laurie was interested in was finding some hidden commonality among the cases, which could explain the sudden cluster.
Laurie also wanted to get in touch with Cheryl Myers, if Cheryl hadn't called her already, and get the phone contacts Laurie had asked for. She wanted to call the CDC and the joint commission, but mostly she wanted to call Loraine Newman. In the back of her mind, Laurie had begun to believe that a visit to the Angels Orthopedic Hospital and perhaps even Angels Healthcare was in order, even though such excursions were discouraged by the chief. Ten years earlier, Laurie had been called into the chief's office and chastised for making a similar site visit; Bingham felt strongly that visiting scenes was the province of the PAs, not the MEs. But under the circumstances she felt justified, even impelled, and not just to bolster her argument against Jack's surgery. Her intuition was telling her that there was something vaguely unsettling about this series of MRSA cases that went beyond the Typhoid Mary theory.
Adding to her unease were the results of Jack's two cases that morning, the manners of death of which turned out to be the opposite of what was expected – accidental rather than homicidal. Such surprises reminded her that it was always important to keep an open mind about the manner of death. Even the most talented forensic pathologist could be fooled.
Laurie now began to question if the current series of MRSA cases involved something more sinister than the assumed manner of death, therapeutic complication, a relatively new death designation championed by Bingham to replace "accidental" in a hospital setting. Keeping in mind her two previous series, one fifteen years ago and the second two years ago, whose manners of death had been assumed to be accidental and natural, respectively, but whose ultimate determination shockingly turned out to be homicidal, Laurie could not dismiss the possibility that the current series could be the same. Knowing that she'd be ridiculed if she gave voice to her intuitions, Laurie was aware that she had to see if there was any real evidence to bolster her suspicions, and she had to do it quickly.
5
Angela removed her coat and draped it over her arm as she exited the elevator on the twenty-second floor of the Trump Tower and briskly walked down toward Angels Healthcare. During the ride uptown from Michael's office, she'd been able to use her BlackBerry to respond to all her e-mails and was reasonably confident she wouldn't be overwhelmed when she got to her office. She wondered how people had functioned pre-Internet.
She acknowledged her secretary, Loren, who was on the phone as Angela passed by. Inside her office, she was about to hang up her coat when she stopped, doing a double take. There was a large clear-glass vase of luxurious red roses perched on the corner of her desk. They stood out in bold relief in the sparse, white decor. After finishing with her coat, and curious who could have sent the flowers and why, she looked for a note. There was none to be found. Now even more curious about the flowers, she leaned out her doorway. She had to wave to get Loren's attention.
"What's with the flowers?" Angela mouthed silently. Loren was still on the phone. From overhearing bits and pieces of the conversation, Angela could tell it was the union representative who'd been persistently trying to organize the Angels Healthcare hospitals. There was no way Angela wanted unionization, but with everything else going on, she didn't have the time or the patience to deal with him, so it fell to Loren to hold him off.
Loren put her hand over the receiver. "I'm sorry. They came with a card. It's here on the corner of my desk." She nodded toward the envelope.
Angela picked up the envelope and got a finger under the flap. Once it was open, she slid out the card. It said simply: Regards from the used one.
"What the hell?" Angela murmured. She turned the card over, but the back was blank. Curious but overwhelmed with all she had to do, she simply slid the card back into the envelope. She'd think about it later.
Tapping Loren's shoulder, Angela motioned for her to again cover the receiver with her hand, and then said, "Tell him I'll meet with him in three weeks. Go ahead and schedule an actual appointment. That should satisfy him. Then call Bob Frampton and Carl Palanco. Tell them to come into my office ASAP. And where's the afternoon schedule?"
Loren pulled out the schedule for the afternoon meetings and handed it over.