The battery of new tests ordered for Elizabeth Keyes was extensive. Her Valium level dropped precipitously, but her deep sleep continued. By the next day, she was somnolent but responsive. Detective Harris paid a visit to her bedside.
“Missus Keyes,” he asked, “do ya have any old boyfriends, a husband in your past, or any people that threatened or wanted to hurt ya?”
“No. All my relationships have ended cordially.”
“Do ya have anything ya want ta tell me? Like about you and Dr. James?”
“What about us?”
“The Chronicle says you two were lovers.”
She lifted her head and gave a weak laugh. “That’s a crock. Some reporter with a vivid imagination must have written that. Dr. James is a straight arrow. That guy only has eyes for his beauty queen wife. Everybody knows that.”
Harris had taken a half a dozen calls from the Mayor and City Council members, all asking about the murders. He was taking a swig of coffee when the phone rang yet again. It was Herb Waters, the top dog at Jackson City Hospital.
“James is guilty as hell. Do not let him out of jail!” Waters barked.
Harris said he was busy and hung up the phone.
Harris fiddled with the cords of his string tie while he sifted through one of the filing cabinets confiscated from James’ office. As he’d expected, he was coming up empty — just folder after folder filled with charts and photos of happy patients hugging Dr. James.
Harris drank his coffee and paced around the office before returning to the files that James kept. He was intrigued by a file labeled “Jackson City Hospital.” Inside was a newspaper obituary of Cabot Barnes, a Jackson City Hospital board member from 1997 until his death in July 1999. Harris read the obit, as well as a news clipping that pictured the forty-year-old computer programmer/entrepreneur, and reported his death by drowning at sea, 35 miles off the Oregon Inlet. Barnes had been with six buddies at the time, aboard his fifty-five foot, Viking sport-fishing boat.
Barnes was a local hero. He’d been the captain of the high school swim team. He’d led Jackson City to a championship his senior year, then received a full scholarship to a state college. Barnes married his high school sweetheart, was a father of two children, and became the favorite coach of the local youth soccer teams.
Harris suddenly stopped reading. A champion swimmer drowns near a boat with six other men aboard and a stock of life preservers and throwing buoys?
Another folder contained brief notes about another Jackson City Hospital board member, Quinton Jolly, who’d died a few days after Barnes. Jolly was found in a hospital call room with a plastic bag wrapped over his face. The coroner had ruled it a suicide.
Harris shivered.
Most of the documents in the file related to a lengthy article Dr. James had written and sent to the Daily Chronicle, where it was published in the “Letters to the Editor” section. The article referred to the alleged pending sale of the non-profit Jackson City Hospital to AHS, a large conglomerate of for-profit hospitals. James pointed out that hospital costs would increase even higher than they already had, resulting in the reduction or elimination of charitable care. Of even more significance, Jackson City Hospital had in escrow over $200 million dollars from its profitable ventures. James raised the question of where all that money would go if the hospital were to be sold.
James had done his research and even quoted sections of the hospital’s original charter. James contended that selling a hospital with a longstanding charter as a nonprofit facility to a for-profit group would be a violation of its charter. James emphatically stated that the city could rightfully claim ownership of the hospital. The money used to start up the hospital in 1931, and to build the new hospital in 1975, had come from fundraisers and city appropriations. This bound the hospital to ownership by the community.
Harris went through the minutes of the hospital board’s actions, starting in 1995. James had circled sections of the minutes in red ink and had made extensive notations. Over a fifteen-year period, the original charter of the hospital was amended several times. On November 10, 1999, the hospital bylaws were amended to specify that the hospital’s chief executive officer was solely responsible for appointing the hospital’s Board of Directors. James had made a note on the margin: “The Board appoints the hospital’s Chief Executive? A Board appointed by that same Chief Executive?”
Scratching his chin, Harris wondered how many people knew of this flip-flop in the appointments of the directors and the chief administrator. His question was answered, at least in part, when he read the minutes of a 1999 hospital board meeting, minutes that James had circled in red: “Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly questioned the circular appointments of the board members and administrators.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two observers hid in a mountain ridge a quarter mile from the drone hangar, where six American drones had been delivered in covered trucks a week before. Although the observers wore military boots, they were dressed in traditional Arab garb.
Over the previous days, from their hide-out, the two Iraqis had caught glimpses of men in American Air Force uniforms assembling drones — four MQ-9 Reapers and two RQ-4A Global Hawks. These were the largest drones employed by the U.S. government, much larger than the MQ-1 Predator. The Reaper weighed nearly two tons and the Global Hawk twelve tons. They carried payloads of 3,800 pounds, more than triple that of the Predator.
Now, inside the hangar, American crews loaded Hellfire and Sidewinder missiles onto all the drone aircraft, while on the ridge one of the observers sent a message.
Kahlil felt the Blackberry in his pocket vibrate. Excusing himself from an Australian couple shopping for an antique Tabriz rug in his shop, he went to the back room and read the message: AIRCRAFT ASSEMBLED AND READY FOR COMBAT.
Kahlil slipped into a closet and uncovered his radio equipment. He sent a coded message: MY INFORMANT SAYS YOUR AMERICAN IS PREPARING DRONES. TARGET MUST BE ISIS.
Omar Farok read a text message on his cell phone: ARIANA TO HORMAND: PRODUCT NEAR COMPLETION. NEED GUIDANCE SYSTEMS. $1 MILLION EACH. PLEASE MAKE DEPOSIT.
Farok was a filthy rich thirty-five-year-old prince from the Sudan who traveled around the world, sponsoring terrorism. Small and thin, he had a finely featured, clean-shaven face, framed with black hair, large almond-shaped brown eyes, and ribbon-like lips that barely moved when he spoke, which was always in a soft, silky voice. Farok owned a fleet of Learjets that carried him to whatever country would allow him to enter. Although he’d been suspected and even accused of terrorism, there had never been sufficient evidence to prosecute.
A year earlier, the United States had managed to ban his entry into the country on a technicality. But that was purely a formality for a man of his means. Now, here he was — in the nation’s capitol. If he got caught, he’d be deported or detained. He’d have to be clever and stealthy. Not so much, he thought, sniffing arrogantly as the corners of his mouth curled up in a stiff smile. So stupid, these Americans.
Sandra had become one of twelve “soldiers” when Nicole Banzar had recruited her from the Chicago Al Qaeda splinter group. She was an attractive twenty-one-year-old with long, wavy, bleach-blonde hair. Her assignment for the three days prior to the killing of the farm owner, Billy Watson, was to hide in the woods nearby and simply observe. Nicole wanted to be certain her soldiers would not be burdened by Billy’s friends or curious neighbors.