It's Nothing Personal (6 page)

Detective Morris watched Hillary
intently.
 
Her head was down and her
hair fell forward, covering her face.
 

“When did your problems
start?”

Hillary picked at a string hanging off the
left thigh of her jeans, bracing herself for the horrible reality she was about
to disclose.

“Well, it probably started when I was a
kid.
 
When I was about twelve, I
broke my arm and had to have surgery to fix it.
 
I was in a
lot
of pain, and I was taking pain pills for it.
 
Even as a kid, I liked the way the pills
made me feel.
 
They just took
everything and made it go away.
 
I
would sneak extra pills when my mom wasn’t looking.
 
I think that’s what got the ball
rolling.
 
From that point forward,
I’d pretty much take whatever I could get my hands on.
 
Alcohol, weed, pills, whatever.”

Detective Morris switched topics.
 
“According to St. Augustine, the
Department of Health, and the CDC, their investigation has revealed that you
tested positive for hepatitis C during your pre-employment physical at St.
Augustine.
 
According to officials
from the hospital, a nurse informed you of the test results when you were
hired.
 
She encouraged you to follow
up with a specialist.
 
Do you
remember that?”

“I don’t remember the exact details. I
didn’t feel sick, so I pretty much blew it off.”

Hillary’s lower lip trembled.
 
She struggled in vain to hold back the
tears before they slid from her eyes.
 
Instinctively, she wiped her nose with the back of her arm.
 
Detective Morris slid a box of tissues
toward her.
 

Leaning forward, Detective Morris rested his
arms on the table and remained silent.
 
He stared at Hillary until she could feel his piercing gaze.
 
She was compelled to look up at
him.
 

With their eyes locked, Detective Morris
asked, “Hillary, a big part of this case rests on whether or not you knew you
had this infection while you worked at St. Augustine.
 
Did you or did you not know you had the
virus before you started working there?”

Hillary squirmed in her chair.
 
All eyes were on her, pinning her
down.
 
“Yeah, I knew.”

Emotionless, Detective Morris continued, “Do
you admit to taking Fentanyl intended for patients and using it to inject
yourself?”

Hillary rubbed her sweaty palms on her
thighs.
 
Her right foot tapped
uncontrollably under the table.
 
She
bit down hard on her lower lip, leaving an impression of her teeth embedded in
her skin.

“Yes.”
 
Hillary choked on her words.

“Was it only Fentanyl?
 
Did you ever divert any other drugs?”

“No.
 
I never took anything else.”

Detective Morris scooted his chair in so
that he was even closer to Hillary.
 
The screech of the metal legs grinding against the floor caught Hillary
off guard, and she impulsively raised her head.
 
For several moments, the only sound in
the interview room was the humming of the air conditioner.
 
Finally, Detective Morris cleared his
throat and asked, “Can you tell me exactly how you stole the Fentanyl and what
you’d do with the syringes?”

“Getting needles and syringes was easy.
 
I would just grab some saline from
wherever, draw up 5 cc into a syringe, and put a Fentanyl sticker on it.
 
The Fentanyl labels were on top of all
the anesthesia carts.
 
They were
real easy to get, too.
 
Then I would
keep the syringe in my pocket and wait for a chance to switch it out for the
real deal.
 
If the anesthesiologist
walked out of the room and left their drugs, I’d sneak over and make the
switch.”

“So you would switch a syringe of Fentanyl
that was drawn up by the anesthesiologist, intended for the patient, and then
replace it with a syringe of saline?”

“Yep,” Hillary answered
bluntly.
 
Although her tone
indicated indifference, Detective Morris noticed Hillary swallow nervously.

He continued, “And once
you had a syringe of Fentanyl in your pocket, when and where would you use it?”

“It all depended.
 
Sometimes I’d save it and use it at
home.
 
Other times, I’d use it at
work.”

“I’m curious, with all the people around in
the OR, how exactly would you administer the drug while you were at work?”

“I’d go into a stall in the women’s
restroom.”

“And then you’d tie up
your arm with a tourniquet?”

“Yes.”

“And inject?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And no one, not one of your colleagues or
supervisors or any of the doctors, no one ever noticed that you were . . . ?”

“High?
 
Nope.
 
I guess I knew my
limit.
 
I was smart enough not to
overdo it.”

“Okay,” Detective Morris continued, “I’d
like to get back to the syringes.
 
From what you’ve told me so far, it sounds like you would steal a
syringe that was clean and contained Fentanyl and replace it with a syringe
that was also clean, but contained saline.
 
However, we now have at least six patients who have hepatitis C with
your exact genotype, and four more that will likely be confirmed to have your
genotype within the next several weeks.
 
Can you help me understand how these patients contracted your strain of
the virus?”

Hillary glanced up at the flashing red light
on the camera and then at her reflection in the one-way mirror behind the
detectives.
 
Staring blindly at her
image, she said, “There were times when I would keep the used syringes.
 
I guess I got lazy.
 
As time went on, I wouldn’t always get a
new syringe every time I made the swap.
 
Sometimes I’d just fill the used syringe with saline and put it back in
the cart.”

Detective Morris masked his outrage and
calmly asked, “Okay.
 
So you said
earlier you were aware that you had hepatitis C.
 
When you were swapping syringes, trading
out Fentanyl for saline, and doing that with a contaminated syringe, did the
thought ever cross your mind that you could be infecting other people?”

“No,” she responded
flatly as her eyes shifted to her lap.

“Why not?”
 

Hillary clenched her fists under the table,
digging her fingernails into her palms.
 
“It just didn’t.”

“Do you now understand that you were
responsible for infecting patients?”

Hillary focused on the
scratched surface of the table and nodded.

“We need you to answer
out loud.”

Hillary inhaled deeply
and replied, “Yes.”

“How many times would you estimate that you
stole Fentanyl from the anesthesia carts and replaced it with another syringe?”

Hillary shrugged, “I really couldn’t
say.
 
I don’t know an exact number.”

“Well, we just want to try to get some kind
of handle on the magnitude of this situation.
 
Do you think it was closer to ten or a
hundred?
 
Did you do it every day?”

Hillary’s head whipped up as she spat
out,
 
“Oh no, not every day!
 
It mostly depended on whether it was
available or not.
 
I’d estimate maybe
fifteen to twenty times total.”

“Do you remember any
particular anesthesiologists whom you may have habitually targeted?”

Hillary’s eyes and mouth opened wide, and
she raised her eyebrows.
 
“It wasn’t
like that.
 
It was based completely
on opportunity.
 
If I saw the drugs
lying out on the anesthesia cart and no one was in the room, I’d make the
swap.
 
Some days, I had the chance and
took it.
 
Other days, not so much.”

Detective Morris persisted, “Which kind of
leads us to how you were ultimately caught.
 
You were in a room that you weren’t
assigned to.
 
Isn’t that part of how
you also found the opportunity to divert?
 
By going into other rooms and looking for narcotics?”

“On that day, the day I think you’re talking
about, I finished setting up my room early and had time to kill before my case
started.
 
I was friends with a nurse
who was working in one of the other rooms, and I wanted to tell her about this
new guy I was seeing.
 
I hadn’t gone
in there looking for Fentanyl, but when I walked past the anesthesia cart, I
noticed there was a syringe of it sitting out, and I made the switch.
 

“The scrub tech in the room noticed that I
was lurking around the anesthesia cart, and she asked me what I was doing.
 
I told her I was looking for a
Band-Aid.
 
She didn’t buy it.
 
I’m pretty sure she was the one who
reported me to the charge nurse.
 
Anyway, I just left the room.
 

“Later that morning, I was scrubbed in on my
case, and another tech came in to relieve me.
 
I thought I was just getting a
break.
 
When I walked out of the OR,
the charge nurse and the nursing supervisor were waiting for me in the
hallway.
 
They immediately escorted
me down to the ER, where I was given a drug screen.”

“And the drug screen came up positive for Fentanyl?”

“Obviously that’s true, or I wouldn’t be
here today,” said Hillary, agitated.

Detective Morris ignored her sarcasm.
 
“What did St. Augustine do from there?”

“They immediately suspended me.
 
They told me they would arrange for a
meeting to discuss things.
 
I knew
my job was over, so I pretty much blew off all their phone calls and letters
from that point forward.
 
I never
bothered to show up for any of their meetings.”

Changing subjects, Detective Morris asked,
“Do you know how you were initially exposed to hepatitis C?”

Hillary mumbled, “Um, probably in L.A.,
before I moved out here.
 
I was
shooting up heroin.
 
I did it for
about three months.
 
I was sharing needles
with some people up there.”

The detective rubbed the stubble on his chin
and furrowed his brow.

“Hillary,” he said with reproach, “you just
told me that you got hepatitis from sharing dirty needles.
 
Yet, you want me to believe you didn’t
think that your dirty needles would infect patients?”

Hillary remained quiet.

Detective Morris leaned back and stretched
his legs.
 
He inhaled deeply,
filling up his chest.
 
After holding
his breath for several seconds, he released, and the hard rush of his breath travelled
across the table.
 
Hillary could
feel the warm air and smell the stale scent of coffee as the blast hit her
face.
 
She shifted back in her chair
to escape it.

Detective Pacheco recognized his cue and
spoke into the microphone.
 
“This
concludes our interview.
 
Still
present in the room are Hillary Martin, Detective Morris, and Detective
Pacheco.
 
Time is 17:05, and the
date is June 5, 2010.
 
Ms. Martin
will now be read her rights and taken into custody.”

The red light on the camera continued to
blink.
 
Hillary sat motionless with
her arms crossed against her chest.
 

Detective Pacheco instructed her, “Please
stand and place your arms behind your back.
 
You are under arrest for diversion of
and tampering with narcotics.”

Stiffly, Hillary obeyed his orders.
 
Staring at the one-way mirror, she felt
the heavy metal handcuffs being tightened around her wrists.
 
Her mind drifted as Detective Pacheco
read her Miranda rights and led her out of the room.
 
Before following them, Detective Morris
looked into the one-way mirror and nodded.
 

Keith Jones, the CEO of St. Augustine
Hospital, frowned back at the detective, knowing his expression was invisible
to the officer.
 
Mr. Jones dialed
his attorney.

“We need to meet.
 
Now.
 
But before then, make sure this story
stays out of the press for at least a few days.
 
I don’t care what it costs, just make it
happen.”

Not waiting for an answer, Keith Jones hung
up and marched out of the police station.

CHAPTER 7

June 14, 2010

Jenna woke at 5 a.m. to the incessant beeping
of her alarm clock.
 
Her fingers
expertly located the snooze button as she dove under the silky sheets and
lazily lingered in bed.
 
Her back
was to Tom, but she could feel the mattress shift as her husband began to
stir.
 
Tom rolled toward Jenna and
pressed his warm body against hers.
 
She wiggled herself closer to her husband, moaning as their skin
touched.
 
Tom gently kissed the back
of her neck, working his way to her ears.
 
His hot, moist breath sent shivers through Jenna.
 
He slid his fingers underneath her silk
panties.
 
Jenna was wet with
anticipation.
 
Tom plunged his
fingers inside her, slowly dancing in and out, tantalizing her with his touch.