Authors: Daniel Palmer
“That’s my best guess,” Julie said. “I think he made it look like it was one of Brandon’s supporters to cover his tracks.”
“What’s the motive?”
“Bribery is not good for a political career, and I’m sure he wanted to keep Brandon in jail, as well. It’s why he planted the morphine. He believes for certain Brandon killed his son and had to make the case airtight. Couldn’t happen without the drugs and Sherri’s testimony.”
“Makes sense,” Jordan said. “But you told me Colchester played the grieving dad only to the media.”
“He did. And you make a good point. I think his wife had something to do with it. Colchester said something about her being emotionally fragile. What if she was so convinced Brandon killed her son that William Colchester made it a reality for her well-being?”
“I’d say that’s a pretty twisted marriage.”
Julie said, “Though, I wonder why Colchester didn’t initially fight the request to exhume the body? That came after. Strange.”
Jordan gave it some thought.
“Maybe a doctor he consulted with told him exhuming the body could cast doubt in the mind of the jury.” Jordan tossed out the idea with a shrug. “Like it would muddy up the waters,” he continued, “make it harder to prove morphine did him in. I’d say that’s enough of a motive for Colchester to grease the judge’s palm.”
“Maybe the doctor he consulted was named Coffey.”
Jordan exhaled loudly. “Coffey? Why him?”
“Heart attacks in healthy hearts at White? It’s the equivalent of a politician caught making a bribe. Not a good advertisement for the hospital, and it’s a fast track to professional ruin. Coffey’s protecting his ego and reputation while jeopardizing patients’ lives, that’s what I think. Suppose he was following Brandon Stahl’s case closely because he knew it was really Kounis syndrome that killed him. If that were true, I’d say he knew about the motion to exhume the body, and then approached Colchester with some free advice about it, if you know what I mean.”
Jordan mulled it over. “Makes sense,” he said. “But if it’s Kounis syndrome killing the patients, how do you explain Sam’s slides? There was no indication of allergy there.”
A car that had been tailgating Julie gave an angry honk, changed lanes without signaling, and passed quickly on her left. Ah, the joys of driving in the city never ceased.
“It’s simple,” Julie said. “Dr. Coffey knew Sam would be autopsied, so he somehow switched the slides. With know-how and access, it’s easily done.”
“So let me get this straight,” Jordan said. “After the wiretap evidence gets tossed, Colchester bribes Sherri and plants evidence to get Brandon convicted.”
“Yes.”
“And we think he did this to help his emotionally unstable wife move on.”
“Theory, yes, but I like it.”
“Meanwhile, something is causing allergic reactions in healthy hearts at White. Coffey knows about it; he’s afraid of it for some reason. He plays to Colchester’s fears about Brandon going free. It’s fear enough for Colchester to bribe the judge into denying the request to exhume his son’s body, and Coffey’s dirty secret about Kounis syndrome stays buried in the ground. That about sum it up?”
“That’s my take.”
Jordan shook his head in disbelief. “Dr. Abruzzo has a saying anytime she comes up with an unusual cause of death,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be probable, it just has to be possible.”
Julie made a slight chuckle. “We’ll have to keep searching those medical records for cases of undiagnosed Kounis syndrome.”
“No more takotsubo, right?”
“No, this is allergic, not stress related.”
“Maybe interview staff to see if they remember patients breaking out in hives,” Jordan suggested, “and then see if there are matching records in the system.”
“I like that plan.”
Something still tugged at Jordan.
“How did Colchester know Sherri was going to come clean to you?” he asked.
Julie thought this over, but could not come up with an answer.
* * *
AS THEY
drove into Dorchester, Julie stifled a yawn. She was bone tired, and the thought of getting the Thanksgiving preparations under way, under-caffeinated, was less appealing than driving through these confusing Dorchester streets.
“Do you know anyplace I could grab a good cup of coffee for the ride home?”
Jordan made a “pfft” sound, as if to say, but of course.
“Rico’s is one of the best coffee shops around and it’s right down the street from my apartment. The owner is a Puerto Rican guy named Juan, and if you think Colombian coffee is good, wait until you try his brew.”
Lucky for Julie, she found parking close to the quaint coffee shop. It was a nippy November evening and the streets were relatively quiet. The less walking she had to do in this unfamiliar neighborhood, the better.
Jordan escorted Julie into Rico’s. She had volunteered to drop him at home first, but he refused her offer.
“Better if I hang out with you while you’re in my hood,” he said.
Julie did not disagree.
The aromatic coffee shop had plenty of character but not a lot of space, and the few tables for seating were all occupied. One good whiff and Julie understood why. She went right to the counter, and was ordering her coffee, when a deep baritone voice spoke to her from behind.
“Dr. Devereux?”
Julie whirled and broke into a bright smile. The tall man with broad shoulders standing behind Julie was the quarterback for the Boston College Eagles whose life she’d once saved.
“Max Hartsock!” Julie exclaimed.
Max opened his arms and gave Julie a warm embrace.
“What are you doing here?” Max said with an accompanying head scratch. “Rico’s might be the last place I thought I’d run into you.”
Julie gave a little laugh.
“You’re not the first person I’ve surprised like that lately,” she said. “I’m bringing Jordan Cobb home. Do you two know each other?”
“Know him? Jordan’s my homey,” Max said, as he and Jordan went through a mesmerizing series of choreographed handshakes and slaps. “Wouldn’t have made it through algebra without him.”
“We were just at a funeral for a colleague of ours, Sherri Platt,” Julie said. “You may have read about her in the papers or seen her on the local news.”
“Local and CNN,” Max said. “Heard all about her and
you
. That’s a horrible discovery to make. I hope you’re doing all right.”
“I’m hanging in there. Thank you.”
Max invited Julie and Jordan to join them at his table. Once seated, Max again offered his condolences about Sam. Julie thanked him for his thoughtful note and for the football tickets.
“Paul took Trevor to the game. Speaking of which, what are you doing here? I would have thought Thanksgiving was all football all the time.”
“Yeah, well, we played yesterday. Game on Saturday against Louisville. Revenge, I should say.” Max followed a devilish grin with a wink. “Anyway, Coach gave us the day off so I came home to help my grandma get ready for the holiday. It’s kind of a tradition. You have not lived until you’ve had my grandma’s sweet potato pie.”
Julie laughed. She was glad to hear Max doing so well, and even better, looking and feeling so well. He was back on the field after his near-death experience and, according to Trevor, putting up some impressive stats. Forget playing football: the fact that Max Hartsock was even alive, talking to Julie, sharing stories, praising his grandmother’s cooking, was something awe-inspiring and beyond gratifying.
These were the moments when Julie loved being a doctor, and they balanced out the difficulties of caring for the ultra-sick. Max represented the best outcome possible—a return to health with a high quality of life. For Sam, this was not to be, nor was it likely for Shirley Mitchell, who remained on a ventilator, or for any number of patients Julie could name off the top of her head.
After a few more minutes catching up with Max, Julie got her coffee in a to-go cup and said her good-byes. Paul would be dropping Trevor off in a couple hours, and the thought of all she had to do was overwhelming.
Jordan walked Julie to her car. “Take care, Doc,” he said. “We’ll figure this thing out. Just know I’m on your team all the way.”
“I know it. Want a ride?”
Jordan pointed. “I’m just down the block. It’s cool. I’ll walk.”
There was a hug, and then Jordan waited curbside until Julie got settled in her car before he headed down the street for home. She pushed the Start button on her Prius and the engine came to life, not that Julie could easily tell. The thing was silent as a panther on the hunt. Even though she had owned the car for a few years, it took a bit to get used to the quiet engine. She had grown accustomed to the roar of her motorcycle and to the vibrations it gave off. Julie set her coffee in the cup holder and took a moment to fiddle with her GPS. These streets would be impossible to navigate without some kind of assistance.
She’d just placed her hands on the steering wheel when a man stepped directly in front of her car. He was tall, with long braided dark hair covered by a black knit cap. He wore a puffy dark jacket and dark baggy jeans. His arms dangled at his sides, but one hand appeared unnaturally elongated. It took a moment for Julie to realize he was holding a gun. Before her terror had a chance to take root, her driver-side door flew open and another man was there, looming over Julie as he leaned into her car. He held a gun to her face and glared at her with angry eyes. He was close enough to bathe her in his hot breath. Julie gripped the wheel hard, her head dizzy with fear.
“Give me the keys, bitch, and move over. I’m taking this here car for a ride.”
Julie had several thoughts, but they came to her too fast to register as anything conscious.
I’m being carjacked!
That was one.
Give him the keys.
That was another.
And then came a third thought, which materialized with the speed of reflex.
He doesn’t know the car is already running.
Julie’s mind was gummed with terror, but a notion had been planted. The man at the door continued to shove his way inside, pushing against her, while the other man stationed in the front of her vehicle continued to block her way. Now she got it. Neither man knew the car was running. The engine was silent.
Julie screamed for help as she slammed her foot on the accelerator. The Prius responded instantly and shot forward at a high rate of speed. The man forcing his way into the driver’s seat was caught by surprise and dropped his gun in exchange for a grip on the wheel, which kept him from being sucked under the moving car. The man standing in front lifted his hands in a pointless attempt at self-defense.
A second later, the front of the Prius made a loud thud as it slammed without slowing into the man’s midsection. With a sound of folding metal, the man toppled over like a rag doll. His skull slammed against the hood of the moving vehicle hard enough to leave a dent. Then he vanished from view underneath the chassis, as if the Prius had swallowed him whole.
The other man reached down, and with one hand managed to rip Julie’s foot off the gas pedal. The car rolled ahead, but slowed considerably. With his other arm, he uncorked a vicious strike that connected his elbow solidly with Julie’s temple. The blow left Julie dazed, and the man had no trouble ripping her from her seat. She and the man toppled to the road in a heap. The driverless Prius rolled ahead, and the man Julie had run over became visible on the ground nearby. He moaned, but did not move much.
Stunned from the blow to the head, Julie was not moving much either. Her attacker took advantage and climbed on top of her. He pinned her arms above her head with one hand, and with the other produced a knife from his boot big enough to carve a Thanksgiving turkey.
“I’m going to make this sting.”
He cocked back his arm and Julie braced herself for the pain. She had treated plenty of stab wound victims over the years, and the anticipation was its own form of torture.
A blur of motion rose up behind Julie’s attacker like a great dark wave.
Max Hartsock barreled from the darkness, airborne, arms held wide as if he were making an open field tackle. He slammed into Julie’s assailant and knocked him to the ground. He then went tumbling, still entwined in Max’s massive arms, into the middle of the road. Cars in both directions came to a screeching halt.
A small crowd had gathered, but no one came forward to assist. Plenty of people, however, were filming the fracas on their smartphones. Max and the other man tussled a moment, but the contest was very much one-sided. Max was the quicker and stronger of the pair, and soon had Julie’s attacker facedown with one arm wrenched behind his back at an unnatural angle. The man yowled in pain.
“Max, come on, man, it’s me, bro. It’s Dominick.”
The man Julie had run over recovered some of his sensibilities and took aim with his gun. Julie, aware of the danger, rolled to get out of his line of sight. He leveled his weapon, but blood loss made it impossible for him to keep a steady hand.
The delay gave Jordan time to push his way through the crowd. He dove on top of the armed man, pried the gun from his hand, and with little effort had him pinned, and then had the gun to his face.
Dominick continued his protest. “Come on, Max. Let me go. It was just a game, man. Some dude paid us to scare the lady. Nothing more. We got a grand to freak her out, that’s all. We wasn’t gonna do nothing to hurt her. Truth. Come on. Let it go.”
Max answered by tightening his hold. Off in the distance Julie heard the wail of police sirens on approach. Her body shook from all the adrenaline. She locked eyes with Jordan. She and Jordan had the same thought: someone had paid these two—not to scare her, but to kill her.
Lincoln Cole drove away before the police arrived, before they could start to question witnesses, before those two gang-bangers he had paid could identify him. He drove past a convenience store on his way out of town and thought about buying a pack of smokes, even though he had quit the habit years ago. The stress was starting to get to him. He was not accustomed to so many setbacks. He was not accustomed to killing, either. He had not thought it would have bothered him so, being a cop who had seen lots of horrible things, but at night Sherri Platt’s voice came to him like whispers from the grave. He heard her pleas, could see her trembling lips, the shake of her body in the grasp of an unimaginable terror.