With that thought in mind, Jack hurriedly left the chart room and wended his way back toward the main bank of elevators. Having an idea of what the hospital administration thought of Sue Passero had taken on new significance, particularly from a member of what Cherine had described as the triumvirate. Knowing what he did about the generally cool relationship between the clinical staff and the administrative staff of a chain hospital, Jack wasn’t particularly worried about word getting back to Laurie that he was out in the field investigating.
The orthopedics floor was even busier now with more visitors. As he progressed toward the elevators, another thought occurred to him concerning the possibility of a medical serial killer operating in the MMH, and he took out his mobile phone. Using his contacts, he put in a call to Bart Arnold, the OCME Medical Legal Investigation Department head, hoping to catch him before he left for the day. Jack was pleased when the phone was picked up on the second ring.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Jack said with no introduction. “I have a favor to ask.”
“I’ve got one foot out the door,” Bart said. “What do you need?” Bart and Jack had a superb working relationship, as each appreciated the other’s talents. They frequently worked hand in hand on complicated cases. At the same time, Jack wasn’t about to tell the man where he was at the moment and what he was doing, for fear he’d take offense. He was understandably protective of the MLI Department prerogatives.
“I’d like you to get me some figures,” Jack said. “Do you think it is possible to find out the monthly death rates called in to the OCME from the Manhattan Memorial Hospital over the previous two years?”
“I don’t see why not,” Bart said. “Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Truthfully, the sooner the better,” Jack said.
“If the team isn’t too busy tonight, I’ll have someone start looking into it. I imagine I’ll have something for you tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Perfect,” Jack said.
Chapter 18
Tuesday, December 7, 6:14 p.m.
As Jack descended in the elevator, he thought briefly about Lou Soldano’s warning not to play detective because it was dangerous. He knew Lou was correct, as evidenced by that horrendously scary shootout that Jack had been reminded of when he’d crossed the pedestrian bridge to the MMH’s garage. At the time he had definitely been playing detective. Yet in the current situation, he could deny that he was taking any risk since all he was doing was gathering evidence to decide whether a detective like Lou Soldano was needed. Jack still didn’t know whether Sue’s death was a homicide, but this new information that she had believed that a medical serial killer was on the loose seriously raised its specter. If Sue’s death ultimately turned out to be a homicide, the suspected serial killer would have to be a prime suspect. All in all, the nature of Sue’s professional world was far different than Jack had originally suspected, especially considering the reputed mutual animus between her and the triumvirate.
He got off on the third floor. He knew exactly where he was going because he’d visited the MMH surgical complex on several occasions when he’d been guilty of playing detective in the past. After pushing through a couple of swinging doors, he immediately turned right, entering the surgical lounge. The room, as he remembered it, was about thirty feet square with windows that faced one of the inner courtyards. The furniture consisted of a couple of well-worn vinyl couches, a handful of unmatched chairs, a number of dictating stalls, and a TV stand. The TV was tuned to the evening news with the volume turned down. At the far end, away from the entrance, was a kitchen nook with a refrigerator and a coffee machine.
With the operative day drawing to a close, the atmosphere was relaxed despite the room being fairly crowded with more than a dozen people all dressed in the same unisex scrubs. Some had hats or hoods, some didn’t. No one was wearing a mask, although many had one dangling around their necks. Jack took his off, counting on everyone being vaccinated. Most of the occupants were involved in isolated conversations, probably rehashing the events of the day, which created an overall buzz. A few were reading while others were dictating. From his personal experience as an eye surgeon, he knew that the egalitarian look of the environment was a sham since the OR was one of the most hierarchical domains of the hospital, with the surgeons and anesthesiologists invariably thinking of themselves as the top of the heap.
Making sure Sue’s photo was still pointing inward, Jack approached the nearest pair. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting two women. “Can you tell me if Dr. Henry Thomas or Dr. Carl Wingate are available?”
The pair looked at each other questioningly. Then the first said, “I believe I saw Henry go into the locker room,” whereas the second said, “I saw Dr. Wingate duck into OR eight.”
“Okay, thank you,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No problem,” the first individual said. As Jack walked away, he could hear the second person question, “Who the hell is that?” Jack didn’t hear the response because he was already nearing the men’s locker room door. Without hesitation he pushed inside.
He knew what to expect in the locker room. Surgeons who were involved in long, stressful surgeries, like cardiothoracic surgeons, often took showers, whereas those surgeons who were accustomed to short cases, like eye surgeons, didn’t. Orthopedic surgeons were somewhere in between. What Jack was counting on more was that in his experience orthopedic surgeons tended to be a happy, congenial group and easy to talk with.
The locker room was rather crowded, as was the lounge area, but he didn’t have any trouble finding Dr. Henry Thomas. The first person he asked pointed him out. Encouragingly, the orthopedic surgeon was whistling softly as he buttoned his shirt while standing in front of his open locker, suggesting his last case had gone well and that he was in good spirits. Jack’s initial impression just by watching the man for a few beats was that Henry Thomas was an intense, competitive, probably reasonably athletic individual, not so different from himself. His stature was a bit shorter than Jack’s six-foot-one, but stockier, with a threatening spare tire. His eyes were dark and deeply set, and he had a shock of dark brown hair with a bit of salt and pepper over his ears.
“Dr. Henry Thomas?” Jack began, sounding upbeat and cheerful.
Henry stopped whistling and gave Jack a once-over. He then asked in a surprisingly serious, confrontational tone, “Who wants to know?”
Mildly taken aback by this reaction, Jack successfully suppressed his inclination to be sarcastic, as it suggested the man had either a guilty conscience, a wildly inflated ego, or both. Instead, Jack said with a forced smile, “I’m Dr. Jack Stapleton from the medical examiner’s office. I’ve been tasked with looking into the death of Dr. Susan Passero, and I’d like to ask your opinion about the circumstances.”
“My opinion?” Henry raised the pitch of his voice as if it were a silly question. “About the circumstances?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “We are having some difficulty determining the exact cause of her death, and it’s forcing us to look into the whole situation leading up to her demise. I’ve learned that she was at odds with a few people about her hospital committee memberships here at the MMH.”
“Who suggested this?” Henry demanded, obviously taking offense.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge,” Jack said. “What I can say is that you were named as one of the people who feuded with Dr. Passero.”
“Who told you this?” Henry demanded again. He was now clearly angry. “Let me guess: Cherine Gardener?”