Peter Clement - Mortal Remains

And she’d be long gone when they did arrive. But then he’d probably known that, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let her go.

Another sip, and she savored its bittersweet bite, tempered as it was by cream and sugar. Normally she used skim milk and sweetener, but what the hell. Today was special.

She downed the remnants and poured herself a second cup.

What would her patients think when they found out? Her colleagues? The residents? She couldn’t stand the thought of being ousted as a fraud, exposed as something less than the smart, quick, concerned physician she’d craved to be seen as. Now, instead, she’d be made legend, right up there with other doctors who killed, like Cream, Swango, Shipman. They’d have experts on Larry King, Connie Chung, and Barbara Walters dissecting her place in that particular constellation of the murder universe. But she wasn’t like those creeps. She hadn’t set out to kill anyone. She’d tried her hardest to save them.

One thing she felt in her bones. There were others out there making themselves shine as physicians the same way she had. It was too tempting a scam for there not to be.

She poured herself a third cup.

By now the departing ship was but a dot on the horizon.

She began to feel sleepy.

Good.

The first of the several vials that now lay empty on the table had started to kick in. She wanted to be out cold when the other ingredients took effect. Seizures, arrhythmias, and cardiovascular shock – the symptoms wouldn’t be pleasant once they began. And there would be no remedy. She’d chosen the makings of her drug cocktail too well for that. No one, not even a bright boy like Earl Garnet, would ever be able to resuscitate her.

Denouement

That same morning, Saturday, November 24, 9:05 A.M.

Earl Garnet’s Room, Fifteen East, New York City Hospital

Mark looked up from the flowchart Earl had handed to him. “So Melanie intended to kill you and set you up as Kelly’s murderer, all to stop you from finding out what she’d done.”

Earl nodded, but said nothing.

From his grimace and the sheen of perspiration on his face, Mark knew he was in pain. “But Braden, starting with the M and M reports from Kelly’s file, had followed the same paper trail you were on, reached the same conclusion you did, and realized he had his own scapegoat. He spurred Melanie on to kill you even sooner, intending to set her up as Kelly’s murderer, all part of his master plan to wipe out anyone who could expose him.” Mark glanced up from the flowchart and regarded its author. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” said Earl.

Mark considered the idea. It seemed straightforward enough, but something niggled at him. “Wouldn’t it have been safer for Braden to just stand back – let Melanie carry out her plan to finish you off and make you the fall guy? Kelly’s murder would still be closed, unofficially maybe, but no one would be looking anymore.”

Earl smiled at him. It seemed forced. “Because serving up a proven serial killer as Kelly’s murderer would be a lot more convincing than leaving people shocked and incredulous that I’d done it. Hell, over the years I’ve even heard rumors that some people call me Goody Two-shoes Garnet behind my back.”

In spite of everything, Mark chuckled.

“He needed a definitive scapegoat,” Earl continued, “and he needed it now, the more sensational the better. Otherwise, he couldn’t hope to pawn off what he’d set up for you and Lucy as the freak accident he intended everyone to take it as. The same went for the explosion at Nell’s. Even then some people would still be suspicious, but there’d be no proof of foul play, and the flaming fact of Melanie Collins being in all the headlines, murderess extraordinaire that Charles Braden had helped bring to justice, would blunt whatever a few naysayers might mutter to each other. Hell, if you hadn’t played it smart and resisted going body-hunting last night, he might have gotten away with it.”

Mark’s face went warm.

Instantly Earl’s expression changed. “Sorry, Mark. I never meant to imply Lucy-”

“It’s all right,” Mark said. “If you hadn’t told me to play it smart, I might have gone out there with her. I owe you my life for that, and whatever chance Lucy has.” But if he hadn’t let what Earl said stir up his own suspicions about her, Lucy might not have gone at all. Instead, she’d probably sensed those doubts, and felt the need to prove herself trustworthy to him. Mark’s instincts knew this about her as surely as she now lay on total life support twelve floors below with a coma score of three, equal to Bessie McDonald’s.

“Get back to Lucy, Mark,” Earl said. “Above all, don’t lose hope. The recoveries from hypothermia these days can be nothing short of miraculous.”

He tried not to show that he knew Earl had half-lied to him. Mark had already gone on MedLine, as soon as he’d gotten Lucy settled in ICU, and checked the literature, confirming what he’d already known. Success stories about hypothermia were based on single best cases. The over-all statistics were grim, especially for adults. He nodded, and turned to leave.

“And talk to her, Mark,” Earl called after him. “Leave tinkering with her biochemistry to others. Every minute you’re at her side, talk to her.”

That made him pause. “What good will that do?”

“She’ll hear you. I’m certain of it. Talk to her and help bring her back.”

As he hurriedly returned to ICU he thought, sometimes even bossy people who treated him like an intern could give good advice.

Ten days later, Tuesday,

December 4, 10:00 A.M.

Seminar Room, Fifteen East,

New York City Hospital

Mark glanced at the faces of everyone in the room from where he sat at the head of the long table. Nearly all the people whom he’d invited had arrived.

But he quickly turned his attention back to Lucy, who sat at his side. She’d been given permission to get out of bed for the proceedings, though still in a hospital gown and tethered to an IV pole. “Just in case,” her doctors had said in the ominous shorthand physicians use with each other.

“Don’t look so glum, Mark,” she told him. “You and I both know the score. I’m fine.”

Yes. He knew the score. She had already beaten incredibly long odds. She’d been in a coma for three days. From what she remembered before going in the water, Mark estimated her submersion time had been ten minutes. When Dan and the air ambulance arrived, he had been in the well giving her mouth-to-mouth ten minutes more, though at the time it felt much longer. Even now her myocardium could overreact to the electrical impulses of its own conduction system and fly into overdrive. PAT, atrial fibrillation, ventricular tachycardia – everything Earl had had to watch out for – could now be hers, including the possibility of cardiac arrest.

“I’ve made it over the hard part, right?” she cheerfully insisted, reaching over and patting his hand as if he were the patient.

“Absolutely,” he said, forcing himself to give a delighted smile. Still, her condition worried him.

Earl himself, a few seats away, looked gaunt, his cheeks and eyes sunken from the ordeal of his infection. Cleared to go home later today, he’d be leaving fifteen pounds lighter, but with kidneys, pancreas, and brain intact. Janet leaned close to him, her hand resting protectively on his arm. A suitcase stood at the leg of his chair.

Opposite Janet, Dan Evans reclined comfortably, a slight smile on his face. It had been there for the last week and a half. He’d been the center of attention for every paper, news reporter, and talk show in Saratoga Springs, and one headline in the New York Herald read: Country sheriff and small-town coroner crack murder that stumped the NYPD for twenty-seven years. Mark had gladly let him make all the public appearances and deal with the media, Lucy being his sole concern.