Fredric Stern - The Endorphin Conspiracy

Geoff’s eye caught the movement of Balassi’s right hand. From his angle he could see the gun. His gaze darted to O’Malley, whose eyes were fixed on the hand that had been holding the syringe. O’Malley obviously hadn’t seen Balassi’s right hand move.

Balassi’s hand now gripped the pistol in his coat pocket, and he was pointing it in O’Malley’s direction. He slowly moved around the bed. Geoff had to do something! He’d get only one chance.

He took a deep breath. Summoning every ounce of strength he could, he swung his casted leg into Balassi’s knees, throwing him off balance. “Look out!”

Seeing the glimmering metal in Balassi’s right hand, O’Malley fired his weapon. He aimed high, not wanting to endanger Geoff, grazed Balassi’s lab coat. Balassi fell to the ground, but he scurried around the head of the bed, using Geoff for cover, then stood. His left hand reached up to the syringe still dangling from the IV tubing, his right hand held onto the gun.

“Don’t do it!” O’Malley yelled, his revolver aimed at Balassi.

Balassi saw O’Malley’s gaze shift to the hand holding the syringe, fired twice, one bullet hitting O’Malley in the shoulder, the other in the chest. O’Malley winced in pain, fell to the ground.

“You filthy son-of-a-bitch!” Geoff yelled. He rolled to his right off the bed, his casted leg making a loud crack as he fell to the floor, taking Balassi down with him. Geoff grasped Balassi’s right hand, slammed it on the floor. The gun popped free and slid across the room.

Balassi tried to stand up, lunge for the gun, but Geoff grabbed his leg, his grip tight around Balassi’s ankle. Balassi fell to the ground again, this time on top of Geoff.

Balassi straddled Geoff’s chest, punched him in the face, again and again. Geoff, already in severe pain, was dazed. The room swam in and out of focus. Geoff felt he was on the edge of losing consciousness. He thought of Suzanne’s brutal assault. Kapinsky, his patients, murdered. The madness had to end.

Something glistened next to Geoff’s face, caught his attention. The syringe had popped out of the IV tubing and fallen on the floor beside him. He mustered what little strength he had left, grasped the syringe in his hand and swung his arm in as high and fast an arc as he could. The long needle pierced Balassi’s left eardrum, entered his brainstem.

Balassi shrieked in pain, grasped for the syringe in vain, then fell to the ground, landing on the plunger and sending the sigma endorphin home.

Balassi was dead.

It had been over a week since the day it all came to an end. The bolt had been removed from his head, and his hair was growing back. Geoff found himself oddly amused by his buzz cut look. It reminded him of his childhood. His wounds, both physical and emotional were healing, and his doctors were talking about discharging him from the hospital in the morning. Stefan had arranged for a private nurse to care for him so he could go home early. He couldn’t stand to be here one day more than he had to be.

Geoff had made up his mind he wasn’t coming back here. Too many painful memories, too much horror. He was going to finish his residency, but it would have to be somewhere far away from the New York Trauma Center. Somewhere he could smell the grass, feel a salty ocean breeze, stay in touch with what was truly important in his life—his brother and Suzanne. They were all he had left. The thought of recuperating with Suzanne at his family’s estate in Westport brought a smile to his face for the first time in weeks.

Perhaps it had taken such a horrible experience such as this to make Geoff realize his own caring nature, his basic humanitarianism were what had kept him going, from closing his eyes and turning away. He was, after all, a healer.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Suzanne was barely mobile herself and was being discharged tomorrow as well.

“Come in.” Geoff turned to face the doorway. Someone holding a bunch of Mylar balloons stood by the door. “This place is starting to look like a carnival.” Geoff cleared a table. “You can set them down over here.”

The balloons didn’t move.

“Hello over there,” Geoff called. “You can come in.”

“Hi,doc. I’m happy to see you’re up and around.” O’Malley grinned, set down the balloons on the table by Geoff’s bed. “Thought you might want a little company. How are you feeling?”

“Not bad for someone who’s been battered and abused. How about yourself?”

O’Malley lifted his right arm. “Shoulder’s coming along. My ribs are pretty sore, though. Thank God for flak jackets.” “I have to admit, you had me believing you were dead when Balassi shot you.”

O’Malley patted his chest. “Takes more than a couple of slugs to knock off a tough old Irish cop like Donald O’Malley.”

“Guess so. Is this a social visit, or an official visit from the homicide squad, detective?”

“A little of both, I suppose. I wanted to stop by and say thanks. You saved my life, you know.”

“I did what I had to do.”

O’Malley opened his tweed sport coat, reached into his breast pocket, removed a well worn leather flask and a couple of shot glasses, set them down on the table. He filled each glass to the rim with an amber fluid. “Mind if I pull up a chair?”

“Be my guest.” Geoff motioned to the side chair with his hand. O’Malley slid the chair to the side of Geoff’s bed, raised his shot glass, waited for Geoff to do the same.

Geoff hesitated at first. His conscience told him he shouldn’t be drinking in a hospital room, particularly given the medications he was taking.

O’Malley must have sensed Geoff’s hesitation. “Don’t worry, doc. It won’t kill you. Glenlivit, single malt, aged twenty-five years.” O’Malley winked, sniffed the vapors. “Only the best. As we say down at the station house, L’Chaim.”

Geoff smiled, clanged his glass to O’Malley’s, downed the whisky.

O’Malley did the same, slammed down the glass, settled into the chair. “Another round?”

Geoff nodded as O’Malley poured. “Tell me something, detective. Did you really think I was involved in all those murders? Kapinsky, the security guard, my own patients?”

O’Malley stared at Geoff, his emerald eyes smiling warmly. He removed a piece of Juicy fruit, crumpled the wrapper, put the stick of gum in his mouth. “Of course not, doc. I never thought you had it in you to do any of that stuff. Besides, you didn’t have a reason. No motive.”

“So why did you act like you believed otherwise?”

“Had to play my role, smoke out the perpetrators,” O’Malley said. “I knew sooner or later, someone’d screw up. They always do. I just sit and wait, catch them as they float down the river, so to speak.”

“Tell me one more thing, captain. Ever read any Sherlock Holmes mysteries?”

O’Malley’s eyes twinkled, his lips formed a deeply creased smile. “A few.”

“How about Sign of the Four? ”

“You mean, the one where Sherlock Holmes says to Watson, ‘when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’ That one?”

Geoff returned the smile. “That’s the one.”

“You’d make a damn good detective, doc, you know that? If you ever decide to make a career change, call me. We’d make a pretty good team, you and me.”

“How about another round, Detective O’Malley? I’ve got a few more questions I’d like you to answer.”

Fredric A. Stern, M.D., was born in New York City and attended Tufts University, where he majored in Greek and Roman Studies. He received his medical degree from Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons.