Warren Murphy: Market Force

"Why didn't maintenance let you in?"

"I was given the passkey to the apartment, but the custodian failed to give me the key to the front door," Smith said into the speaker. "He was called away on an emergency in another building. It doesn't matter to me if you don't let me in. However, the insects are in a breeding cycle right now. If I have to leave now, this entire building could be infested by the time I get back."

The unseen man exhaled angrily. "Those people are animals," he grunted.

There was a buzz and the security lock opened. Smith slipped inside. He took the stairs to the second floor and hurried to Howard's apartment.

The door was locked. However, unlike the security door downstairs, this one was just a standard dead bolt. Smith took out his wallet and removed a small set of burglary tools. With a few deft wiggles he picked the lock.

The apartment was dark. The curtains were drawn on the dreary morning. Smith shut the door behind him, feeling on the wall for the light switch. "Mark?" Smith called.

No answer. Smith wasn't carrying a weapon. Stepping cautiously, he did a quick search of the apartment.

He found no one. However, there were droplets of water in the shower stall. In the kitchen, a banana peel in a bag under the sink had not yet fully blackened. A cereal bowl in the sink had a small amount of milk in the bottom that had not yet soured. Clearly, his assistant had showered and eaten breakfast in his apartment that morning.

Mark Howard was a hardworking and conscientious young man. His condition had to have worsened after Smith had left, necessitating the need to take a few days off. But he was obviously feeling better, for he had to have returned to work.

Smith shut the lights off and let himself out.

The older man didn't feel any guilt for breaking into Howard's apartment. Such things came with the job.

Outside, Smith climbed back behind the wheel of his car and headed off to work.

He found no traffic on the isolated road that ran beside Long Island Sound. A wall rose beside the car. Beyond it loomed the familiar ivy-covered building that had been Smith's true home for the past forty years.

As he turned into the drive of Folcroft Sanitarium, Smith noted that the bronze plaque on the main gate had begun to lose its luster. He was making a mental note to send someone from the custodial staff out to polish it when he spied the police cars parked in front of the building.

What little natural color Smith possessed drained from his ashen face. His thudding heart rose into his constricting throat.

With an outward calm that belied his inner panic, he pulled his station wagon onto the shoulder of the main drive. He retrieved his cell phone from his briefcase.

He dialed with shaking hands. It was his secretary, not Mark Howard, who answered the ringing phone. "Dr. Smith's office."

"Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said, trying to keep his voice even, "is there something wrong at Folcroft?"

"Oh, Dr. Smith. Thank goodness you finally called." Mrs. Mikulka sounded desperate. "I didn't know how to reach you. It's one of the patients. He went-I don't know what. Homicidal. He killed three people. The police are here."

Smith felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. It was a Folcroft matter. Nothing to do with CURE.

"I know they are," he said.

"Oh," Mrs. Mikulka said. "Where are you?"

"In front of the building. Where is Mr. Howard?"

"He's missing," Mrs. Mikulka said, her voice tight with apprehension. "He wasn't feeling well these past few days, so he stayed home sick. He came back just this morning, before all this happened. Now he's missing and the police are saying- Oh, Dr. Smith, I hope he's all right."

Mrs. Mikulka was clearly distraught. Smith was surprised at himself for the level of concern he felt for his young protege. But there were matters more important than Mark Howard or Harold Smith. "Which patient was it?" Smith pressed.

"One of the ones from the special wing," Mrs. Mikulka said. "They're saying he must have gone berserk. He killed a doctor and two nurses before he disap-"

Smith didn't give her the chance to finish. He clicked his phone shut and dropped it into his briefcase.

He knew exactly which patient it was.

With wooden movements he put his car in gear and continued up the driveway. Skirting the emergency vehicles, he steered around to the side of the building. He parked his car in his reserved space in the employee lot.

He left his suitcase in the back seat. Taking his briefcase in hand, he ducked inside the side door of Folcroft's executive wing. With calm, deliberate steps he climbed to the second floor.

When Smith stepped into her office from the hallway, Mrs. Mikulka's broad face brightened with relief. There was a man waiting in his secretary's office. "Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said. "Oh, thank goodness. This is a detective with the Rye police. I'm sorry," she said to the man, "I forgot your name."

"Detective Ronald Davic," the policeman replied, offering Smith his hand. "I'm glad you're back, Dr. Smith."

Even as he shook the detective's hand, Smith was gesturing to his office. "I understand there has been some difficulty," Smith said. "Please step inside."

Leaving his flustered secretary alone in the outer room, he ushered the detective through to the inner office.

Smith noted as he rounded his desk that nothing looked out of place. With police snooping around Folcroft, he had been concerned that they might have found their way in here. He would have to do a search of the room once he was alone.

"I spoke to my secretary on the phone a few minutes ago," Smith began as he settled into his chair. "I have the rough details. What is the current situation?"

"You've got three on your staff dead-a doctor and two nurses-one man missing and the killer still at large."

"Do you believe he is still on the grounds?"

"We're searching. We've turned up nothing yet."

"When did this happen?"

"About three hours ago. Just after seven this morning. Dr. Smith, you realize it's your assistant director, Mr. Howard, who's the missing staff member?"

"Yes," Smith said.

"Did he have any kind of special relationship with the patient? Friend, relative, anything like that?" Smith's brow formed a dark V. "No. Mr. Howard has only been on staff here for a year. The patient has been in a medicated coma for the past decade. Why?" Davic fished in his pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. When he opened it up, Smith saw it was a standard Folcroft medical chart. They were normally left on a clipboard in a patient's room so that sanitarium staff could log test results and keep track of medications. With a finger yellowed from years of smoking, the detective tapped one of the top lines on the paper.

"Your patient's sedatives were canceled five days ago," Davic said as he set the paper before Smith. "I talked to one of your staff doctors. Your assistant isn't medical staff, so he shouldn't be messing around with which patients get what drugs. But he's the one who signed off on the change. Now, since you say he doesn't even know this guy, can you guess why he'd do something like that?"

Smith blinked behind his rimless glasses. The detective was right. According to the logs, Mark Howard had changed the prescribed medications for the patient in Polcroft's special wing. And in so doing had set free one of the greatest threats CURE's personnel had ever faced.

Smith was stunned to silence. He felt as if he should do something. As he reexamined the paper, he shifted in his chair. For the first time he noticed that the chair no longer squeaked. It always squeaked. Smith had been meaning for years to have it oiled but had never gotten around to it.

Somehow, in a moment when a missing squeak should have been the last thing on his mind, the silence of his chair roared like thunder in his ringing ears.