Chapter Nineteen
Susan O’ Brien had worked hard to become the administrator of Cherry Vale. Hailing from Ireland, she’d grown up poor. With her nine siblings and a father who liked to play the big shot in the village at the local pubs, her family barely survived on the meager government assistance her mother had to collect each month.
Coming to America was like a dream come true, and she promised herself she wouldn’t fuck it up like she did most everything in her life. Each month, like a dutiful daughter, she sent money home to her mother. Sometimes she felt guilty about not visiting, but she rationalized it away each time she wired the money to her mother.
Glancing down at the stats, she groaned inwardly. She’d hoped she could’ve kept the recent surge in dead patients internal, but that gum-cracking sheriff had to shove his nose in it. How she hated it when people chewed gum. It always reminded her of cows chewing grass. And when the people cracked their gum, well, it was like nails on a chalkboard for her. Sheriff Wexler loved cracking his damn gum.
Corporate had become aware of all the deaths and now the situation had blown up into a proper maelstrom. She groaned again and grabbed a small key from her coin purse. Unlocking the bottom drawer in her desk, she took out a bottle of vodka. She’d only have a few nips. God knew she deserved it after the hellacious week she’d had.
Pouring her medicine into the Dixie cup, she leaned back in her office chair and sipped it. The smoothness from the clear liquor calmed her as it made its way down her throat, spreading warmth in her chest, and finally in her stomach.
“What’s the big deal anyway?” she muttered out loud. “It wasn’t like the patients were young, healthy people.” She took another sip. The truth was that the four patients who’d died in the last few weeks—Rose Higgins, Lucille Heller, Albert Swartz, and Henny Simpson—were all old, frail, and in poor health. She saw it as a blessing that those patients left the world to enter another one where disease didn’t exist. If one of the deceased patients would’ve been her parent or grandparent, she would’ve thanked God for sparing them more years of pain.
Another long pour in her cup. “That stupid sheriff’s saying it’s murder. Now I got all the attention on me.” She couldn’t screw this up. Her job paid well, and, for the most part, she loved it.
The buzzer on her phone made her jump, spilling her drink all over her desk. “Shit!” She quickly grabbed some paper towels and soaked up the liquid.
Pushing the buzzer, she said, “Yes?”
“Sheriff Wexler’s here to see you.”
“Thanks. Give me a minute.” She wrapped the paper towels in several plastic bags, sprayed air freshener on her desk and around the room, and popped in two mints. She went over to the door, plastered a smile on her face, and opened it.
“Sheriff Wexler. How good to see you. Won’t you come in?”
The tall man sank down into one of the chairs. “You got a problem at your facility,” he said without any pleasantries. How she hated boorish men.
“Do I?”
“You’ve got patients dying way more than any other facility in town or the county. Hell, you’ve got a higher deaths-per-patient ratio than any facility in Durango. Something’s going on here.”
She forced out a chuckle. “We deal in very sick patients. They die. Sometimes it happens that we have a rash of deaths, depending on how many terminally ill patients we have at one time. Sometimes we may only have one or none. I don’t know what more I can say.”
“There’re people a lot sicker than the ones who’ve died. Some of them weren’t that sick, like Mrs. Heller or Mrs. Higgins. I talked to their doctor.”
She smiled. “Dr. Daniels was their doctor. Out of the three doctors here, he’s the most optimistic. Dr. Rudman is definitely more realistic about the patients and what the quality of their life is. I would say Dr. Daniels probably held out a lot of hope in his assessment of the two women you mentioned. They were both quite ill.”
“But you got sicker ones here. I’ve been talking with all three of the doctors and they all told me that.”
“Of course we do, but I can’t play God and decide who lives and dies. In life, things don’t work logically a lot of the times.”
Wexler leaned forward and propped his elbows on her desk. “Well, someone’s playing God around here, and I aim to find out who.” He took out a document and handed it to her. It was a subpoena asking for all written records for patients and employees.
When he cracked his gum, it was like a bullwhip snapping in the air. She jumped up, her nerves on edge, her fingers trembling slightly. She needed a drink.
“Of course, it’ll take some time to gather all the records you’re requesting.” Get the fuck out of my office, you inconsequential man.
“Of course. I took that into account when I put the date in the subpoena that we need them produced by.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and walked out.
She dashed over, locked it, then scurried over to her desk and took out the bottle of vodka again.
“Just a few nips,” she said to no one as she brought the bottle to her lips.