The Borgia White Affair

By Mayo R. DeLilly III

The embattled Kingsley administration is teetering on the edge of political ruin; fighting and losing an unwinnable war against drugs, and facing a tough re-election campaign.



In order to save his Presidency, Operation Borgia White is spawned to stem the tide of the drug scourge enveloping America. Sporadic and untimely cocaine deaths sweep across the country. The Government attempts to reassure an anxious populace and sway public opinion toward more stringent measures the Administration has planned to eradicate the drug problem once and for all.




Dr. Lester Phillips, a Washington, DC Pediatrician, has seen the first telltale signs of the plot; the seizures, the cardiac and respiratory arrest, the lightning fast death. With the help of his colleague, pathologist Ray Rafferty, they slowly begin to assemble and put together clues, aided by a disgruntled Justice Department official.




As Lester and Ray continue to pursue the truth, dark forces within the Administration unleash attacks against the men, their families, and their reputations. After Ray is attacked and presumed dead or missing, Lester must fight alone until he is unjustly accused of crimes against the state and arrested. During his captivity, he comes face to face with the mastermind of the intricate operation. As the plot finally unfolds, Lester realizes that the deaths of thousands of people have been collateral damage, and something far more sinister is planned. Lester is able to escape his captors, but is injured. He must make his way back to Washington, DC and warn the targets of the plot before it is too late. In the balance is the fate of American way of life as we know it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469149394

Mayo R. DeLilly III

Mayo R. DeLilly, III practices General Pediatrics in Los Angeles, CA. This is his first work of fiction.

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Copyright © 2012 by Mayo R. DeLilly III.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012900397

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-4938-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-4937-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-4939-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Written 7/87-3/89

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CONTENTS

Part I  The Harbinger

Part II  White Bait, White Death

Part III  Serendipity

Part IV  Betrayal

Part V  A Stitch In Time…

Epilogue

DEDICATION

What started out as a cautionary tale written between July, 1987 and March, 1989 has hopefully gained some relevance and poignancy as subsequent years of history have passed. If you have read this far, you have opened the book already. Let’s keep going and see where the story leads us. I have dedicated this novel to Hope, Perseverance, and Faith.

Mayo R. DeLilly, III

PROLOGUE

Sergeant Murphy’s shift was about halfway through the eight hours he reluctantly worked every night in the police storage and evidence room. A facetious thought crossed his mind. His reign over this dungeon of stolen articles, weapons, and unused equipment was not exactly a job for a man of his streetwise experience and expertise in the field of investigative criminology. But crime could feel safe in the knowledge that Murphy would not be patrolling the streets tonight. He had spent most of his sixteen years on the force behind a desk, and as his fellow officers constantly reminded him, he had never made an arrest or even fired his gun.

Murphy leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and smiled. He had reason to feel important tonight. The evidence from one of the biggest cocaine busts in the city’s history was sitting in the evidence room vault—millions of dollars of pure white pleasure. Not to be outdone, about a million dollars in cash sat neatly stacked on a table next to the cocaine.

Footsteps and faint whistling could be heard coming down the stairwell. A young officer walked into the evidence room, carrying a cup of coffee in each hand.

Murphy took his feet off the desk and leaned forward in his chair. Who was this? He thought. He must be one of the new guys from Central.

I see you finally found your way down here, Murphy said teasingly.

Oh, yes, sir, the officer replied.

What’s your name? Murphy asked.

Collins, sir.

Well, Collins, I’m top dog down here, and don’t you or any of the new meat forget it, Murphy replied boastfully.

Flustered, Collins stumbled back. The coffee shook from the cups and ran down the sides.

Hey! Watch what you’re doing! Murphy yelled. That’s good coffee you’re wasting.

Collins righted himself and answered apologetically, S… s… sorry, sir. He handed Murphy the cup from his right hand.

Murphy took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair again. Hear about the big bust, Collins?

Yeah. Engle told me about it tonight at the front desk, Collins replied.

Well, Collins, did Engle also tell you that the coke and the money from the bust are sitting right down here in the evidence room vault?

Yeah, he did, Collins replied.

Did he also tell you that yours truly will be guarding the treasure tonight? Murphy bragged.

Collins smiled and nodded. How’s your coffee, Sergeant Murphy?

It tastes a little bitter. You must have run into that joker, Smith. He probably told you to put some of that NutraSweet crap in my coffee.

Collins needled Murphy as he chuckled to himself. Old Smitty is quite a character. He said you were dieting.

Murphy shot back, Smith wouldn’t know what a diet was if it came up and bit him on the ass!

Doesn’t seem as though he has missed many meals, Collins replied, fighting back a smile.

Don’t let him hear you say that, Murphy replied as they both laughed.

Look here, Sarge, I better go back upstairs before the desk sergeant misses me. You take care, Collins said as he turned toward the stairs.

Don’t forget your ‘old Sarge’ down here, Murphy yelled back.

Murphy sipped his coffee and listened to the faint shuffling of Collins’s feet as he went up the stairs. Yeah, this was going to be a quiet night, very quiet indeed. Murphy began to close his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. Within minutes, sleep enveloped him like a shroud. As Murphy slept, multiple pairs of footsteps descended the stairs toward the basement and the evidence room.

A few hours later, Murphy was jostled violently from his slumber by one of his fellow officers.

What the—huh?

Murphy, dammit, wake up!

What… who… who is it?

It’s me, Andrews. Wake up!

What the hell happened? Murphy screamed.

We’ve been hit! They got all the stuff.

What stuff?

The cocaine, man, Andrews yelled.

Dazed, Murphy stared blankly into space and babbled, How… when?

Gassed… drugged… I don’t know. They’re all out cold upstairs—must have happened last night. Andrews paused a moment to collect himself. Smith and Watson were shot. It looks like they caught them by surprise when they came back from patrol. Shot dead in the patrol car. Poor bastards never knew what hit them.

Where’s Collins? Murphy asked.

Who?

Collins! The new guy who was on duty tonight. He brought me some coffee. Blond, about six feet.

Murphy, there’s no Collins in this station. The new guys aren’t due to arrive until next week! Andrews replied.

Murphy gasped, leaped from his chair, and turned to look into the jaws of his worst nightmare. The door to the evidence vault was open. The cocaine and the money were gone.

Oh, my god! Murphy screamed as he fell to his knees and clutched his face in his hands. As he listened to Andrews ascend the stairs, he began to sob and cry. A few moments later, a single shot rang out from the bowels of the basement evidence room, then tomb-like silence.

PART I

THE HARBINGER

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness,

And some have greatness thrust upon them.

—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

CHAPTER ONE

A late model Ford station wagon drove up Michigan Avenue, crossed the district line at Eastern Avenue, and turned right onto Twenty-Second Avenue. The car drove past a few red brick homes and turned into the driveway of the sixth house from the corner. A tall, wiry brown-skinned man in his late thirties got out of the car along with his ten-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. He scratched his short-cropped afro as they began to unload groceries from the back of the station wagon.

Cradling a brown grocery bag in each arm, Lester Phillips looked back over his shoulder as he walked up the steps and smiled. He could see his long legged son Clay wrestling with a bag of charcoal.

Think you can handle it, Son?

It’s kinda heavy, Dad, Clay replied.

Well, grab one of the lighter bags. I’ll come back out for the charcoal. Thanks anyway.

His daughter Roberta, or Bert, was holding the front door open for him as he got to the top of the steps. He gazed into her light brown eyes and smiled.

Thank you, honey. You have both been very helpful today.

Lester walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Clay and Roberta followed, carrying one small bag each. As Lester was putting some of the canned goods away, Bert tugged on his pants leg.

Yes, honey?

Daddy, when is Mommy coming home? Bert asked.

She gets off work around three o’clock, Lester replied.

Then can we go for pizza, please? Clay asked.

We’ll see, Clay. Mommy may have some other plans for us today, Lester said. Let’s get the rest of the things out of the car, and then we will have some lunch.

After unloading the car, Lester and the kids grilled and ate some hamburgers. Lester finished his last sip of cola and looked up at the clock—twelve thirty. A few more hours before Ruth gets home, he thought.

So what should we do until Mommy gets home? Lester asked.

Let’s go to the movies, Clay said.

I want to go see Grandma, Bert said.

Lester smiled. We’re barbecuing with Grandma tomorrow, Bert.

I know, Clay said. Let’s go see where Daddy’s new job is.

Yeah, yeah, please, Daddy, please? Bert squealed.

Lester smiled as he hugged his daughter. That sounds like a good idea. Besides, I need to take a few more things over there before I start work on Tuesday. Let’s go.

*     *     *

Lester Phillips, MD, had come a long way from the streets of Anacostia. The youngest of two brothers, he had been raised by his mother in the shadow of the Frederick Douglass Home in the southeast section of Washington, DC. While he had not escaped living among the broken lives, the despair, the crime, and the drugs, he had not succumbed to it. In fact, he had risen above it. He had evolved from the ghetto with the best it had to offer—a mental toughness combined with empathy for the less fortunate.

Basketball star at DeMatha High School. Honor student at Georgetown. Medical degree with honors from Howard University. Pediatric training and fellowship training in Adolescent and Ambulatory Care Medicine at Children’s Hospital of the District of Columbia.

Despite all his accomplishments, he never forgot his roots. While at Children’s Hospital, he negotiated and obtained funding for a satellite clinic in Anacostia. There, doctors could screen children for iron deficiency anemia, lead poisoning, sickle-cell anemia, tuberculosis, dental problems, and venereal disease, as well as provide drug counseling, birth control, and suicide prevention. Anacostia might have been just across the river from the Capitol and the rest of DC, but as far as health care was concerned, it was sometimes oceans apart as far as Lester was concerned. The infant mortality figures were higher than the national average, drug abuse was rampant, and teenage pregnancy was the rule rather than the exception.

In his own small way, Lester was trying to help and save some lives. The community noticed; Washington, DC, noticed; and Children’s Hospital noticed. Commencing June first, in addition to his duties as director of the satellite clinic, Lester would be director of the Ambulatory Care Department at Children’s Hospital.

*     *     *

Lester and the kids rode west along Michigan Avenue, the tree-lined thoroughfare that cut through Northeast Washington. They passed through well-kept black middle-class neighborhoods, curved around Catholic University and the shrine of the Immaculate Conception, past Trinity College, across North Capitol Street. Lester finally turned right and entered the underground parking lot of Children’s Hospital—a polyhedral building facing the McMillan Reservoir.

Walking past the busy outpatient area, Lester unlocked the door to his new office. Clay and Bert followed close behind him. He had brought a large box of books and some family pictures for his desk. The rest would come later.

Well, how do you like it? Lester asked.

It’s okay, Clay replied. Too bad you don’t have a view of the Capitol.

Scenic views are reserved for presidents and hospital directors, Lester replied kiddingly.

Huh?

Never mind, Clay, Lester said, looking at his watch. Your mother should be home soon. Let’s take a quick tour of the hospital, and then we will have to head home.

Goody! I want to ride the escalator, Bert said.

Lester smiled. Okay, let’s go.

*     *     *

Lester spied his wife getting out of her car as he and the kids pulled into the driveway. Ruth Phillips had just returned from her nursing shift at Georgetown Hospital. Long black braids draped the back of her tall, slender figure. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled and waved. Flecks of green accentuated her light brown eyes.

Mommy’s home! Bert said.

Bert and Clay hopped out of the car and ran into their mother’s arms. Lester followed and gave her a big hug.

How was your day? Ruth asked.

Daddy took us to see where he works, Bert replied.

Good! Ruth said as she looked up at Lester. Did they run you ragged today?

No, we had a nice afternoon, Lester replied.

Can we go for pizza, Mom? Clay asked.

Since you have been so good and helpful to Daddy today, I guess we can go.

Thanks, Mom, Clay replied as he walked beside his mother, sister, and father into the house.

*     *     *

While Saturday was cloudless and sunny, the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend was overcast.

The family gathered early in the backyard to begin the day. While Ruth and Bert prepared the meat, potato salad, and baked beans, Lester and Clay set up the lawn furniture and made the fire. Soon, Lester was cooking chicken and ribs.

By noon, the guests and relatives arrived: Ruth’s mother and father from Baltimore; Lester’s mother, Mamie; the Johnsons from next door; and Ruth’s sister and brother-in-law from Landover. Manuel Johnson kept Lester and his beer company by the fire, while the ladies relaxed under the lawn umbrella and the kids ran in the yard. Ruth’s father, Larry, and her brother-in-law, Todd, watched the NBA play-offs on a small portable TV on the porch. Lester craned his neck to see as he turned the chicken.

What do you think about the play-offs? Lester asked.

The Celtics look mighty good this year, Manuel replied.

I think the Wizards will give them a run for their money, Lester replied. In the background, Todd’s voice rang out,

Wizards up by twelve, second quarter.

Lester winked and smiled. See, I told you!

Between peeks at the game and playing with the kids, Lester managed to finish cooking without burning up the meat. By four o’clock, they all sat down to eat.

Despite the overcast day and the threat of rain, the mood was jovial. Laughter filled the air as Manuel told some of his risqué jokes. As Lester looked around the yard, he spied his mother sitting over by a magnolia tree. She was strangely quiet today. She ate her food, but her mind was not on the festivities of the day.

Lester and Ruth began to clean up and rinse off the dishes after everyone was finished. Lester helped Ruth load the dishwasher.

Everything was wonderful today, honey, Lester said.

Thank you, Ruth replied, as she looked through the kitchen window at Mamie. Mom seemed awfully quiet today, Lester. Does she feel all right?

Says she feels fine, honey, Lester replied reflectively. What’s going on? He thought. But, ya know, she didn’t say much on the drive over here either.

Maybe something is on her mind, Lester, Ruth said.

I’ll ask her on the way back, Lester replied.

The clouds overhead darkened, and the smell of rain was in the air. Lester, Manuel, and the kids rushed to put the lawn furniture back in the garage. Everyone was leaving now, hoping to beat the storm home.

Lester helped his mother put on her raincoat. Mamie kissed and hugged Ruth and the kids. She gave them a curt smile and walked out of the door with Lester.

Lester drove the long way home. His mother sat quietly at his side. The first drops of rain began to fall as the car crossed the Eleven Street Bridge into Anacostia.

Mom, I’ve been meaning to ask you… is anything wrong?

Tears welled up in Mamie Phillips’s eyes. Lester, she said softly. It’s about that time of year again.

Lester knew now what was troubling his mother. Yeah, I know.

Ten years this June. He died right in my arms on the steps.

I’m sorry, Mom.

Mamie Phillips paused a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes. The rain continued to fall. She turned toward Lester.

Can you take me to the cemetery tomorrow? I would like to put some flowers on the graves…

Sure, Mom.

She continued to weep. Lester handed her his handkerchief. Thank you, Lester.

The car turned onto Good Hope Street, SE, went up a block, and stopped across the street from a schoolyard. Lester got out and helped his mother up the steps to the front door.

Mom, I’ll pick you up tomorrow about one o’clock.

Thank you, Lester. You are a good son.

*     *     *

Walking through the damp grass, Lester and his mother ascended a small rise and stopped beside a magnolia tree. Two flat gravestones, covered with leaves and blades of cut grass, sat in the shadow of the tree.

Lester knelt down and wiped off the stones with a cloth. He used some garden shears to trim the grass from around the stones. He put down a towel and helped his mother kneel down.

Wilson B. Phillips Sr.

Loving Husband and Father

1925-1968

Wilson B. Phillips Jr.

1951-1985

She touched each stone and ran her fingers along the inscribed names. She set a bouquet of flowers on each grave. Lester and Mamie bowed their heads for a few minutes and prayed. When they finished, Lester helped his mother up. As he stood with his arm around his mother’s shoulder, Lester began to reflect.

His father had been a hardworking man. Early on, he had been a porter on the railroad. When Wilson Jr. was born, he decided to quit the railroad and spend more time at home with his wife and infant son. But then the war in Korea broke out, and Wilson Sr. had to leave again. After serving in the army for two years, he returned to Washington and took a job with the post office, delivering mail.

Though he often came home so tired he could barely stand, he always had time to play ball with Wilson Jr. and read or play with Lester. Lester used to especially like the stories his father would tell about his fighting in Korea.

Wilson Phillips Sr. never had more than a high school education, but he knew the value of education. He used to tell his sons, Study hard and get a good education. But most of all, work hard and treat others with courtesy and respect. If you do that, nothing can stop you from getting ahead in life.

Lester’s father died suddenly one day while on his mail route. According to his mother, the doctors said a vessel burst in his brain. Lester knew now that he probably had a stroke. He had been diagnosed as having moderately severe hypertension just a year before he died. Living without a father was hard on the family. It was especially hard on Wilson Jr.

Wilson Jr. was seventeen years old when his father died. He had been a good student and a role model for Lester as a boy. Lester idolized his brother. But after their father died, Wilson Jr. changed.

Wilson Jr. tried to go to college, but he lost interest and dropped out after two semesters. He became caught up in the Black Power Movement and was arrested for participating in some demonstrations.

Then came April 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, and Washington, DC, erupted in rioting and looting for three days. Wilson Jr., while attempting to rob and loot a store, shot at the owner and was caught. The man recovered, but Wilson was convicted of robbery and attempted murder. He was sentenced to prison at Lorton, Virginia.

When Wilson Jr. was paroled seven years later, he was an angry, vengeful young man. He got together with some of his old homeboys from the streets and preyed on old ladies, women, and the local shop owners. The gang got involved in extortion, mugging, and strong-arm tactics. They called themselves the Overlords. After awhile, they ruled the streets of Anacostia.

The burgeoning cocaine and drug trade of the late ’70s and early ’80s propelled Lord Wilson into prominence. No one could sell the white stuff on his turf. Killings over drugs began to escalate and Lord ordered hits became routine. People lived in constant fear of Wilson Jr. and his gang.

Mamie Phillips had long since stopped trying to plead and reason with her elder son. He used to buy her things and send her money, but she always sent them back.

I have no use for wages earned in the devil’s workshop! she would tell him.

When Wilson Jr. attempted to recruit Lester to be a runner and join the gang, Mamie stuck her husband’s shotgun through the screen door and told her son, I’ll shoot you where you stand. You will not take my baby from me!

Wilson Jr. bolted from the porch and never set foot near the house again until a day in 1985, when his luck finally ran out.

Wilson Jr. was dealing some crack out of an old apartment building off Martin Luther King Boulevard in Anacostia. He got into an argument with a guy who thought he was being shortchanged. The guy pulled a knife and stabbed Wilson Jr. in the chest. Blood squirting from his wound, he managed to get to his mother’s home. Mamie was outside talking with a neighbor, when Wilson staggered halfway up the steps, collapsed, and died in his mother’s arms. Her plaintive wail resonated through the neighborhood.

"Wilson! Oh my god! Oh . . . No . . . My baby! Lord, please not my baby . . ."

Lester squeezed his mother a little tighter. Mom, are you ready to go back?

Mamie Phillips stood silently for a moment; then she slowly replied, Yes, Lester. I’m ready. Let’s go back.

*     *     *

Bert bounced up and down on her bed as Lester entered the room. He sat down on the bed beside her.

Okay, let’s see those hands and face… good! Lester said as he surveyed the hygienic handiwork of his little rascal. Now, let’s see those teeth… big smile… well, looks like you did a good job tonight. Bert smiled as she hugged her father. Did Mom help you with your face, Bert? Lester asked. He remembered how Bert would sometimes leave soap behind her ears. But there was none tonight.

Nope. I did it all by myself, Bert replied.

Lester turned around and caught Clay standing in the doorway winking at Bert. He smiled. Now, young lady, time to say your prayers. Bert knelt down beside the bed and said her prayers silently to herself. Then she hopped up and got under the covers. Lester leaned over and kissed Bert on the forehead.

Good night, pumpkin.

Good night, Daddy. I prayed for you to have a good day tomorrow. Mommy says that it is the first day on your new job, and that sometimes you need a little help the first day.

Lester lifted Bert up and hugged her. Your mother is very smart and kind. He could hear Clay needling him from the hallway.

Hey! Quit all that mushy stuff, Dad, and turn off the light.

Lester got up, turned off the light, and followed Clay into his room. Clay knelt down, said his prayers, and got into bed. Lester leaned over and kissed Clay.

Dad, don’t you think I’m too old for you to kiss me good night? Clay asked.

"You’re not too old to live in this house, are you?" Lester quipped.

No, sir.

Lester smiled. I’m just kidding, Clay. Good night. Clay smiled, rolled over, and closed his eyes.

Lester pulled the door to as he left and walked down the hall to the guestroom, which doubled as his study and office. He sat down at his desk and began to read over some materials he planned to pass out to the residents in the morning. Ruth walked into the room and put her arms around Lester as he sat in his chair.

Everyone tucked in? she asked.

Yes, they’re fine, Lester replied.

Looks like you are getting a little cramped in here, Ruth said as she looked at magazines and journals piled on the floor. You could use a bigger study.

I’ll make due, Lester replied.

Les, you need your own study, not a little bedroom.

Maybe we can move my stuff into the basement. It would just be my desk, this old file cabinet, my bookcase, and all these magazines, Lester said.

Gets mighty cold down there in the winter, Ruth replied.

So I’ll wear a sweater.

Maybe we can find a larger house. I’ll call tomorrow and see what is on the market, Ruth said.

How about adding another room? Lester asked.

That is something to consider, too. I’ll look into it. Let’s go to bed, Les.

Is that an invitation? Lester asked.

"Les-ter!"

Lester spoke in a whiny little voice, "You mean we can’t do it tonight?"

A man of your eminence and responsibility needs to get his sleep, Ruth said as she smiled and winked at her husband.

Lester poked out his lower lip and pouted as he watched his wife’s curvaceous body sway in the doorway. He giggled as he crooned, When I get this feeling, I need sexual healing… They both cackled as Ruth turned to leave.

All right, Marvin Gaye!

Ruth walked out of the room and went down the hall toward their bedroom. Lester shook his head and mumbled, Boy, it sure gets lonely once you reach the top!

He switched off his desk lamp. When he turned to leave, the bare caramel silhouette of his wife stood in the doorway. As she lovingly caressed him, she whispered into his ear, Well, maybe just a little…

*     *     *

Ruth stood over the stove frying some bacon while Lester sat at the kitchen table. He opened up the morning paper to the front page.

Let us see what is on the cover of President Kingsley’s ‘Cartoon Carnival’ today. Any juicy scandal to titillate our readers?

Ruth smiled. Maybe you should give up medicine and write an editorial column for the paper, The Village Cynic.

I’d have plenty of stuff to write about! Lester replied as he scanned down the paper. Nothing interesting on the front page, he thought as he turned in a few pages. Here’s something interesting, Ruth. Lester read on.

LARGE CACHE OF COCAINE STOLEN FROM POLICE STATION

OVER HOLIDAY WEEKEND

Where? Ruth inquired.

Somewhere out West… looks like Colorado or New Mexico, Lester replied.

Doesn’t it say, Les?

No. Matter of fact, this article sounds rather equivocal, you know, purposely ambiguous.

The nurses at work were talking about the same thing last week, Ruth said.

What?

Cocaine being stolen. Seems someone stormed a crack house out in Los Angeles, shot up the place, and made off with the cocaine. The police think it was gang related.

Lester continued to scan the article. Says here that this theft was the sixth or seventh in the month of May alone, and fits the MO of previous cocaine robberies the past six months.

Who would be stealing cocaine? Ruth asked.

Beats me. It does seem mighty strange. It’s even stranger that the law enforcement agencies have no clue as to who’s doing it.

Those things take time, I guess, Ruth replied. She dropped two strips of bacon on Lester’s plate. Finished your eggs already?

Yeah… Gotta go, Lester said. The clock on the wall read 7:15 a.m. I’ll eat the bacon on the way.

Ruth shook her head and smiled.

When are you going to wake up the kids? Lester asked.

In a few minutes, Ruth replied.

Kiss them good-bye for me. He gave Ruth a hug and kiss. I love you.

I love you, too. Good luck today. I’m proud of you, Ruth said.

Lester and Ruth squeezed each other tighter. I’ll be home by six.

Briefcase and lunch in hand, he headed for the garage.

CHAPTER TWO

Raymond Rafferty, MD, walked into his office in the basement of Children’s Hospital. As part-time director of the laboratory and full-time pathologist, most of his day was spent in the bowels of the hospital. He did an occasional autopsy, but the bulk of his work was preparing specimens obtained from operations and biopsies for analysis. Despite what most people might consider a bloody and ghoulish job, Ray Rafferty enjoyed it. He possessed not only a fine analytical mind and excellent surgical technique, but also a great sense of humor. He was one of the most popular doctors in the hospital—beloved by the corpses, staff, patients, and residents alike (and not necessarily in that order!)

Spring and the cherry blossoms had come and gone, but Rafferty’s perennial allergy attack was still holding on. As he put on his lab coat, he began to sniffle and attempted to hold back a sneeze.

Aha—choo! He reached for his handkerchief to wipe his nose. Just as Rafferty prepared to sit down at his desk, there was a knock at the door.

Come in, Rafferty answered in his best nasal tone. A young man in his mid-twenties entered. He wore all white and had his hair combed back.

Mort, I didn’t know the Elvis look was back in style.

How do ya like it? I mean the hair.

I hope you didn’t pay for that, Rafferty replied.

Mort pouted and looked down. Rafferty mussed his black hair and put his arm in front of his face, covering his mouth and nose. But, Igor, I still like you anyway! he said in his best Boris Karloff imitation.

Mort hunched over and replied as they both laughed, Thank you, master.

What brings you down to see me, Mort?

Say, Doc, there is a guy upstairs. Says he is from US MediTech or something. He is here to hook up the new machine.

You mean the Albright Analyzer? Rafferty asked.

Yeah, that’s it.

Wonderful! Let us go upstairs and see what he has to say.

Rafferty and Mort stood over the installer for hours while he connected the components together. Finally, the installer plugged in the analyzer.

It is ready to go, sir.

"Magnifico!" Rafferty shouted. Other workers in the lab applauded. The Albright Analyzer was operational.

Doc, what’s the big deal? Looks like just another machine to me, Mort said.

Yes, Mort, and Cleopatra was just another dame!

What, she buy one too?

Mort, never mind.

Rafferty studied the buttons and lights on the main panel. He ran his hands along the keyboard and looked up close at the computer screen. Yes, sir, this is quite a lady.

What does it do, Doc?

The Albright Analyzer was developed by Dr. Charles Albright. He invented and produced this resin-polymer…

What? Mort asked.

Excuse me—a substance capable of binding many, if not all the chemical substances known to man, even solvents and individual ions. All one has to do is mix the resin-polymer with the sample in question and separate the organic from the aqueous phase. Sort of like oil sitting on top of water. The water or aqueous phase is discarded, and the organic phase is put in the analyzer and compared to a standard. The computer integrates everything, and the answer appears on the screen in plain English.

Don’t them other machines do that? Mort asked.

Yes, but the Albright Analyzer does all the things the other machines do and more. The analyzer can take the place of four or five machines. Now, where a sample might take hours or days to analyze, it can be done in five or ten minutes—or as long as it takes to mix the sample with the resin-polymer and put it in the machine.

Wow! Mort replied.

It will even make it easier for us to do our periodic urine drug screens on employees. So watch out, Mort! Rafferty said.

I’ve stopped using, Doc. Honest.

I believe you, Mort.

Rafferty sat down at the terminal and punched in the entry code. I think I’ll stay here awhile and play with our new toy. Mort, you go downstairs and start putting the equipment out. If anyone calls, just pipe it up here to the main lab.

Gotcha, Doc. Take it easy.

Only way to take it, Mort… only way to take it!

Rafferty looked at his own reflection as the numbers and symbols flashed up on the computer screen. He could see himself smiling. With this baby, we’ll be ready for anything now.

A few floors below, the outpatient department was bustling with business.

*     *     *

After a few hours of paperwork and supervising the clinic residents and interns in the main outpatient department, Lester went to his own Tuesday morning follow-up clinic. His patients were mainly young men and women he had treated over the years.

More and more as he watched them grow, Lester felt a sense of pride in being able to help some of them. Other than a young lady with diabetes and a young man with chronic bouts of sickle-cell anemia, most of his adolescents were healthy. As these adolescents began to cross the threshold from childhood to adulthood, Lester’s job became more one of counselor, teacher, advisor, and friend. Now instead of ear infections, colds, and coughs, he had issues of prom dates, acne, sex, drug abuse, pregnancy, and venereal disease to talk about with his teens.

Lester entered a small examination room not far from his office. His stethoscope, otoscope, tongue blades, and other examination equipment had been set out for him. He walked back down the hall to the outpatient waiting area and stopped at the reception desk. Gladys Flynn, RN, was arranging clinic charts for the day.

Good morning, Mrs. Flynn.

Good morning. You will never get used to calling me Gladys, will you?

If it will help doctor—nurse relations, I’ll call you Gladys.

Lester had known Gladys Flynn ever since his first day at Children’s Hospital. If there could be such a thing as a mother to pediatricians, Gladys fit the bill. She had been a nurse at Children’s Hospital for thirty-five years and had seen many future pediatricians come and go. Arthritis had slowed her a bit and her soft reddish-brown hair was graying, but her youthful enthusiasm for the job belied her years. The kids keep me young, she used to say.

How many today, Gladys?

Just two. Paula Windom and Rory Brown.

Who’s first? Lester asked.

Paula is here. I’ll send her in.

Paula Windom walked into the examination room and sat down in a chair. She was fifteen and a runaway from Kansas. She had been raped and abused by her uncle as a child. When Lester first saw her as a clinic patient, she was living on the streets and turning tricks to eat and stay alive. But with a lot of help and concern on the part of Lester, Mrs. Humphrey, and her fellow mates at the Humphrey Girls’ Home, Paula was now off the streets and in school. She was preparing to make one of the most difficult decisions of her life—whether to return to her parents in Kansas or stay in Washington with a foster family.

Well, young lady, how are you today? Lester asked.

Fine, Dr. Phillips.

Paula was dressed in a peach-colored blouse and pleated skirt. Her natural light brown hair had replaced her punk haircut and purple tint. She wore some lip gloss and a light blush.

I see you’ve graduated from your jeans, Lester said.

Yes. I got rid of the faded ones with the hole in the knees, Paula replied, smiling.

You look nice today.

Thank you.

Lester paused a moment to read over the last visit in her chart. Tell me what has been happening since you were in here last time. How’s school?

I like it, especially my English and Drama classes.

You mean we have a budding actress here? Lester asked.

Paula giggled. Maybe.

Good! Tell me more.

I’m working three days a week at McDonald’s after school and on Saturday. I would like to try to work at one of the department stores this summer. I’ll be sixteen, and Mrs. Humphrey thinks I can make more money.

Are you still going to your therapy sessions?

Yes, every one to two weeks, Paula replied.

Sounds like things are moving along. Lester paused for a moment. Paula, have you had a chance to think about what we discussed last time?

You mean going home?

Yes.

Paula looked down for a moment. I don’t think I want to if he is going to beat me again. The Fergusons—the foster family, they treat me better. If I can’t stay with the Fergusons, I’ll stay at the home.

Your parents say they miss you, Lester said.

"They don’t miss me!" Paula screamed.

How do you know? Have you talked to them at all?

No!

Will you try? Lester entreated.

"Listen, the drunken bastard raped me." Tears began to stream down Paula’s cheeks. Lester handed her a Kleenex.

I’m sorry, Paula. Please forgive me.

It’s not your fault, Dr. Phillips. I just don’t want to go back if my uncle is still around.

Your uncle is in jail, Paula. He is not going to bother you anymore, Lester replied.

They never helped me. They let him do it.

Paula, they never knew. You must believe that. They never knew until it was too late. They thought your uncle was just being a good uncle when he took you with him and had you spend the night with him and his family while your parents were away. The pain, the blood, the bruises, the fear were all there. No one read the signs. Please do not hate them. They did not know.

Paula dried her eyes and nodded. Y’all have been so nice to me. I never thought anybody cared before I met you and Mrs. Humphrey. If you think I should try, Dr. Phillips, I will.

That is all I can ask. Just talk to them, Lester said.

Okay, Paula replied.

Let me see you back here in August. We will discuss it again. Let me know how things go with your folks. If there is anything I can do to help, just call me.

Thank you, Dr. Phillips.

Sit here for a few minutes until you are ready to leave, Lester said. He left the exam room and allowed Paula to collect herself. He stood in the hallway as Mrs. Brown and her son Rory walked toward him.

Good morning, Mrs. Brown. Hi, Rory! How’s the big guy doing?

Fine, Rory replied.

The door to the exam room opened and Paula walked out. See you next time, Paula, Lester said.

Bye, Dr. Phillips.

Lester escorted Rory and Mrs. Brown into the exam room. He looked over the chart. Rory had a stroke at age seven and walked with a slight limp. For the past four years, he had received monthly transfusions and iron chelation therapy to keep his blood count up, prevent iron overload, and guard against future strokes.

Well, sir, we are six months into the year and no crises as yet. You’ve been taking good care of yourself.

Thanks, Rory replied.

Mrs. Brown, any problems since his last visit? Lester asked.