The Quiet Assassin

By Judy Lucas

People are dying in hospitals when the prognosis is they are well enough to go home. Neil Logan, chief investigator for the insurance that covers the hospitals, with Michael Rivers M.D are sent to a small Tennessee town when Jean Dermot refuses to believe her husband died from his injuries. Is it natural deaths, or is it murder?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504969260

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© 2015 Judy Lucas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/18/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6927-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6926-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920825

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

EPILOGUE

About the Author

To

Jane Pirelli

My Editor

My Cover Designer

My Daughter

With thanks to

The Creative Writers’ of Abacoa

For your critiques, suggestions, help,

and most of all, your friendship.

Judy Lucas

CHAPTER ONE

Something woke me. Not a noise. Something. A dream? Maybe. I reach a tentative hand to the other side of the bed. Nothing there. I wait for a sound. I hear nothing.

I’d better check the house. I put my feet in waiting slippers and pick up the robe from the end of the bed. The house is cool. I like it that way. I sleep better when the room is cold and I pull the blankets close around me, shutting out the fact my husband is not here.

The night light throws elongated shadows against the wall and I jump as I realize the one that moved is me. I step softly toward the hall as my night vision improves. The kitchen is awash with shadowed light from the appliance digital clocks. I hear the hum of the refrigerator, and jump again when the heat pump turns on, stirring drapes at the dining room window.

Telling myself I’m acting silly, I cross the living room to another hall and the guest bedrooms and bath. I can see by the greenish glow of another night light all is well. The den always worries me. I check to make sure I have left things secured until I use them again. The hard drive hums quietly, the computer screen dark, and the printer’s light off. Nothing. No intruder. Everything in order. What was it that woke me?

I retreat to the deck doors. Locked. The same at the front of the house, entrance door secure. That left only the garage. I pull my robe up around my neck. The chill air making me wish I had stayed beneath the warm sheets and blankets. Get a grip, I tell myself and open the door into the garage. I flip on the light switch. My car waits patiently in its place, the riding lawn mower still where it was parked in the fall. The freezer is quiet for a change, no need to run in this winter temperature. Golf clubs stand as silent sentinels by the outside door, right where Ken left them. Then it hits me. I know what disturbed my sleep.

I grope down the hall to the bedroom blinded by sudden tears. It has been like this since the funeral. In the daytime I keep busy, keep my mind from thinking of him, but at night my subconscious reminds me. My husband is dead. The house is empty save for me.

I sit on the bed, his side of the bed. I pull the pillow close to my heart, his pillow, and the tears become silent sobs. With them comes the anger. He should not have died. I knew as sure as I knew anything. My husband was murdered!

Morning finds me red-eyed and weary. While I sought the warmth of my bed in the night, sleep evaded me. This has been a reoccurring pattern for the last year. I was exhausted. Only in the last month or so have I tried to re-establish my normal routine sleep habits without the aid of medication. In the daylight hours I keep busy, keep from thinking of the tragedy that took Ken from me. I dreaded the nights.

It seems, so all the experts assure me, everyone has their own grieving cycle. The various steps of the process are not the same for everyone who has lost a loved one. I recognized what I was feeling as part of the cycle. Anger was one listed in the brochures and newsletters I received from the insurance companies and various agencies. I read every word of them, trying to sort my emotions from what I know as fact. This was different. The anger I feel is different. There was something on the edge of my mind, a doubt I could not yet express to another person.

It has been almost two years now since the wreck, the automobile accident that left me with a broken ankle; my husband with life threatening head trauma. For him it was touch and go several weeks at the hospital. He lived, but he did not regain consciousness.

Shortly after Ken took early retirement, we moved into our new home in a beautiful resort community only a month before the accident. Thinking ahead to travel and enjoying our golden years, we made new wills and asked our lawyer to draw up a Durable Power of Attorney, giving each other the right to make decisions if one of us became incapacitated. Along with those, we signed Living Wills, requesting that in the event of necessity we not be kept alive by artificial means. With that in mind, I gave my permission for the machines that were keeping Ken alive to be turned off. I watched as each was unhooked from Ken’s body, all the while saying a silent prayer that God still performed miracles. The monitors that recorded his vital signs continued to function. The line of heartbeats was steady, the blood pressure unchanged, and his breathing slow and shallow. It wasn’t the complete healing I prayed for, but he did not die. He lived on in his comatose state.

Bright sunlight streaking across the kitchen table brought my attention to the present. Looking into my coffee mug, I realized it was empty. My mind had wandered back to the past as I tried to shake the night ghosts from my thoughts. It was morning and there were chores to be done. I refilled the cup and mentally made a list of what needed attention. Living alone, it was not a long list; still living alone meant I was the one who better get busy. I picked up the mug and went to dress. In the bedroom I paused to look at the portrait of my husband and myself I had placed on the wall. It had been taken shortly after Ken retired. We looked happy posing for the camera, and we were. Another instruction from the grieving manuals. Think of the happy times, don’t dwell on the death. Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I picked up the telephone. The second cup of coffee grew cold.

The telephone was answered on the third ring by Ellen Taggart. I met Ellen some time ago when she presented a seminar at my local church. At the time I never dreamed I would need the services of a Bereavement Counselor. I was certain I could handle anything. Now I felt numb, not ready to accept what happened. I had to ask for help. The only thing I knew for certain I needed some answers before I could go on with my life.

Good morning, Ellen. This is Jean Dermot. We met at your bereavement seminar. I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but wanted to talk to you today if possible.

Oh, Ellen hesitated, yes, Jean. You are a recent widow, as I recall. Of course, dear, what can I do for you?

I was pleased that Ellen remembered me. When she told everyone in the audience to call if they needed her, I thought it was only a way of ending her part of the presentation and she really never expected anyone to call. I believe you said you work for a lawyer, I told her. If possible, I would like to speak to you in person, not over the phone.

Is this a legal problem? I remember you saying you had an attorney represent you in litigation over the accident that injured your husband.

How much should I tell Ellen on the phone? So much of what I knew was supposition; I really needed to speak face to face. Finally I said, I don’t know, Ellen, it may be. The attorney who represented me was from our auto insurance company. I know he did the best he could on the settlement, but this is different. I really need some advice from someone who can be impartial. Whenever it’s convenient, I would like to talk to you. I almost hung up the phone then, thinking my emotions were running away with me.

I’ll be at the office today. Why don’t you meet me for lunch, then you can explain. If I think it’s something Mr. Pelham could handle, I’ll make an appointment for you to talk to him. When I agreed, she continued, Say, 1:30 pm, at the café on the square here in town? That will give most of the lunch regulars time to finish.

I quickly agreed before I lost my nerve and we ended the call. I didn’t want to get cold feet, but accusing someone of murder is a serious business.

CHAPTER TWO

The morning went quickly as I cleaned my kitchen and straightened the house. I readied myself for the drive to a neighboring town. Ellen was waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the café door. We exchanged greetings and went in.

A booth on the back wall was being cleared and we waited while the waitress came with fresh settings. I took my seat feeling more than a little queasy. I wouldn’t be able to eat a thing. This was the first step in what I knew I had to do to be able to live with myself. Ellen sat opposite. She ordered a sandwich and coffee. I asked for coffee.

As though she could sense my unease, Ellen didn’t question my choice of coffee only. Would you like to talk now? she said. I nodded yes. The waitress brought the coffee and Ellen remained silent, waiting for me to begin.

I cleared my throat. Something has been bothering me. I don’t know if it’s my grieving, or—

Ellen reached a compassionate hand to touch me. Jean, you can say what is on your mind. Nothing you tell me will go any farther unless you agree.

Ellen, I think my husband died before his time, I blurted out.

Ellen sat silent for a moment, then said, I’m not sure I know what you mean.

I sagged against the table, not at all sure what I did mean. So much was going through my head; one emotion in conflict with another. Ellen raised an eyebrow, urging me to speak. I took a deep breath. My husband’s name is—, was Kenneth. Everyone called him Ken. Ken didn’t die in the accident. His head trauma injuries resulted in—, oh, there is a better medical name for it, but you will know what I mean when I say he was in a coma. I knew I was babbling, but Ellen did not interrupt. I swallowed hard and made the effort to continue. After three month in the Nashville hospital I had him transferred to the hospital near my home. When he was stable I took him home. I suppose I was selfish, but I needed to be in my own home. I had been staying in an extended stay motel. You know, one of those places that are a mini-apartment; kitchen and more space than a hotel room. It was convenient, but getting to the hospital through city traffic and finding a parking place every day was not easy with my broken ankle. I, I–,

Ellen did interrupt then. You broke your ankle in the accident? Ellen asked. I nodded yes. Jean, why don’t you tell me what is really bothering you?

Ken was getting better! I know he was! The doctors wouldn’t believe me, but I was with him all day, every day. There were signs he was more aware of me, of his surroundings. Even the nurses who came to the house noticed he seemed more alert. I was able to care for him in our home with help from the home health service. He was only hospitalized a couple of times when he needed a procedure I couldn’t handle and the last time, when he developed mild pneumonia. Three doctors told me the kidney infection and pneumonia had cleared up! Then for no apparent reason he dies in the middle of the night. They tell me he quit breathing and his heart stopped. That just doesn’t make sense. His lungs were clear. He had been breathing on his own all along. There are other things, too, that don’t match up. I know it would have been a miracle, but he was getting better!

By this time tears were trickling down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and felt in a pocket for a tissue. Ellen’s food was served and we waited until the girl moved away from the table. I blew my nose and said it straight out. Ellen, I think my husband was murdered.

Jean, Ellen reached to touch my hand again. Sometime things happen that no one can explain. Perhaps it really was the right time for your husband to go to his Maker.

I had regained control of my emotions. Please hear me out before you tell me I’m imagining things. There are other incidents that caught my attention. There was this orderly who seemed to always be in Ken’s room. He never seemed to be doing anything, just there. Come to think of it, he seldom spoke to me. He would only nod when I came in, but I often heard him talking to Ken as I entered. Other times I would see him in the ward doing some chore for a nurse, or a little cleaning. No one seemed to pay much attention to him. I don’t even know his name. There is more. I complained several times to the hospital staff about how long it took for someone to check when one of the monitors sounded an alarm.

Ellen didn’t smile, but I could tell she wanted to. I sounded like a typical wife who thought her husband was the only patient the hospital staff had to care for. My complaints were probably something they heard many times a day. Still, I knew I had questions and no one seemed willing to give me answers. A hundred times I had told myself to be sensible, and accept what had happened, but I knew I could not let it go, even if right now I didn’t believe it myself.

Ellen spoke, The death was at the hospital during the night? And the cause given as respiratory failure with cardiac arrest? A man who has been in a coma for, how long–, more than a year or so, stops breathing and dies? Is that correct? Jean, you are calling it a wrongful death, yet you’ve given me nothing to start an investigation. What is it you want me to do?

All of a sudden the anger was back! I was filled with a rage that was burning me alive, and I had nowhere to vent it. Not at Ellen, surely. I asked for her help and she had the right to know what I was feeling. I calmed myself inwardly and spoke. I want some questions answered, even if my husband’s body is exhumed and an autopsy performed now. I’ve got to know how and why he died. I can’t live any longer with this feeling that something is wrong. I have a great deal of money from the trucking company who caused the accident. If I need to hire an attorney to find the truth, I will. Can you help me?

The answers you get may not be the ones you want, Jean. Have you thought about that? Ellen’s gaze was hard, straight and direct. I knew then that she would help me, even if it was only to give me peace of mind.

Yes, I responded. "One way or the other,

I’ve got to know."

I will speak to Mr. Pelham. I know his schedule is full right now, but this is a little out of the ordinary for him. If he wants to take it on, you’ve got yourself a lawyer. Ellen did smile then. Let me talk to Scott and do some checking on the medical records, she said. I’ll get back with you in a few days. Now, won’t you eat something? They make a great bread pudding here. Vanilla sauce, not lemon. Let me order some for both of us.

I managed a smile, too, and the pudding was as good as she said.

CHAPTER THREE

The phone was ringing when I opened my door at home. I grabbed it just as the answering machine came on. Wait, I shouted into the mouthpiece and pushed the off button. Jean? the voice on the other end sounded skeptical. Yes. Hello Carlos.

You sound out of breath. Everything okay?

Yes, fine, I’ve been out this afternoon. The phone was ringing as I opened the door.

Shopping for groceries? Carlos asked. I hesitated to answer him. I knew he would not approve of my trip to Smithville. Finally I said, Some. How about coming by for supper tonight. I’ve got something to tell you.

Great, he responded with a ring of hope in his voice. What’s for supper?

Chicken. I think it’s warm enough to grill out. I’ll put the chicken in teriyaki marinade now. I know you like it that way. Baked potato on the grill, too?

Hmmm, sounds like you’re buttering me up. My favorites. Is your news as good?

Be here at six and you’ll find out. If Carlos could see my face, he would have seen me bite my lip. I didn’t want another argument with him. This was a man I was becoming more and more involved with, but I needed my answers before I could make the commitment he wanted.

Jean, you know I love you. Carlos lowered his voice to a sexy tone.

I know, Carlos. Just give me a little more time. The silence on the other end of this conversation let me know he hoped for a return declaration of love. I knew I wasn’t being fair to him, but–,"

Okay, he said, We’ll talk about it tonight. See you at six. He hung up with no further words.

I replaced the receiver in the cradle, then went to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and the tears welled up, overflowed, and I sobbed out my misery. Why can’t anything be simple? Why, why, God? I questioned silently through the tears. I’ve got to know! How can I love another man when I could have been the one who killed my husband!

Finally! Finally I admitted to myself the tremendous guilt I felt over Ken’s death. Why did I insist I could care for him at home? Selfish on my part! I had berated myself over this before. After the months of staying in Nashville, going to the hospital everyday just to sit beside my comatose husband, reading aloud or just talking to him, I was at the point of exhaustion. There was nothing noble about my caring for him. So many people said I was wonderful for doing it. I knew better. I was tired, selfish, and ready to quit. Still, the alternative, a sanatorium, was unthinkable to me. There was no facility close that could handle a patient in Ken’s condition and I would have to give up my home to be with him. True, I would have a measure of freedom from the constant care, but at that point I was not ready to accept separation from him.

Now he was dead and I could not accept it was inevitable. I remember reading stories of people comatose for years, waking up and being perfectly normal. Like a drowning person I kept clinging to that life line, telling myself it would happen. A mild case of pneumonia and a kidney infection had taken him to the hospital. After a week his doctors told me both had cleared up. He could come home the next day.

It was not to be. I stayed with him that evening until the ten o’clock news came on TV. The shift change paperwork showed the night nurse had made sure everything was all right but the lightly staffed hospital ward had not sent a nurse to check on him until five in the morning. Sometime between 11:00pm and 5:00am someone had been in his room and he died.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face in cold water. My nerves were still strung as tight as tennis racket strings, but my resolve to see this out was as strong as ever. No matter what consequences it brought, I had to know the truth. A glance at my watch showed me I better keep my promise to Carlos and prepare dinner. Pulling a fleece jacked over my sweater I opened the deck door and stepped out in the brisk January weather. I pulled the cover from the gas fueled grill, checked the tank for propane, and went in to marinate the chicken.

As quickly as it had come, my bleak mood took an upswing. Carlos. The thought of him sang in my mind like a spring breeze. We met while sitting in the hospital surgical waiting room. I was waiting while a feeding tube was put in Ken’s stomach. Carlos Deguiro was waiting while his wife underwent a mastectomy. Breast cancer in the last stages.

We saw each other often in the cafeteria or at the coffee machine and from the very start a friendship developed. Carlos was a quiet man with a tremendous faith that everything would turn out right. What can I say? Three months after we met, Carlos wife Inez died, and three months following Ken died. By then Carlos and I had become comrades in misery. We met deliberately, no longer by accident and consoled each other with words of encouragement. Now, a year after Ken’s death we both realized our