Spare Parts

By Aaron Deck and David Hoult

Old, outdated, and falling apart, St. Agnes Hospital's management is looking to upgrade locations. But the upcoming move provides an opportunity for things to slip between the cracks, and someone, or something, is taking advantage of the chaos.

Simon is working as a porter at the hospital when an anonymous doctor approaches him with the opportunity to make more money. But as the requests weigh on his conscience and the payoffs stop balancing out the questions, he's left wondering what he's gotten himself into.

Alessia is a physiotherapist trying to build a life of her own in spite of her past mistakes and overbearing parents. As the move looms closer, she notices strange and concerning irregularities in the wards, putting a target on her back. 

Both are caught in a web, but neither knows who or what is preying on the hospital -- or how they can avoid becoming the next victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Apr 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777850500

Book preview

Contents

Contents

Acknowledgement

Part One: The Doctor

Part Two: The Hospital

Part Three: The Nurse

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Aaron Deck

Acknowledgement

This book took a lot of time and effort, but it wasn’t all mine.

I would like to thank both Erin Fagen and Alexi Surrette for their medical knowledge that helped me keep things on the realistic side.

I would like to thank David Brown who’s feedback was invaluable as a beta reader.

A massive thank you to Randi Beers for her phenomenal editing job, even if I still hate you for making me cut out a character almost entirely! A thank you to her husband, Danny Campbell, for offering advice and answering my calls at odd times.

Thanks to David Hoult for doing an amazing job on the cover art.

And of course, the biggest thank you goes to my wife, who put up with my shit, gave a lot of advice that I didn’t always immediately follow (much to my own detriment), and for all the support she’s given me over the course of the five years it took to complete this project.

Part One:

The Doctor

Simon

News article from the Montreal Independent, April 2nd, 2016

Hospital Head Hangs Up Hat Amid Corruption Concerns

The RCMP launches second probe into bribery allegations

By Vivian Gregs

At a press conference today, Dr. Gregory Ouellette resigned as chairman of the St. Agnes hospital. This comes amid a probe by the RCMP into an ongoing investigation of kickbacks and pay-for-play schemes in the construction of the city’s new super hospital. The probe, launched by the provincial watchdog group against corruption, alleges that Dr. Ouellette took payoffs from multiple contractors to run interference on the provincial government so problems could be manufactured, ensuring the contractors in question could bill up to twice their usual fee.

Dr. Ouellette was hired 8 years ago by the province to spearhead the move of five hospitals into one, super hospital. Since then, the proposed five-hundred million dollar budget has ballooned to over a billion. Watchdog groups took an interest and pestered the RCMP until it opened their original probe. Since then, the problems for Dr. Ouellette snowballed until he tendered his resignation…

***

The old woman cackled wildly and lifted her bony wrists as far as the restraints would allow. She felt a feather that wasn’t there tickle her face. She saw her husband Robbie, dead for the past two years, looming above her.

Don’t Robbie, she said, puckering her lips and attempting to blow some wispy hair off her forehead.

These were the patients Simon hated the most. It wasn’t because they were nuts, that he could deal with. Low murmurs or inane chatter were one thing, but he hated when the patients were loud. He couldn’t deal with loud. He also couldn’t deal with the looks people shot his way; the silent sorries and sad smirks.

He thanked the nurse who helped him load the patient onto the stretcher. She gave him one of those looks and walked away. Simon tilted his head to watch her go. After a good look, he pushed the patient down the quiet, dim hallway toward the elevators. They rode the elevator down two stories with the old woman’s voice rebounded around the steel box the whole time. He hoped no one was waiting when the doors opened.

No one was.

He pushed the stretcher through the eighth floor of the medical wing with the old woman yammering the whole way. She was answered more than once from the other geriatric patients that populated it; nonsense speaks to nonsense. They traversed the floor and entered a glass-enclosed connecting bridge. He hit the stainless steel button on his right and the doors opened onto the surgical wing. Right away, even in the dim moonlight, he noted how much cleaner the surgical side was. Where the medical side was dull and leaking grey, here the floors shone with a high buff, reflecting whatever light penetrated the glass. He thought of these things absently. Mostly, his mind was on what The Doctor wanted. It wasn’t the first time these thoughts had surfaced, but they were always, and easily, chased away by the same image; a stubby brown envelope containing a thousand bucks. It was not in Simon’s nature to dwell on things. Also, he’d rationalized that what The Doctor was doing couldn’t be too bad. The patients always came back okay. Always prompt. Always with the proper paperwork. It was no skin off his teeth. He had only to schedule his breaks around these little jaunts. A small price for almost two weeks worth of pay. Still, a certain little thing would gnaw at him if he gave it a chance. Why did The Doctor always choose the ones too far gone? The Doctor didn’t cure them. Some died, but most lingered long after their visits, eventually getting transferred to long-term private care facilities. No one suspected anything about what he or The Doctor were doing.

Still, it was always the old and the far gone.

They exited the surgical wing and walked their way up to the tunnel that led them to The Women’s Pavilion, the old woman laughing maniacally for most of the trip. They encountered no one as they turned into another series of connecting hallways. Simon sighed in relief.

The entrance to the Women’s Pavilion was a steep decline for a hundred meters. When they’d left the surgical wing, they’d been on the eighth floor. Because the Women’s Pavilion was built higher up on the mountain, they were going to be entering it on the third floor. Simon had to use his whole body weight to keep the stretcher from careening down and crashing into the walls, something he’d thought about letting happen on multiple occasions to annoying patients.

At the bottom of the decline, Simon swung the stretcher into a short hallway on his left. It was long enough to hide the stretcher briefly, if only barely. Digging into his pockets, Simon produced a key and unlocked the set of shabby blue doors with a newish-looking lock. The doors opened onto a long, bleak tunnel bending to the right, far away. He pulled the stretcher in and slipped the doors closed. He waited in the blackness until his eyes adjusted to the sliver of light coming from the bottom of the doors. Then, he reached out and flicked on the lamp that rested on the table near him. The sudden light shot spots into his sight. He shut them and rubbed, opening them slowly. His sight centered on a stale wooden table. On it, along with the lamp, lay his stubby, brown envelope and a slip of paper.

The paper held the pick-up time. He was to return in an hour.

Placing both items in his pockets, he slipped back out into the Women’s Pavilion hallway, locking the door behind him. He could hear the old woman making noise on the other side of the door and thought The Doctor had better hurry and shut her up if he didn’t want to be found out. No sooner had he completed this thought then the old woman fell silent. Simon briefly pondered opening the door and finally getting a look at who The Doctor was. It was the weight of the envelope in his back pocket that convinced him otherwise. Instead, he listened to the stillness of the pavilion around him before returning the way he’d come. On his way back up, he checked his SpectraLink. He had no service.

When he reached the top, he turned right and headed towards the transplant ward. Being the highest pavilion on the mountain, he knew he’d get the best reception. He made his call, got back on the clock, and was given a job. He backtracked to the Surgical Pavilion and took the elevators down to the fourth floor.

Simon walked into the Emergency Department and began speaking to the first nurse he saw. She was short, had a large ass, and was currently too busy to be hit on.

I’m too busy to find where your patient is, Lindsay told him after lending him her ear for a polite thirty seconds.

His name is Collins. Barry or Bernie. ‘B’ something.

Not mine. Check the board. She sat down, flicked open a file, and began writing. Simon watched her for a brief moment, debated continuing his flirtation, then wandered away toward the center unit.

He found the patient’s name. He chatted up a P.A.B., a beneficiary attendant who wiped the patient's asses, changed their linen, and did all the unwanted jobs that didn’t fall under anyone elses prerogative. The P.A.B. helped him transfer a Mr. Brandon Collins to a wheelchair. Simon rolled the patient up to the short stay unit on the ninth floor of the surgical wing. He helped place the patient into a bed that he knew had been occupied by a dead man mere hours ago, silently thankful that The Doctor hadn’t asked for the body, especially knowing that the body wouldn’t be coming back.

He greased the next fifteen minutes by sitting in a chair outside the surgical elevators on the eighth floor. This late at night, there was little foot traffic for him to peruse. Simon called his dispatcher and closed out the job. He asked if anything was coming up.

Nothing scheduled, but that doesn’t mean there ain’t any jobs coming up.

I know, Simon replied and ended the call.

He waited for another twenty minutes, got up, and shuffled back to the Women’s Pavilion. He produced the same key and unlocked the same double blue doors. Stepping inside, he grabbed the finished paperwork off the table and inserted it into the patient’s chart. Then, he pushed the same crazy old lady through the doors and set her into the alcove while he locked up. That done, he waited and listened. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Simon pulled out his cellphone and began a hushed argument with a pretend girlfriend, telling her he hated how clingy she’d become. The footsteps approached and passed by without a single glance in his direction. Once the echoes faded away, he began his final journey of the night back up that hallway.

When he reached the top, he saw a portly man pushing an empty cart save for one lone box. It was dull grey plastic with a sharp yellow biohazard logo emblazoned on the side. It struck him as odd that someone would be doing such a run during the waning hours of the night. The housekeeper, because biomedical waste collection fell under their umbrella, gave him a quiet, sharp nod as he passed. It sent a small shiver up Simon’s spine. He watched the housekeeper descend the incline he’d just come up and knew where he was headed; it was the only feasible option open in his mind. Without looking back to verify, Simon continued on with his patient.

Simon’s patient howled constantly on the way back up to her room. He glanced down at her once, wanting to tell her to shut the fuck up. The words dried up in his mouth when he noticed a small incision along her collarbone. It was weeping blood, and he was disgusted by both the sight of it and himself. He grabbed a sani-wipe off one of the wall containers and unceremoniously cleaned the runner of blood that had escaped her tightly sewn wound. Then, he pulled her johnny gown up and tightened it so no one else would see.

After returning the patient to her quarters, he made his way up to the locker room, accepting a job from dispatch along the way. He stood in front of his locker and counted to five. Hearing no one, he opened it and removed the envelope from his back pocket and brought it to his nose; he couldn’t resist a taste. He tucked the envelope into the interior pocket of his coat and reluctantly closed his locker, triple checking the lock.

He wandered into the bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror.

A semi-handsome face looked back at him. Both the top of his skull and his jawline sported the same three-day stubble, the first bits of grey beginning to show through. A night shift always made him lapse into his scruffy look; there were fewer people to impress, after all. His work shirt, a Polo short sleeve, was a crisp white brightly contrasted against his black skin. His black work pants were well ironed. Now, even after four hours of his shift completed, the creases could still cut cardboard. His shoes matched his shirt, for he who accessorized properly was king. Only, looking down now, he noticed something amiss. Above the sole on his heel was a tiny splash of red. A drop of blood. He reached down with a bare hand, then thought better of it.

Scouring the locker room, he found a container of bleach wipes. Neglecting to put on gloves first, he pulled one out and vigorously rubbed his shoe clean with it. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anyone visibly bleeding on him. It pissed him off slightly.

This place would be great if it wasn’t for all the fucking patients, he reasoned with himself. He chuckled inwardly and dropped the crumpled wipe onto the floor before walking out, in search of his next patient.

Todd

Todd was devouring a muffin with his feet up on his desk. Crumbs drifted down onto his overindulged midsection. There was a knock at the door, startling him enough to make him cough flecks of semi-chewed muffin into the air. He looked from his computer screen, littered with emails, to the door.

Come in.

The door opened, and his new employee walked in. Average height. A little on the skinny side. A face that would get lost in a crowd. Nothing remarkable about the kid stood out, except for the fact that he looked extremely young, and he wasn’t Italian. His bland features suggested to Todd that the kid was English, or somewhere from the United Kingdom. Todd just hoped the kid wasn’t Scottish. He hated dealing with that accent; granted, he’d only had one Fucking New Guy over the past three years that’d been Scottish. If Willie was any yard-stick marker, it would prove to be a challenge.

He gestured to the two worn out chairs pushed against the wall, his own groaning in protest with each movement he made. He swung his feet off the desk and stood up, brushing himself off as he did so. He extended his hand and shook the newbie’s, gesturing once again to the chairs.

I’m Todd. You must be Giles. It was a statement.

Yes, sir.

Ever have a job before Giles?

Todd saw a brief look of confusion flash across the kid’s face before it became impassive again. Yes, sir. I worked for my Uncle’s cleaning company for almost three years.

Why’d you leave? Todd asked, sitting back down.

I’ll make more money here, the kid said with a shrug.

Todd popped the rest of the muffin into his mouth, licked his fingers, then grabbed the kid’s uniform that was sitting atop his desk, near where his feet had been. It was peppered with pebbles of dirt that fell to the floor when he handed it to the kid.

Go get changed, then come back to see me.

The kid nodded and left. Todd opened the bottom drawer of his desk, selected a donut, and it disappeared in two bites. He turned back to his computer, pulled up the kid’s file, and was baffled that the kid was over twenty. He shrugged. Everyone looked young to him these days. He was on the wrong side of forty and felt even older. He closed the kid’s file and went back to dispassionately reading his emails while he waited for the kid’s return.

They went up to the seventh floor of the surgical wing together. It was long term care and therefore an easy way to introduce the kid into the system. He saw Marky at once; the tall, lanky Filipino was easy to spot. He was always hanging around the nurse’s station, flapping his gums. Todd felt a pang of remorse at leaving the kid in Marky’s care knowing the kid would do the majority of the work.

Some things just couldn’t be helped.

Marky, this is your trainee, Todd said as he shuffled up to the desk.

Day one or two? Marky asked.

One.

Okay. Thanks. I got it.

I’m sure you do, Todd said, before turning on the well-worn heels of his cheap shoes and walking away.

The Doctor

The framed picture he held in his hands, taken during a particularly hot summer, was of his daughter and him. Her hands were proudly displaying a snake she’d found slithering around in their garden, while her smile showcased two missing teeth.

A raucous roar of laughter drifted up through the vents of his study. His wife was having her monthly book-club meeting in their den. This month it was some pulpy vampire novel that Yvonne, his wife’s best friend, had chosen. While he thought the novels they read were of the worst variety, he was happy that their monthly meetings brought a joy to his wife that he rarely did, even after fifteen years.

Plucking a cloth off his desk, The Doctor rubbed the glass until the finger smudges were erased. Replacing the picture, he sighed, and lifted his pen jar where a key was taped to the underside. He pulled it free and bent down, inserting it into the lock. He opened the drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. The top few were blank. He put those aside and laid the stack upon his desk. On them were the notes of his private work, stacked in chronological order with the most recent being on top. He reviewed the procedure he’d done on the latest patient Simon had brought him. Her blood work was good, better than good, actually. Along with advanced Alzheimers, she suffered from Hepatitis C. Looking at the recent tests he’d had done on the sample showed it was Hep C free. His concoction was a success. Of course, one sample did not mean that it was a sure thing, he’d have to run other tests on more blood samples, but it was a massive step in the right direction; it looked like the work he’d done on Stanley was still paying dividends, many years down the road. Granted, it wasn’t the exact strain, but the base was comparable.

The Doctor reached back into the desk and produced a leather, zip-up pencil case. Inside where a multitude of blood and tissue samples. He selected the one matching the paperwork in front of him and looked at it. Something was off. He held it up to the lamp light stationed on his desk and squinted behind a set of thin framed, round glasses. He tilted the vial to a forty-five degree angle and watched the blood slide down the interior of the glass with viscous determination.

This is not good, he said to himself. More testing would be required, but it didn’t look promising. All his previous good feelings evaporated and he sighed. He picked up his wine glass and swirled it, watching as the legs spread with the same slow speed as the blood. An idea was forming in the back of his mind. He put his wine down and jotted Marangoni Effect??? at the bottom of the sheet of paper.

He went over his research for the next couple hours. He formulated theories, jotting some down, and circled the most promising ones. It was thin, but it was a start. This was how his research always went. He’d make a few advances but have to backtrack to fix whatever problems arose from his tampering with the human genome. He was getting close, though. A few more hurdles and he felt confident his life’s work would come to fruition.

When he felt his brain hitting its brick wall, he packed everything away, ensuring to put the handful of blank pages on top, and then locked up. That done, he sat back and raised his near empty wine glass to the picture.

Soon, he said with a humourless smile.

Alessia

Do you want to rest?

Yes. But I should push a little further, no?

If you feel able to, sure. But I don't want you overexerting yourself.

If I can live with these staples in my chest, and to not pull them out in itching madness, then I can push myself a little further.

Alessia smiled at her client. They were halfway down the hallway of the Cardiac Surgery wing. All heart patients inevitably ended up there and were separated into two silent categories by the staff; those who wanted to go home, and those who didn’t. Because they were the only ward with that specialty and turn-around needed to be quick, the staff suffered many late shifts and mandatory meetings. Alessia smiled because her patient, a Mr. Gary Chenowitz, was determined to get home. He pushed himself towards independence with a grim determination few of her patients showed. She smiled because she believed in hard work and admired Mr. Chenowitz’s tenacity.

She watched his legs as he took a few more steps. On the fifth, she saw the small spasm in his rectus femoris spread to the surrounding muscles. She slid the commode chair up behind him.

Sit for a bit, she said, placing a hand gently on the small of his back and guiding him onto the chair. Her student quickly locked the wheels of the chair before gripping Mr. Chenowitz under the armpit, stabilizing the old man’s descent.

She caught John’s eye above Mr. Chenowitz’s head and gave him a quick nod of approval.

How’d the date go? John asked while their client sat and caught his breath.

It was nice.

Nice enough for a second date?

Sure. But I doubt it’s going anywhere, she said with a shrug.

It takes longer than one date to get to know someone.

"I said it was nice. I didn't say it was interesting." She saw John’s eyes widen briefly and felt a pang of regret for the tone she’d used.

If you say so, John said, abashed.

The two of them shared an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Chenowitz waited for someone to speak. He found the tidbits of staff gossip more interesting than any television show he’d ever sat through. He found that since he was a patient, only a passing character in their life’s story, the staff were less concerned about what they said around him; it also helped that they saw him more as a piece of furniture than a person at times. Because of this, he knew some salacious secrets.

How’s the condo search going?

Not as well as I’d hoped, Alessia said, reciting the line she’d practiced hundreds of times in her head. It’s tough.

To Alessia, ‘tough’ was an understatement. ‘Tough’ was too personal to tell someone like John. No. She’d keep repeating the lie for now. To him. To everyone.

Tough? he asked incredulously. "From what I’ve heard, you've got enough money put away to afford anything in this city."

It’s not a matter of money, she said finally. Then, she looked down at Mr. Chenowitz. Are you ready to continue?

Yes, ma’am, he said, firing off a two finger salute. He stood up, and with the help of the teacher and student, finished his circuit.

An hour later, Alessia found herself at the Emerge Ambulance entrance. She sat down on the raised concrete barrier separating the sidewalk from the wild vegetation that grew on the other side. The bare beginnings of the late spring vines snaked their way up the three-meter tall rock wall. The wall was close enough that she could smell the minerals in the water that continuously leaked down it. Sitting further down the embankment was a psych patient and their escort. The escort looked bored while the patient hoovered a cigarette.

Parked along the curb was an ambulance, its putrid yellow and green shade an annoyance to her eyes. She thought about the look in John’s eye when she’d told him condo shopping was tough. She was a poor liar. Condo shopping had been easy. She took her time, a whole year, and did extensive research into each piece of property. She’d found one on the ground floor of an old bricked triplex. It had been newly renovated inside with deep brown hardwood floors and all new appliances. Best of all, the area was zoned to allow clinics; she would be able to open her own home business. She’d had to have it.

She’d filled out the paperwork and sent an offer. They countered. She countered. They agreed, and she received a copy of the contract. With that piece of paper in hand, she’d returned home and called her parents into their den. By the time they’d arrived, she had the contract on the table, along with a manila folder. She’d practiced the upcoming situation in her head many times, always reminding herself to keep her composure but remain firm. She almost made it.

What do you mean you bought a house? her father asked.

Not a house, Papa. It’s an apartment condo.

So you have no property.

It has a small yard, but it’s still property. It’s still an investment.

Why? her mother asked.

Because it’s time.

Time for what? Her mother slipped a hand onto her father’s thigh. He reached down and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

It’s time for me to grow up, she said as she opened the folder and spread the documents it contained upon the table. Her father took his hand from atop her mother’s, slipped on his reading glasses, and began examining the papers. Her mother didn't glance down, opting instead to look at Alessia, who shifted uncomfortably a few times while her father mumbled noncommittal sentences. When he finished, he took off his glasses and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb as he did so.

Well? her mother asked the room.

I want to start a business for myself, she said. I’m going to have a physio room in my condo where I’ll receive patients.

But you have a job, her mother said. "You have a good job. You’re working with doctors, any of which could be a potential husband."

She felt her temper creeping up but stifled it. I’m not going to leave my job right away. Starting my own clinic will take time. Probably years.

So you’re going to invite random strangers into your home, then, her mother said. Her tone was venom wrapped in a quilt of guilt. Alessia’s anger jumped out.

"They will be clients."

Strangers. And you’re not married. Who will protect you?

"Me, Mama. I’ll protect me," she said, exasperated.

You’re not married, her mother repeated.

She watched her mother’s fingers begin twisting her wedding band. Right on cue. At least my hands are steady, she thought smugly as silence settled on the room. It was her father who eventually broke it.

He opened his eyes and leaned toward his daughter, reaching out; she gave him her hand willingly enough. He cupped it with his left while his right patted it several times. Then, he gave it a gentle squeeze.

"We are a family, figlia. This is a major step in your life, but it’s also a major step for us too. We are a family. What we do, we do together. Please, let us all sleep on it for a week or two. Have some discussion on it. You owe us that much, at least."

Suddenly, she felt ashamed. He was right. They were a family and always included each other in every decision. So, she agreed to sleep on it and discuss it over the next two weeks.

That was five days ago, and no further discussion had occurred. It’s fine, she thought, as the sun traced its way across the ambo’s fender. I gave them time to process my decision. It’ll be easier this way. She felt