It was all over the news: one of the named co-conspirators in the abduction of Buddy Cecil, Larry Osbourne was found dead in his apartment, the victim of an apparent heroin overdose.
The detectives gathered around the TV in the briefing room, watching pictures of the victim, lying on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet, being taken from his abode by men in white uniforms.
The reporter was saying, “Early this morning, Larry Osbourne was found dead in his Mountain View apartment. Osbourne was wanted for kidnapping and other charges.”
Lan let his head fall forward in disappointment.
Elaine turned off the TV and said, “According to Mike Aaron, Osbourne was the connection between this drug dealer, who knew the doctor that performed the skin graft operation on Cecil and a long haired junkie, named Tommy Lazar, AKA Quasar. Stuart, talk to Lazar, find out how much he knows about Tory Johnson and this illegal operation.”
Cecil sat on his doughnut cushion, perplexed, “First Nigel ends up dead before we can get to him, now this guy Osbourne dies of an overdose.”
“If you’re thinking conspiracy, I don’t think there’s enough to go on.”
“Let me look into it.”
Their eyes locked together in tense consideration, like a chess game. Elaine spoke first, addressing the whole group. “While we can’t do anything about Osbourne, we can concentrate on the living: Alexander Royal is MIA and so is Stacy Sones, the other co-conspirators named by Aaron, supposedly X-Military.”
“What about the doctor?”
“Tory Johnson: plastic surgeon, civilian…”
Lan said he found some more information him, “His specialty is breast augmentation operations. He is facing a pile of legal paperwork: lawsuits and being called up before the ethics board on a number of occasions. How he still maintains his license to practice is hard to know, but he has a small number of patients and they are usually lower to middle class and he accepts payment from any source.”
“Good, get a search warrant and search his home and all of his belongings. You find anything, arrest him. If you don’t, bring him in for questioning.”
Tory Johnson looked like he was coming down with something. Chills. Fever, sweating and shivering, a drippy nose and a nasal tone to his voice. “I can’t face another patient.” He was looking like he needed a doctor himself.
The nurse was sympathetic. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll cancel your appointments.”
“Oh no, that won’t be necessary.” He had the cure for what ailed him: no more sniveling and sneezing, or couching. “Just tell them to wait. Reschedule the one’s that won’t. I’ll be in my office taking a nap.” Then he turned to see the nurse’s worried look. “I won’t be long, fifteen, twenty minutes. Come and get me if I’m any longer.”
The tired doctor locked the door and went straight for his closet and chuckled, thinking about the TV commercial from the early 70’s: “Quasar, the television with the works in the drawer.” That’s how his drug dealer got his moniker, kept his works, the needle and spoon he used to shoot himself up with, in a lower drawer, where anyone could find them.
The good doctor kept his works in a locked box, hidden away in his safe at the back of his closet. The needle and spoon and black tar heroin were inside. Finding a vein, tying himself off, removing the needle, he reclined and his eyes took on a dreamy far away stare. The heroin washed over him like a warm ocean wave and he felt like he was nestled in a cozy glove, a comfortable chair near a warm crackling fire.
He was snoring when the nurse knocked on his door.
“Its time doctor. Are you ready to see another patient.”
He grumbled, “Just a minute.”
“It’s been an hour doctor.”
“What?” He sprang upright. “Why didn’t you call me?”
She mumbled something from the other side of the door.
“Coffee! Get me some coffee.” He demanded.
By that afternoon, Cecil received a call from Judy Moore, his partner’s wife. It was clear from the outset of the call, she was upset. “What’s the matter?” He asked. She was clearly holding back the tears. “It’s George? Something has happened to him.”
“What?” Cecil was alarmed.
“He’s in the hospital.”
“What hospital? I’ll meet you there.”
He saw Judy Moore and her children in the Santa Clara Kaiser hospital emergency waiting room.
“Are you all right?” Cecil asked, full of concern, sitting down on his inflated doughnut cushion. “What happened?”
She was ready to cry, but she held it back. A seasoned professional nurse, she was conditioned to remain emotionally aloof. It was necessary to do her job, but when it was one of your own, then it was different and her eyes began to water.
Quickly, she wiped away the tears, feeling ashamed; she had to be strong for the kids. The oldest was twelve. Their mother, Judy, a big woman, with a heart to match and enormous breasts, hid her face in a soft fist.
Cecil wanted to be a comfort to her, but he felt uncomfortable, didn’t know how to sooth her ragged nerves. All he could do was gently pat her shoulder and try and say something reassuring.
He soon learned, Moore had been drinking heavily lately. He was alone in his study, where she found him on the floor, knocked out, bloody forehead, from hitting his head on the desk during the fall, she assumed, based on the evidence.
This was horrible and the worst of it was she didn’t know if George had a brain contusion, or bruising, or what?
Hours later, Judy Moore was let in to see her husband.
In the intensive care unit, hooked up to the monitors over his bed, a breathing tube in his mouth, a ventilator pumping air into his lungs and an IV in his arm.
The doctor came by and tried to be optimistic about his chances.
“Your husband is suffering from acute alcohol poisoning. We’ve done all we can for now. Of course, we’re monitoring his condition and if he remains stable, I believe his condition will improve.”
Mrs. Moore gave him the dead eye and said, “Give it to me straight doctor. I’m a registered nurse.”
“Oh,” he said, “I see. Well, the first thing we did was a gastric lavage. We were able to extract a significant amount of gastric fluids. We have him on intravenous fluids to prevent dehydration, of course, as well as sedatives, steroids and antibiotics. I’m sure you’re aware, he needs to rest, so we’ll keep him on the barbiturates and Chloral hydrate-”
“What barbiturates?”
“Noctec.” He waited and she nodded her consent.
“He’s scheduled for a liver biopsy within the hour.”
“What about the head injury?” This was what concerned her the most. It was odd he didn’t start with that.
“Ah, yes, he was concussive, however, the injury was not severe: a minor laceration of the scalp, but no skull fracture and the CT scan was negative for brain swelling, bruising, or any contusion. I would say he was lucky. He only grazed his head on the hard edge of… whatever he hit.”
She was thinking, CT scan didn’t show diffuse axonal injury of the brain, so she had to ask, “Were you able to observe him… Did he ever regain consciousness?”
“Not as of yet, but the extent of the injury is only minor and the blood supply to the brain appears normal. By all indications, the cerebellum is uninjured. The real problem here is the liver. The ultra sound shows the liver is enlarged.”
She gasped. She knew he was drinking heavy, she just didn’t know how heavy.
“We have him on anti inflammatory medication, but we won’t know the full extent of the damage until after the biopsy. We’ll be able to tell you more in a couple hours.”
She was distraught and he squeezed her arm for comfort. She knew that arm squeeze, used it herself. It was odd being on the other side of that little arm squeeze.
Pulling into his driveway, Doctor Johnson was feeling no pain, until he saw the police cars blocking the driveway to his home. Astonished, he went up to a uniform, standing in front of the front steps and he wouldn’t let him in and was told to wait outside with his wife and kids. Standing in the center of the yard, near some uniforms, his family was angry and hurt. They all felt violated and his wife was in tears.
“What have you done?” She asked with hurtful eyes.
Johnson held onto her shoulders, her arms akimbo. Truly mystified, he tried to hug her distant self, but she was unresponsive. “Really honey, I have no idea what this is about?”
“I got something.” Someone shouted from inside the house.
The doctor turned to have a look, as everyone else did the same.
A few moments later, a uniform emerged on the front porch, holding up a baggie, containing something metallic and red. It was a bloody scalpel. As they took Doctor Johnson away, he told his wife to “call my lawyer.”
Copyright 2016 William Leslie
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