I hated being ignored. More accurately, I hated being ignored when someone was trying to avoid answering questions. Yet here I sat in my car, parked across the street from nurse Darna Ocampo’s Roscoe Village apartment building. After returning from dinner with Cai last night, I’d placed my third phone call, and surprise, surprise, the woman had ignored me again. So I’d said the hell with it and parked myself on her street at 6:30 this morning. After Paul’s death, she was lucky that I was the one stalking her. If they hadn’t already, it was only a matter of time before CPD would be asking far more complicated questions. And likely questions that would be asked under the watchful eye of a camera and a recording device.
Brynn had sent me a deeper dive into the nurse’s background last night, but I was tired of sitting and getting tired of scrolling my phone out of boredom. I was tempted to get out of the car and stretch my legs, but that would only increase the odds that Darna would see me before I saw her and head out the back door.
I was also deeply concerned by the strange text Kendall had sent. I’d left two phone messages and a text checking on her but had yet to receive a reply. I also knew some rehab centers confiscated electronic devices, so perhaps she’d gotten caught with the contraband. I didn’t expect the Renacido Center to be cooperative if I called to inquire about her, but if I didn’t hear back from her soon, I’d make that call anyway.
I switched the car radio over to NPR and tried to distract myself with something useful while I waited. As the host droned on with the latest call for fundraising, I saw movement at the front door of the four-story wood-frame building. There she was. I watched for a moment, then grabbed my purse and got out of the car, crossing the street to follow. I didn’t know if she was heading toward a car parked further down the block or toward public transportation, so I picked up my pace. If she got into a vehicle before I got to her, I’d be pretty pissed with myself.
A khaki trench coat was belted around her waist, and she carried a plastic grocery bag that seemed to stand in for a tote bag. She was also walking faster than I would’ve imagined by the looks of her. Her lime green Adidas sneaks were outpacing my wedge-heel espadrilles.
“Excuse me,” I called out when I was ten feet behind her. She kept walking as if she hadn’t heard me, then brought a hand up to adjust earbuds hidden under her hair.
“Darna Ocampo,” I said, calling her name louder this time. She had just reached the crosswalk and turned, removing the earpiece.
“Yes? Who are you?” She looked me up and down, momentarily caught unaware and unable to place me.
“We met at the center over the weekend. My name is Andrea Kellner,” I said, handing her a card.
Recognition flooded her face, and she shook her head before tossing the card onto the ground and continuing on her way.
“Paul is dead. You’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” I said to the back of her head.
“I have nothing to say to you.” She stopped as a small Sprinter van barreled into the intersection, giving me a chance to get in front of her. There was anger in her voice, but the flush of red that was just now dotting her cheeks told another story. “If I had wanted to talk, I would’ve returned your multiple phone calls. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work.”
She moved to the right, attempting to step around me, but I matched her.
“You’ve worked as lead nurse at the Renacido Center for about seven years, ever since Dr. Wykell opened the facility. Prior to that you were at Rush Medical Center. You’ve never been married, currently provide a home to two cats, both tabbies. Your salary is $65K, and you send some of that to a nursing home in Rockford where your mother is currently receiving care for Alzheimer’s.”
I rattled off the tidbits of the nurse’s life intending them to be a reminder of what she stood to lose. Now I really did owe Brynn.
Darna drew in a rush of air, but she gave no other indication that it would be enough to change her mind. People were always surprised at the level of personal information that was easily found with a few clicks of a mouse—addresses, places of employment, legal history, debt level. In this era of digital information, basic job history was nothing. Brynn could probably find out how much she spent feeding her felines and what brand.
“Have other patients died while you’ve been associated with the clinic?” Since she’d wasted my time, I went directly for the jugular. By blowing off my first call, she’d frittered away her chance at delicate questioning.
She turned and stared at me, hatred searing her eyes. She swallowed hard, the patches of red now blotching her neck and chest, a sign of discomfort that exceeded her ability to control it.
“How dare you make accusations!” she shot at me, spittle forming at the corner of her mouth.
“That wasn’t an accusation. It was a question. The type of question that you will likely get at trial.” I knew I was pressing hard, prosecutor mode coming back to me as if I’d never left the law. But it was necessary for her to be scared. Necessary for reality to sink in. A trial wasn’t certain, but tough questions were definitely in her future, one way or another.
“Trial? You’re just trying to scare me. Now leave me alone.” Again she tried to sidestep me but was so unnerved by the confrontation that she couldn’t decide on a path.
“Look, you and I were both there when Paul died. I saw you attempt to help him. I saw Dr. Wykell ignore you, saw him push you away. He prevented you from offering medical assistance. Would it have changed the outcome? I don’t know. But both of us would be sleeping easier if you had been able to try,” I said, my voice softer. “Let’s just talk about the center for now. Tell me about the program. What you do and how you do it. Tell me what’s unique about your protocol.” I paused, giving her time to process. “You’re going to want me in your corner.”
I was laying on the guilt as thick as I could manage. I was also counting on self-preservation. Her desire to save her own ass would, at some point, have to outweigh her loyalty to her employer. If she knew what I suspected she knew, that calculation would have to enter her mind.
“I can’t talk to you.” Her eyes were downcast, and she was fiddling with the handle on the grocery bag, as if unsure which hand to hold it in.
“Sooner or later you’re not going to have a choice. CPD may not have brought you in yet, but they will. They aren’t going to let a young man die without explanation. Particularly after seeing Dr. Wykell practically forbid you to treat him. The medical examiner is going to determine cause of death. And CPD will know more than you think they do when they bring you in. They’ll know if you lie or if Wykell lies. I hope you have a good attorney.”
My pressure campaign seemed to be having the desired effect. Her breathing had gotten heavy, and a bead of sweat appeared on her upper lip. It was hard to tell how she was rationalizing her involvement. The usual explanations generally revolved around fear of losing a job or hey-he-did-it-I-was-just-along-for-the-ride.
I softened my tone. “I know that you are just trying to do your job, but if there’s something going on—loose standards, inadequate monitoring, something that could have contributed to Paul’s death—you need to figure out how to talk about it, because if you don’t, you will have contributed to his death. At least that’s how a prosecutor will present it.”
“You don’t understand,” she burst out, her voice cracking. “When I say I can’t talk, I mean can’t, not I don’t want to. I signed a document. A legal document preventing me from saying anything about the center.”
“A confidentiality agreement?” It was inherent in HIPPA that patients’ medical details were treated with the utmost privacy, but she seemed to be suggesting she couldn’t even discuss the center itself.
“Yes, we all have to sign them. And they get renewed every year, if we want to keep our jobs.”
“Okay,” I said, my mind moving back into lawyer mode. “Documents like this can be nullified in court. I’m sure that Dr. Wykell is being cautious. He has to protect his reputation, particularly in this business, but that doesn’t mean it’s written in concrete. An attorney can give you an opinion on your risk.” Seeing her indecision, I added, “If you don’t have one, I know someone who can look over the contract for you. It might help you understand your options.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. Dr. Wykell is not concerned just with his reputation. This is about the protocol. He doesn’t want anyone to discuss the details. There is a fortune on the line. If anyone talks now, it would end his expansion plans. And our careers.”