Day 5 – Tuesday midmorning
Jim’s apartment
Jim had his feet up on the bed, pen in hand, writing his latest medical journal article. He was the sort who could concentrate, ignoring distractions, but even he had limits.
He swore mildly, finished his sentence, then rose to investigate the incessant knocking that was interrupting his work. He found the Laird on his doorstep. He stepped back, opening the door to a swirl of heavy wool and cold air.
“Are ye deaf, lad? I’ve been knockin’ fer fifteen minutes.”
“The doorbell works.”
The Laird snorted. “It dinna th’ time afore.”
Jim smothered a smile. “I’ve had it fixed and you could have called.”
“’Tis better ye see this fer yerself.” The Laird flipped his cloak off and sat down on the edge of the couch.
Jim sat down facing him. “All right. What do you have to show me?”
He watched as his grandfather pulled a small plastic bag out of his sporran and extended it toward him. “This.”
Jim peered at the contents of the bag, frowning. “Where did you get these?”
“Rose found them stuck on Luis this mornin’, when she stripped him tae gi’e him a bath.”
Jim looked up in alarm. “Is he dead?”
“Nae, th’ wee nyaff’s unharmed.”
Jim pulled on a pair of disposable gloves, then opened the bag and drew out one of the wafers, inspecting it closely. It appeared to be a transdermal patch containing a potent narcotic painkiller, the kind used with terminally ill cancer patients. “He was wearing these?” Jim counted the patches, estimating the delivery dose.
“Aye. He told Rose he found the stickers and was playin’ wi’ them, but he’s no sure how they got on tae his skin.” Himself lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve a notion the lad knows a bit more than that, but he’s no sayin’.”
“Give me a minute.” Jim moved to his computer and pulled up a reference site used to help identify medications. “Well, it certainly looks like fentanyl.” He swung around in his chair. “Was he sick? Any symptoms?”
“Nary a one. Perfectly normal wean, and I’ll eat my hat if he dinnae ken he shouldna hae been playin’ wi’ them.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Aye. Rose found them, and recognized them. Her mither, I think, uses something like. She tells me it gave her quite a turn, but the bairn was fine so she called me instead o’ takin’ him tae th’ emergency room.”
Jim frowned. “If these are used, then the amount of narcotic in them might be significantly diminished, but he could still have absorbed some of the drug. Where did he get them?”
“Ah, weel, that he hasna said.”
Jim picked up the patch again and examined it closely. “There’s an expiration date, but no lot number. We might be able to trace the manufacturer, but we’d need the box it came from, or someone with more experience than I have.”
“Wha’ aboot th’ pharmacy at th’ hospital?”
Jim nodded. “We can try.” He set the patch down and looked at his grandfather. “He wouldn’t talk to you? Or Rose?”
The Laird shook his head.
“Then he won’t talk to me, either. What we need is Ginny.”
“Aye, but she’s asleep.”
Jim nodded. “With your permission, I’ll take these in with me when I go to work tonight and see what I can find out.” His brow furrowed. “It’s interesting that it’s fentanyl.”
“Why is that, lad?”
Jim looked up and met his grandfather’s eyes. “Because it’s fentanyl that brought the DEA to Dallas.”
His grandfather nodded. “And on th’ same subject, th’ board approved yer request fer protective vests. I’m told th’ DEA is deliverin’ them this afternoon.”
“That was fast!”
“Ye’ll want tae make sure ye get one that fits.”
Jim nodded. He remembered the routine.
His grandfather rose, pulling his Inverness cape over his shoulders. “Jim—” The Laird caught Jim’s eye and held it. “Dinna tak’ chances, lad. No wi’ this.”
Jim let his grandfather out, then went back to his writing, thinking about Agent DeSoto’s plan. He didn’t mind running a few work-related risks: germs, punctures, even an irate patient once in a while. He did mind having to worry about drug runners. He hadn’t told Ginny, or his grandfather, but he’d been shot in the chest that night in D.C. If he hadn’t been wearing his vest, he wouldn’t have lived through the experience, and, even with the vest, it hadn’t been any fun.
* * *
Tuesday afternoon
Hillcrest Regional Medical Center
Agent DeSoto had them cornered in the largest of the Hillcrest conference rooms. On this December afternoon, the DEA agent stood with his back to the sylvan views of north Dallas, his expression grave.
“It’s imperative that none of you talk about this operation. Not even to each other. Lives hang in the balance, yours, perhaps. My agents, certainly.”
The room was lined with agents. Jim let his eye roam over them. They looked ordinary enough, the sort of faces you’d see at the park or a football game.
Jim frowned to himself. What was missing was the enthusiasm he usually saw in young people assigned to the Emergency Room. Most loved it. There was a romance to it, especially at night. The patients would come out of the darkness, in fear and pain. Sometimes they were in crisis and the team had to move fast. Sometimes the trouble wasn’t immediately apparent and you ended up with a surprise, and then you had to move very fast indeed. It got the adrenaline pumping and made you feel alive.
“The agents will help you select a vest. You’re to wear them while you’re on duty, every minute.”
Someone stuck a hand in the air. “What if we get hot?”
“If you take it off, you take a chance on getting killed.”
“Are you going to teach us what to do if someone pulls out a gun?”
“It’s the same drill you’ve already practiced. Active shooter—run, hide, fight.”
Jim’s mouth tightened. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“You all know where the safe zones are.”
There were nods all over the room. The Saturday Night Knife and Gun Club was a well-known phenomenon in any big city Emergency Department. The gangs would exchange fire, then bring their injured to the hospital, and continue the battle in the ER waiting room. As a result, modern ER doors were fitted with metal detectors and equipped with armed guards, windows facing the waiting areas were bullet-proof, and most of the walls were concrete.
“Okay. These vests are all new, no embedded bullets, so you can move through the metal detectors without setting off the alarms. Wear an undershirt to minimize contact with the fabric and make sure your scrub tops are loose enough to cover your torso when bending and reaching.”
Over the course of the next hour Jim and the other ER staff members were fitted for vests and instructed in how to adjust them for maximum effectiveness. They were also told exactly what the vests could and could not do.
The design would not protect them from bullets to the head, arms, legs, hip, and groin. One lucky shot to the femoral artery would result in a sudden reduction in the Hillcrest medical work force. The synthetic fiber used to produce the lightweight body armor would not stop a determined assault with a knife, though it would take real power to stick a blade through the heavy twill fabric covering the armor. Nor would the vests offer protection from blunt force trauma to the chest, which could send the wearer into a lethal dysrhythmia, no penetration required.
Jim tried not to think about it. The vests would do what they were designed to do, protect the major organs in the torso from penetrating injuries. The system wasn’t perfect, but it was a whole lot better than nothing.
* * *
Tuesday Evening
HQ of the North TX Distribution and Support Region
The night felt empty. No moon hung overhead and no stars, not even a wisp of gossamer cloud to show where the earth ended and the sky began.
She stood, as was required in his presence, and waited. Nonsense, of course. Very out dated. She stood, but she refused to drop her eyes to the carpet, insisting on meeting his gaze, especially now.
“You are sure?”
“I’m sure the woman is missing, along with one set of the counterfeit fentanyl patches. I’ve been told the man who came out to the apartment knows where the boy is. I could question him, but it might draw attention to the situation.”
“I agree. Besides, I have another way to discover the boy.”
“What about the woman?”
“What of her?”
“I think she could be a problem. I could take care of that.”
The man behind the desk studied her face. “You would need my help.”
She crossed her arms on her chest. “I thought you wanted us to do our own dirty work.”
He nodded. “So I do, but not if it brings the police down around our ears.” His eyes narrowed. “No. I will decide when and what to do about her.”
“As you wish.” She handed over the business card.
“You may go.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, his eyes on the card.
She nodded, then let herself out of the room. Once she was in the parking lot, she drew a deep breath. Considering the potential consequences, that hadn’t gone so badly.
The key was the boy. Once in their custody, he could be used to draw his mother out. But sooner would be better than later. Perhaps, if she found the boy first—
She drove home planning how to control the gossip that was undoubtedly running through the organization like wildfire. Most would know not to listen, but there were always a few too stupid to understand what was good for them. Well, she would put a stop to that and without danger of police interference. Then she would see what she could come up with to settle the other woman, quietly. Because he was right. Too much police interest was not good for business.
* * *
Tuesday night
Hillcrest Regional Medical Center
Jim caught up with Ginny just before midnight. He’d left one of the fentanyl patches with the night shift pharmacist, and another with the lab, extracting a promise that it would be tested for chemical content before dawn. A third was destined for DeSoto and the DEA labs. The remaining three were in the plastic bag he showed to Ginny.
“Could he have gotten them out of a trash can?” he asked.
Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“These haven’t been used.” She pointed to the non-sticky surfaces. “The rule is that the person who administers the medication—and that includes family members—puts his or her initials, the date, and the time on the patch, to prevent overdoses. These are unmarked.”
“Could the marks have been rubbed off?”
Ginny tipped the patches back and forth in the light. “No dents and no trace of residual ink.” She handed them back. “My best guess is, no, these are not discards.”
“Which means he got hold of fresh patches.” Jim gave Ginny a sober look. “I know he’s only five, but that child needs to understand this is not a game. His mother is missing and those patches may be the only clue we have to finding her. You’re the only person he’ll talk to. Get him to tell you where the patches came from.”
Ginny sighed. “I’ll do my best.”
The night was fading into dawn when Jim made his way back to the ICU. He set the baggie with the remaining three fentanyl patches down on the desk in front of her. “Luis is safe. There’s no active chemical in any of them.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Why would anyone want fake fentanyl patches?”
“Good question. Let’s hope we find a good answer.”
* * *