Day 9 – Saturday morning
Host hotel, Austin
The alarm went off too early for Ginny. If it hadn’t been for the bombing, she would have been tempted to cut the conference and go back to sleep. Instead, she pulled herself awake and turned on the TV, hunting for news.
Most of it she already knew. They had found pieces of several bombs, each hidden in an abandoned bicycle. The explosive had been packed into the hollow tube of the frame and any empty space filled with nails, bits of broken glass, cut up aluminum cans, and other sharp objects, then the bikes had been chained to stands, lamp posts, and fences. They had been triggered remotely, which meant wirelessly, and they had been synchronized. The delay in the explosions she heard was caused by the size of the charges and the composition of the bicycles, but all had gone off, with lethal results.
Ginny was just finishing her braid, twisting the rubber band around the bottom when an image appeared on the screen that froze her where she stood.
“In a related story, the lead lobbyist for HB 1712 is unavailable for comment. Supporters are claiming foul play in the sudden disappearance of their spokeswoman, Clara Carpenter. She was last seen one week ago. The police have no leads and there is speculation that her disappearance may be connected to last night’s bombing.”
Phyllis!
Ginny was unaware she was staring at the TV, her mouth hanging open. She shook her head. She must have been mistaken. It couldn’t have been Phyllis. It was someone who looked sort of like Phyllis.
But, the other woman had disappeared one week ago. Phyllis had been murdered one week ago.
Ginny shook her head again, harder. It wasn’t possible. Phyllis had a husband and two children, each with carpools and playdates, and laundry and cooking and all the other demands of married life. In Dallas. And she had a job, full time nights in the Hillcrest Medical ICU. In Dallas.
Ginny turned off the TV, glanced at the clock, and headed downstairs, thoughts tumbling through her mind. What had John said? That Phyllis was mixed up in something political. That he hadn’t paid enough attention.
But surely he would have noticed if she’d been gone often enough and long enough to be running a political campaign of this magnitude.
But—Phyllis was dead. Murdered. And there had to be a reason.
Ginny turned left out of the elevator, located her assigned conference room, and found a seat. They had replaced the round tables with long rectangles, swathed in white linen and edged with ruffles in deep blue.
She put her materials down, then got in line for the breakfast buffet. She smiled vaguely at the other nurses, her attention still on the news cast.
Okay. Suppose, for a moment, it was true. Suppose Phyllis was mixed up in this House Bill whatever thing. Did it make sense to kill her?
Ginny could imagine a shadowy opposition gathered around a basement table planning to remove the political head of the movement. Extreme, but possible. If—somehow—Phyllis was the head of that movement, then a nice, quiet throttling, in a city far away from the media scrutiny surrounding the bill, might suit her enemies very well.
What’s more, it explained why the murderer chose the ICU ladies’ room. A hired killer would benefit from the change of venue, and a suspect pool, none of whom was guilty, but all of whom would come under suspicion. The real killer would be overlooked in the investigation of the innocent. The police would focus on the people who had access.
So, from that point of view, it fit. It was looking more and more likely that Phyllis’ killer was an outsider, someone who had managed to get past the security, do the deed, then slip away without detection.
Ginny helped herself to breakfast with these thoughts churning in her brain and a niggling sensation of having missed something. It was the sort of feeling she got when she’d forgotten to do something, or write something down, or tell someone something. She knew the feeling well. She also knew she would have to wait for whatever it was to make its way into her conscious mind before she would know what it was. She settled down at her table, took a deep breath, then deliberately turned her attention to breakfast and the day’s lesson, releasing her subconscious mind to work on the puzzle.
* * *
Saturday morning
Travis County Hospital, Austin
At nine a.m. on the morning after the bombing, Jim sat across the desk from a thin, pale man who seemed on the point of a nervous breakdown. His white hair looked as if he’d managed to pull several clumps of it out by the roots and there was an artery pulsing in his temple that bulged with each heartbeat. The nameplate on the desk identified him as Dr. Wingate, Medical Director for Travis County Emergency Responses.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said. He pushed a gallon-sized baggie toward Jim, who lifted it, seeing, among other things, the same fentanyl patches he’d seen in Dallas. “They’re all fakes,” Dr. Wingate said. “Good ones.”
“Do we know who’s making them?”
“Yes and no.” The Director leaned back in his chair. “Border patrol intercepted a shipment coming up from Mexico last month. They took pictures of the cargo, but the courier somehow died—in custody—before he could talk. The truck went up in flames in the impound yard, and the seized samples in a warehouse fire.”
“So where did these come from?” Jim asked.
“A woman. A nurse.” Dr. Wingate leaned forward. “This has to stay confidential.”
Jim nodded.
“Three days ago, we got a patient in the ER. Vehicle versus lamp post. She was still seizing when they brought her in. She’s on life support, but there’s no brain activity. When we went looking for next of kin, we found that in her purse.” He tapped the baggie. “At first, we thought they were real and maybe had caused the seizures, but analysis showed no active ingredient in any of them.”
“What made you suspicious?” Jim was thinking of Luis.
“The house supervisor took the bag to the pharmacy and asked them to try to identify the drugs. The pharmacist opened the bag and pulled out one of the cocaine vials, only to find it was leaking. He managed to spill some of it on his wrist.”
“Careless.”
“Yes, but not lethal, and there were a lot of broken vials in the bag. Anyway, he expected the skin to go numb. You know.”
Jim nodded. In health care settings, cocaine was used as an anesthetic.
“Well, it didn’t happen. That made him suspicious, so he tested the liquid, then the others. They’re chemically inactive, every last one of them.”
Dr. Wingate was rocking in his chair, the squeak making Jim nervous. “That’s when I called the DEA. We arranged a handoff. He didn’t want to come here, something about making targets of the hospital staff. I was supposed to meet him and hand over the fake drugs.”
The Medical Director rubbed both hands on his pant legs. “It was his idea to meet during the demonstration, to blend in with the crowd.” Dr. Wingate swallowed and Jim suddenly thought he knew where this was going.
“I was late. I was in my car and got stopped by the police barricades. I had to find a place to park and get out and walk.
“The DEA agent had chosen the Heroes of the Alamo monument because we could step inside and not be seen. I was just entering the Great Walk when all hell broke loose.”
He swallowed. “You wouldn’t believe the carnage. I’ve seen a lot in this profession, but nothing like that. Maybe in a war. I missed out on military service. Anyway, as soon as I could pick myself up off the ground, I ran.”
He clasped his hands on his desk and fixed his eyes on them. “I called my contact at the DEA and told him what had happened. He said one of the bombs leveled the memorial. Apparently, someone knew we were supposed to be there.”
Dr. Wingate lifted his eyes and looked at Jim. “They want you to take this stuff back to Dallas with you, but I won’t blame you if you refuse.”
Jim pressed his lips together, eyeing the baggie, then looked up at Dr. Wingate. “Does the DEA think the bombers know who you are, or just the agent you were supposed to meet?”
“They had agents watching, taking pictures. The man I was to meet was seen talking to an older man in scrubs and a jacket just before the bomb went off. It’s possible the bombers think I’m dead and the evidence was destroyed in the fires.”
“Or they know who you are and that we’ve had this little chat.”
Dr. Wingate nodded. “That’s about the size of it.” He took a deep breath. “We can disguise this meeting as a thank you to the Dallas volunteers or a promise to share what we learn from the post-mortem. Something like that.”
Jim nodded. “The latter, I think, and I have a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
“You give me half the contents of that baggie. Then you take the rest and leave town. You can mail them to the Dallas DEA office. That way we double our chances of getting the evidence into the right hands.”
The older man licked his lips, then nodded. He pulled a manila envelope out of his drawer and reached for the baggie.
“Wait,” Jim pulled a pair of nonsterile gloves out of his pocket. He slipped them on, then went through the contents of the baggie, picking them over and choosing ones he thought might have DNA or fingerprint evidence on them. Dr. Wingate held the manila envelope open while Jim filled it, then he sealed it and handed it to Jim, who took it and slid it inside his pants, under his scrubs.
“Okay. If they’re watching, they know we’ve been talking, but it doesn’t have to be about fake drugs.” Jim rose and walked toward the door, rumpling his hair. “Don’t forget to smile at me.”
Dr. Wingate pulled himself together and opened the door to his office. “We’re so grateful for your help. I’ll be sure to send you the data we collect on the disaster response and I’ll look forward to hearing your suggestions.”
“I don’t know if they’ll be of any use. You’ve done a great job with this emergency, but I’ll be happy to look over the data and see if I have anything to offer.”
“Safe trip home!”
“Thanks.” The two men shook hands then Jim went back to the ER locker room, slid the envelope into an interior pocket in his overnight bag, put on his coat, and headed for the lobby.
He called Mrs. Forbes and got the name of Ginny’s hotel, then gave it to the taxi driver. He was allowed to check in and order an early lunch from room service then hit the showers. He’d brought slacks and a turtleneck in addition to the scrubs, so he had something decent to put on later.
For the moment though, food and sleep took priority. He ate, drank two bottles of water, pulled the blackout curtains, and fell into bed, deliberately not thinking about the envelope concealed in his bag. Hopefully no one in Austin would realize he had the fake drugs in his possession. He also hoped they wouldn’t be in his possession for long. He didn’t want to end up like Dr. Wingate.
* * *
Saturday morning
Host hotel, Austin
Ginny was paying attention, but not hanging on every word. The material being presented wasn’t new and the handouts covered all but a few points. She had her laptop open, muted, and was using it to do a bit of investigation on the subject of the two Phyllises.
She plugged HB 1712 into a search box and scanned the results. There were a lot. By the next break she had assembled a short portfolio on the missing woman. Her name was Clara Carpenter. She was a nurse. She was active in many nursing organizations and had made headlines when she took on the foreign nurse problem.
For many years, Texas, along with the rest of the country, had been importing nurses trained in other lands. Some worked out, some didn’t. Ginny already knew there had been backlash when whole flocks of nurses from the same country came in, were hired by one facility, and took over everything. Clique didn’t even begin to cover the change in culture in those locations.
Nor did they assimilate. They brought prejudices and practices with them which did not meet standard of care and, sometimes, did not comply with local and federal laws. The fresh-off-the-boat recruits had to be watched like hawks, to make sure no patient suffered, and that defeated the purpose, since they were usually hired by places that already didn’t have enough qualified nurses.
Ginny pulled up a picture of Clara Carpenter and slipped it into the image search engine. Lots of hits. She looked carefully at each one, trying to find some familiar face, or place, or situation in the background. Nothing popped out at her. She went back to the search engine and tried again, without the name, hoping for a picture of Phyllis—and got two. The first was the one posted on the Hillcrest website as part of the staff directory. The second was Phyllis at her graduation from nursing school, tagged by someone and posted to social media.
With the images of Clara and Phyllis side by side, Ginny was even more impressed by the resemblance. They weren’t twins, of course. They had different birthdates and hometowns and parents and schooling and addresses. One was married, with children, the other unmarried. One was famous, the other unknown. There was an odd similarity, though. Both had spent time in adult ICU nursing. They had that in common.
“But what does it all mean?”
“It means it’s time for lunch.”
Ginny hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. She looked up to find Becky Peel at her elbow.
“Put that away and come rest your brain.”
Ginny did exactly that, settling down to a better-than-average chicken salad and a lively anything-but-nursing conversation. She listened while she ate, then asked if any of the others could tell her about the demonstration she’d encountered the day before. They could.
“Nut cases.”
“No, they’re not! They believe in their cause.”
“Like I said, nut cases.”
Ginny listened to the exchanges and noted that Becky said scarcely a word. Well, she was acting as hostess, so she could hardly take sides, but it was interesting.
“Do you have plans for this evening?” Becky asked.
“Nothing special.”
“Paul, my husband, is looking after the kids. What do you say we go sample some of the nightlife in Austin?”
“Sounds good.” Ginny went back to the lecture, and her investigation, with her nose twitching. Becky Peel knew something about those images—it had showed in her face—and the invitation suggested she had something she wanted to say to Ginny, privately. Good manners demanded that Ginny listen.
* * *