Wednesday, June 16, 12:05 a.m., Stamford Hospital

Jake

When will these fucking cops just let me go home?

No time soon, judging from the way they keep exchanging suspicious looks. Unless I tell them what they want to hear, they might keep me here all night.

Detective Brady, the one who’s been doing all the talking, glances at his vibrating pager before looking up at me. With his steel blue eyes, crew-cut and ex-marine build, it’s hard not to feel like he’s sizing me up for the kill.

“Excuse us for one moment, doc.”

Without explaining further, he and his partner rise from their chairs. Left alone in the small conference room, I rest my head on the table. Maybe if I try to shut out the world, I’ll wake up from this nightmare.

But when I close my eyes, it only gets worse. I hear the screams again. See the child-sized body lying crumpled on the asphalt.

No, this can’t be real. It’s just a mannequin, maybe a rolled up carpet someone left out on the street.

I push through the crowd, praying – God no God no God no – there’s been a mistake as I kneel next to the body. I reach down to part blood-matted hair, careful not to move her neck as I check for a pulse. Weak, barely there. Hazel eyes stare up at me, frozen in terror.

Now I hear sirens in the distance. Getting louder. Still too damn far.

Hold on Erin. Please God just hold on...

“Doctor Goodwin?”

I jerk my head up, surprised by the familiar female voice. Alice Roberts stands in the doorway, accompanied by Detective Brady.

“I know it’s been a difficult night for you,” she says, “so I’ll only take a few more moments of your time.”

You can’t be fucking serious.

I rub at my burning eyes, trying to process why the CME is here in the middle of the night. The reason hits me like a shotgun blast to the chest. “Is Erin…?” I blurt, unable to finish the question.

“No,” Roberts answers. “Miss Shea is still in surgery. She’s at a critical point right now, but she’s holding on.”

Her cautious tone is hardly reassuring.

“How bad?”

“It’s bad enough,” Detective Brady says, his deep voice suddenly laced with hostility. “And to answer your question, Doctor Roberts is here because we called her. She asked Greenwich PD to put out an APB on Miss Shea yesterday.”

“But why?” I stammer.

Brady pulls out a chair to sit facing me, suddenly so close I can smell his lime-scented cologne. “That should be obvious, Doc. Your nurse witnessed a suspicious death and then vanished. Now she turns up as the victim of a hit-and-run, and you… you’re conveniently right at the scene.”

“Detective Brady?” Roberts cuts in, sliding into the seat next to him. “Would you mind if I have a few moments alone with Doctor Goodwin?”

The Stamford Detective rolls his eyes toward her, then shrugs. “No problem. Maybe you can explain the situation we have here, since the doc doesn’t seem to be getting it yet.”

“Getting what?” I ask, gripping the arms of my chair to steady myself.

Brady gets up, stretching just enough to show me a glimpse of his service revolver beneath his jacket. “After all those years of school, do you really need me to spell things out for you?”

He flashes me a smile, then gives Roberts a nod before backing up to the door. “Oh, and doc,” he announces like he’s just remembered something important. “We’ll be in touch, so don’t try leave the state, okay? Running always looks real bad.”

Once Brady has gone, I turn to Roberts, trying to fight off panic. Think! You have to think!

“You’re bleeding,” she says, reaching into her pocket to hand me a packet of Kleenex.

“I’m what?”

“Your lip. You keep that up and you’ll bite right through it.”

I swallow, tasting copper. When I dab my mouth, it leaves a Rorschach blot of red on the tissue.

“Sorry,” I murmur, pressing the bloody Kleenex to my lower lip.

“Don’t be. You’ve just taught me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Sociopaths can’t show true emotion. The smart ones know how to fake it, but biting your lip without even realizing it… that’s pretty convincing.”

“Then…" I make eye contact, allowing myself to feel a tiny ripple of hope. "You believe I’m innocent?”

“I never said that.” She holds my gaze. “I just don’t think you’re a sociopath.”

“Doctor Roberts, I…” I look away, fighting back a sudden swell of tears. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. You have to believe me. Jean Clark, and now Erin... it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Actually, that’s the problem, Jake.” Roberts presses her lips into a line, then reaches into her briefcase to retrieve a folded sheet of paper, which she slides in my direction. “Unfortunately, it does.”

*

Roberts studies me for a while, her brown eyes turning a full shade darker before she finally asks if I understand what the test results mean.

I stay silent, staring at the folded sheet. Shock doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.

“Those are the ELISA results, highlighted in yellow,” she explains. “That’s short for enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay – our rapid screening test for serum antibodies. Jean Clark had strong titers of anti-latex IgE, confirmed by Western Blot analysis. Then there’s her elevated serum tryptase level, highlighted in green.” She says this slowly, enunciating each word as if talking to a child.

“Her tryptase levels were elevated,” I parrot, forcing my mind to focus. It’s like trying to talk my way out of a nightmare.

“Yes. As you may know, that’s our most sensitive test for anaphylaxis. The results confirm massive mast cell degranulation.”

“Impossible.” I look up at Roberts, praying for some glimmer of support, but her expression remains aloof, unreadable. “These results can’t be right.”

She shakes her head. “We ran the test three times. The data couldn’t be clearer.”

“But my patient showed no signs of anaphylaxis. Her blood pressure didn’t drop after the Replacidin injection – it spiked. How can you explain that?”

“The reversal agent you administered contains epinephrine and phenylephrine,” Roberts shoots back without missing a beat. “That could certainly account for a temporary jump in blood pressure, even in the middle of a severe anaphylactic reaction.”

“But her pressure spiked before I gave the IV push.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you’re confusing the timeline. It’s been known to happen, even to the sharpest clinicians.”

I grit my teeth, telling myself this can’t be right. No way. “Then why didn’t she show any evidence of airway obstruction? No wheezing. No angioedema or hives. Nothing to suggest–”

Roberts calmly suggests I may have missed some of the more subtle signs. “Why didn’t you try giving her prednisone and Benadryl first?” she asks. “Before using the reversal agent. That would’ve seemed like the more obvious choice.”

“If you checked her chart,” I snap, “you would’ve noticed she claimed to be allergic to both.”

Roberts frowns. “Allergic to both prednisone and Benadryl? I'm pretty sure that's impossible.”

“I know, but that’s what she told me. She had a laundry list of allergies.”

“Then why did you treat her in the first place?”

I steeple my hands on the table, realizing I don’t have a good answer. Because I was under pressure to complete the study. Because Al and Nina kept breathing down my neck. I don’t see these reasons helping my cause any.

“She…” I look down at my hands. “She met the study criteria.”

The lines on Roberts’ forehead deepen but she doesn't say anything.

“What did the autopsy show?” I ask, handing the lab report back to her. “Did you find any gross evidence she died from a latex allergy?”

“No… but over half of deaths from anaphylaxis show no specific macroscopic findings post-mortem. Death is usually due to vascular collapse. That seems to have been the case here.”

“Then what about the other tests? Did you check the Replacidin lot for any... irregularities?”

Roberts nods. “We compared the residue from the used syringes and vial to samples supplied by Pulsar. So far, we’ve found no inconsistencies. No contaminants.”

“And the tox screen?”

After some hesitation, the CME confirms what I already suspected: that Jean Clark was a walking pharmacy, with trace levels of over a dozen prescription meds in her blood stream. These drugs, however, weren’t present at levels that could have killed her, even in combination.

“Have you ruled out other possible causes of death?”

“Such as?”

“Well… an MI, for one thing.”

Roberts dismisses the suggestion with a hand wave. “No signs of that on gross. Her myocardium looked good, and the coronaries were clean.”

“How about a pulmonary embolism?”

She frowns. “Again, nothing on gross.”

“Fine, but she still could have died from a lethal arrhythmia.”

“O-kay.” The CME smiles, seeming to enjoy this game. “But that wouldn’t explain those serum tryptase levels, now, would it? And then there’s the fact you used latex gloves.”

“That’s not true!” I shout, half jumping out of my chair. “They were latex free!”

Roberts sighs. “I’m just reporting the facts, Doctor Goodwin. The used gloves we collected from the scene were all latex. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

That silences me. I chew my lower lip open again, unable to think of any good comeback.

“So you see our problem,” she concludes, holding out her hands, palms open. “We now have compelling physical evidence that Jean Clark died from a fatal anaphylactic reaction to latex. You, on the other hand, want us to believe something entirely different happened. And the only other person who witnessed the events first-hand…” She trails off, not needing to finish the sentence.

“But Erin’s a close friend!” I cry out. “I would never hurt her!”

Roberts leans back in her chair, giving me time to cool down before responding. “I’d like to believe you… but the fact remains that someone did hurt Miss Shea. A few hours ago, someone plowed an SUV into her with so much force that she might not survive the night. Now if she dies, we’ll have a homicide on our hands. Possibly two.”

I nod, suddenly too choked up to answer.

“And I believe…” she continues, eyes locking with mine, “I believe in my gut that you know who’s responsible.”

She deepens her gaze, daring me to trust her with the truth. When I remain silent instead, she presses on: “That’s why you asked Stamford PD to post guards outside Miss Shea’s room. You claimed someone might still want to hurt her. Now why would you say something like that?”

“How ...” I blink hard. “How did you –?”

She tells me Brady shared this information with her outside, right before she joined us. “By the way, you should know your status as a ‘person of interest’ will probably be upgraded to ‘suspect’ by the end of the week.”

"But how can they suspect me?" I shout. "I was right there! Ask the other witnesses. There's no way I could've driven that SUV."

"You'd obviously be smart enough to hire someone to do the hit for you, and showing up at the scene on foot..." Roberts gives me a guarded look. "A calculating person like a doctor would do that to establish an alibi. At least that's what Stamford PD probably figures."

“But I didn’t do this!”

“Then tell me who did.”

I stare into Roberts’ eyes, wishing she could read my mind. Maybe then she'd find it in herself to believe me.

But she won’t, not without any proof. It’s just not in her nature.

“Do you know who did this to Erin?” she repeats.

If I stare into her eyes too long, I just might tell her the truth, so I look away and lie.

Knowing I may have just made the worst decision of my life.

***

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