"January 2017
The parking lot of New Haven Hospital was pretty full.
Mike Oates grunted as he steered his low-slung black Maserati around the bend,
close enough to the last aisle of the lot. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. Rounds
were at eight fifteen—a concession from old Bartholomew, the chief of surgery.
Rounds were usually at 8:00 a.m. But today was different. Bartholomew was
coming back from a long weekend. Mike didn’t want to be late. He had his eye on
the top residency spot in surgery. Bartholomew was eating out his hand. Not going to be late,
he told himself.
|
A tall man, Mike Oates sat low in his Maserati. He had
tousled wavy blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and an amiable face that belied
a cold and calculating mind. His slender fingers curled around the steering wheel
of his car in repose. There would be more than one way to handle the parking
problem. Quickly, he revved his engine and skidded his tires as he aimed the
nose of his Maserati toward the front of the parking lot.
He saw an opening and slid his car into the open slot that
was marked “Reserved for Dr. James Levy.” He put his car into park and then
turned off the motor. He reached behind his seat and took out a sign that read
Emergency Call. His thin lips curled into a smile. “Love it,” he muttered to himself.
He got out and placed the sign on his dashboard, visible to Dr. James Levy, who
might be getting in later that morning. “Who the hell is Dr. James Levy
anyway?” Mike asked himself as he slung his doctor’s white coat over his broad
shoulder.
There was a cluster of residents that already crowded in
the resident’s lounge as Mike approached. He walked up to the door quietly.
Bartholomew looked up as he approached. “Hey, Oates, you just got picked to
present today. Got any patients you want to talk about?”
Without missing a beat, Mike replied, “Yes, Dr.
Bartholomew. I would be happy to present a few of my patients.”
Bartholomew looked slightly put off. “One patient will do,
Oates.”
Mike stifled the urge to retort. He pulled out his
flip notebook and began to discuss his patient, Mr. Morse.
Later that day, Mike sat in the nurse’s station, dictating
his notes. Someone sidled up to him. A hint of Dior perfume permeated his
consciousness. “Ah, Missy,” Mike muttered softly, pulling the wearer of the
perfume up close.
“Mike!” she whispered. “People are looking!”
He shut off the Dictaphone and smiled up at the owner of a
pair of dark eyes. “That is what you want, right, Missy?”
She hoisted herself off his grasp and straightened her
shirt. “Damn you,” she hissed but looked adoringly at him.
“Seven o’clock tomorrow? Meet you at the Kahuna Club?” He
leaned back and considered her shapely figure with a smile.
Missy Wright nodded before leaving his side.
Corcoran, his best friend, leaned over, grinning. “Oates,
you are too slick.”
“That—I am,” Mike replied without looking at him.
“If Bartholomew even gets a whiff of what you are up to,
he’d have your ass in a sling.”
“He won’t.”
“Thing is, Oates, I can’t figure out why the girls love
you. Even the little old ladies in the unit love you. If only they knew you
like I do.” Corcoran sniggered.
“That is why I pay off your gambling debts, Cor. So you
keep your mouth shut.”
Corcoran looked daggers at him. “One day you’ll be up a
creek, and nobody can get you off it,” he whispered. He quickly folded his
notebook and left.
The emergency-call ploy seemed to work. Mike knew it
would. He pulled out of Dr. Levy’s car slot and headed toward the exit. It was
a pretty smooth day. Bartholomew was pretty impressed with his skills at
differential diagnosis. He thought it might be nice to head to the gym after a
quick bite. Yale University had a pretty decent gym. He hardly used it, but
tonight, he wasn’t eager to run through the dangerous streets of New Haven at
6:30 p.m. on a cold January night.
The streetlights were on most all the streets in New
Haven. Mike emerged from the gym, bearing his gym bag. He took a quick glance
around and headed for his car. He drew up short when he saw the figure standing
by his car. Mike’s step slowed slightly.
“Excuse me, I need to
get into my car,” he said in a no-nonsense tone.
“You parked in my parking slot.”
Mike looked at him closer. So this was Dr. Levy.
“I was late. Emergency call,” Mike explained.
Levy was a thin wiry-haired man. He was wearing gym clothes.
It looked like he had been running. Sweat marks stained his shirt.
“I could write you up for this, Oates. That’s your name,
isn’t it?” The voice was sneering. “I looked you up! You’re one of the
residents at the hospital.”
Mike thought quickly. “I won’t do it again. I can make it
up to you.”
“You got some nerve. It’s residents like you that give New
Haven Hospital a bad name.” Levy leaned into him. “I could get you kicked off
the staff.”
“My apologies, Dr. Levy. It’s not going to happen
again”—he shifted his stance—“because you’re dead now.” He swung his fist at
Levy and hit him squarely between the eye. Levy tottered back, blood spurted
from his nose, and he uttered a small cry. With a sudden move, a switchblade
appeared in Mike’s hand. It was a quick in and out. Levy crumpled to the
ground, blood and guts spurting out of his abdomen.
Mike looked about quickly. His heart was beating rapidly.
Relief cooled his senses. Nobody was around. Quickly he pulled Levy’s body and
dragged it to the corner behind a post.
Mike slid into his Maserati, fired the engine, and
directed his car out of the parking lot and sped down the street, the darkness
of the night closing behind him.
Minutes later, there were scuffling sounds of someone
approaching the parking lot. A solitary figure emerged from the shadows and
stood still, taking in the silent and vacant parking lot."
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