Page 107 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“No, they wouldn’t,” I said. “All the law requires is that a doctor sign off that my death is from a preexisting condition.”

“Are you sure?”

“Johnny, I was a prosecutor. Give me a little credit for knowing the law. My mother didn’t want to be sliced and diced in the morgue, and I’ve already informed Dr. Byrne that neither do I.”

“Holy shit,” he said. “It sounds like the perfect crime.”

I smiled. “And yet I’m still here.”

“So is whoever wants to kill you, Maggie. We have to figure out who that is. How many people live in Heartstone?”

“Fifteen thousand six hundred and forty-two, as of the last census.”

“And you’re the mayor. All you have to do is figure out which one of them wants you dead.”

Great minds think alike, I thought. Johnny was starting in the same spot I zeroed in on a few hours earlier. Somewhere out there was a disgruntled citizen hell-bent on killing the mayor.

“It would have to be someone with serious technical chops,” he said. “Someone who could hack into the hospital computer and change your blood numbers.”

“Impossible,” I said. “Alex has spent millions of dollars to keep that from ever happening. But on the outside chance that someone could do it without getting caught, they still would have to change the data at the point of origin. Kensington Labs in St. Louis has the actual results in their system. If I died, and my insurance company asked them for a paper copy, the truth would come out in a hurry.”

“Clearly you’ve had more time to think about this than I have. So how does somebody create a lab report that says you’re dying?”

“My theory is that my blood was never tested. Someone swapped it out for blood that was already infected.”

“Someone,” he repeated. “Who?”

“Follow the trail,” I said. “Rachel, the phlebotomist, draws my blood. The next person to handle it is the lab technician who is going to analyze it. Unless...”

“Unless someone with access to the lab replaces it with the blood of someone who actually has HLH,” Johnny said.

“Exactly. Then the report comes back to Dr. Byrne, and he tells me I’m dying. When I die, he honors my request and signs the death certificate without an autopsy just like he did for my mother. And whoever is poisoning me gets away with murder.”

Johnny’s criminal mind wasted no time coming up with a plan. “Starting now, you don’t eat or drink anything unless you’ve made it yourself.”

“Good idea,” I said and dropped a half-eaten glazed donut back into the box like it was a live grenade.

“Very funny,” he said, picking up the donut and shoving it into his mouth. “Okay, I ate it. We’ve just eliminated one suspect.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You were never a suspect. You don’t fit the criteria.”

“Are you telling me that you worked out a profile of the perp already?”

“Years of practice working at the DA’s office,” I said. “I’ve narrowed it down to this. First it has to be someone who can easily swap out my blood samples. It could be Rachel, or Dr. Byrne, or pretty much anyone at the hospital who has access to the lab.

“But since HLH is a rare condition, it would also have to be someone who can get their hands on infected blood. That would take more medical know-how than most people have. Especially Rachel.

“And finally, it would have to be someone who spends enough time with me that they can easily get the vitamin D into my tuna salad sandwich, my yogurt, my glass of wine after a tough day at the office.”

Johnny held up his hands. “I know where you’re going with this, Maggie. But don’t say it. There’s only one supersmart medical professional who has total access to every corner of the hospital and most of the meals that you eat. Alex.”

“Feel free to tell me I’m wrong. But someone is trying to murder me, and right now Alex is the only one that fits the profile.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. “Alex is crazy about you. You’re his rock, Maggie. You’re the best part of his life, and he’ll be the first to say so. He’d be lost without you. Why in God’s name would he want to kill you?”

It was a question I knew he’d ask, and lying there in that hospital bed, I decided that when he did, I would have to tell him the truth.

“Think about it, Johnny. Why do most men murder their wives? I’ll give you a hint. It’s the oldest motive in the book.”