Page 67 of Don’t Tell Me How to Die

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A few hours later Johnny arrived at the hospital to drive me back to Heartstone. I waited until we were on the Major Deegan Expressway before I gave him the good news.

“According to the experts at New York Presbyterian, I don’t have a deadly blood disease.”

He let out a hoot and banged on the steering wheel with the heels of his hands. “What made you go into remission?”

“I’m not in remission. I never had it.”

“You never... how the hell could you be misdiagnosed? What kind of doctor would tell you you’re dying without being a million percent positive? Are you gonna sue, or at least get Alex to fire this guy?”

“Don’t ask any more questions,” I said. “Just listen. There’s a lot to take in.”

I unraveled the details as best as I could, telling him what I knew and what I suspected, but I was still putting the puzzle pieces together, and my thinking was riddled with holes.

“I need alcohol,” I said when I was done.

“I’ve been clean and sober for fifteen years,” he said. “You’ll have to settle for coffee.”

He got off the highway at the next exit and pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts less than half a mile away. He went inside, and five minutes later returned to the car with two large coffees, which he put in the cup holders, and a box of donuts, which he set between us.

“Nothing makes sense,” he said, turning in his seat and squaring off with me. “Why fake a terminal illness?”

“That’s the one thing that makes total sense,” I said. “At my age, if I were to suddenly drop dead out of the blue, what would happen?”

“An autopsy, an inquiry, a police investigation.”

“Exactly. But what if it’s been established for months that I’m slowly dying of hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis?”

“They would know what killed you, but they would still do an autopsy, and they’d find out you were poisoned.”

“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.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Maggie. You’re cheating on him.”

I nodded.

“And he caught you.”

“He hasn’t confronted me, but I can’t think of any other reason why he’d try to poison me.”

“And I thought I knew everything about you.”

“You know everything else. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was selfish, and stupid, and I wasn’t exactly proud of myself.”

“And I’m guessing you also didn’t tell me because I know the guy,” Johnny said.

Another nod.

“You want to tell me now?” he said.

I stared down at the box of donuts, unable to look at him.

Johnny put two fingers under my chin and gently tilted my head till our eyes met.

“Someone is trying to murder you, Maggie, and it sounds like they came pretty close to pulling it off this afternoon. The more I know, the more I can help. But if you’re too ashamed to tell me who you’re sleeping with, then you just might wind up dying of embarrassment.”

“He’s a cop,” I said. “In Heartstone.”

“Which one?” he said.

“The chief,” I said, my voice cracking. “Chief Vanderbergen.”

Johnny slowly let his fingers slip away from my chin.

“Vanderbergen?” he snapped. “You mean Van, the golden boy who popped your cherry, swore he’d love you forever, joined the Marines, knocked up some girl in Korea, then dumped your ass over the phone?”

I didn’t answer. It was the old Johnny talking, the one who would get abusive when he was angry. It had been years since I’d seen that side of him, but my confession had unleashed the demons. I let him vent.

“Are you out of your mind, Maggie? You’ve got the world by the balls, and you’re throwing away your marriage, your career, and your reputation for your asshole high school boyfriend.”

He gripped the steering wheel and unleashed a volley of f-bombs. Then he snapped around and looked at me, his eyes filled with heartbreak and disgust.

“I don’t know how you could even work with that scumbag cop, much less fuck him. No wonder your husband wants to kill you.”