End Game by David Hagberg Page B

and he trusted no one.
    â€œGood afternoon, Doctor,” Coffin said pleasantly. He’d been expecting bad news for the past several days, but he wasn’t going to let his mood show here and now. The old bastard would jump on it and suspect the worst—whatever that might be in his mind.
    â€œYour examination with Ms. Pappas will not be necessary,” Lampros said.
    â€œIs she being transferred?”
    â€œShe hung herself last night. Told everyone at dinner you tried to rape her at your most recent session.”
    Coffin laughed. “That’s ridiculous, and you know it. The woman was delusional, lived in a fantasy world her entire adult life. It’s a fact that in the three months I treated her, she was completely unable to distinguish truth from lies.”
    â€œIt’s a common condition here, as you well know.”
    Something in the tone of the man’s voice was bothersome. “Is there a problem, Doctor?”
    â€œYou’re a prisoner.”
    â€œIndeed I am. And you’re understaffed. Perhaps I could underwrite the salaries of a couple of nurses. They would help lighten your load.”
    â€œGo back to your cell, Cooke,” Lampros said. “You’re no longer needed here.”
    â€œAs you wish,” Coffin said. He shrugged indifferently and turned to walk away.
    â€œNo one at Harvard has heard of you. There are no records.”
    Coffin turned back. “That’s not surprising. May we go into your office so I can explain?”
    â€œNothing I want to hear.”
    â€œBut I think you will want to hear this,” Coffin said, smiling.
    No one else was in the clinic evaluation room at the moment. Coffin took the doctor’s arm, and they went into the office and closed the door.
    â€œYou’re a fraud,” Lampros said.
    â€œOf course I am,” Coffin said. He shoved the doctor back against the desk and clamped his fingers around the older man’s neck with enough pressure to the carotid artery to cut off blood flow to the man’s brain but not enough to cause a bruise.
    Lampros tried to pull away, but Coffin was much stronger and trained in hand-to-hand combat. In a surprisingly short time, Lampros went unconscious and slumped to the floor.
    Coffin followed him down, keeping pressure on the man’s neck until the heartbeat became thready and finally stopped.
    He threw open the door. “Someone get me the crash cart!” he shouted. He went back to the doctor’s body, ripped open Lampros’s shirt, and pulled up his T-shirt. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouted, and started CPR.
    One of the nurses came in with the defibrillator at the same time Coffin felt a very slight pulse, and he stopped the chest compressions until the machine came to full power.
    One of the orderlies came in as Coffin applied the paddles to the doctor’s chest. “Clear!” he shouted. But nothing happened. The machine was broken and had been for some months.
    He listened at the doctor’s chest and then felt the artery in the man’s neck. But the pulse had stopped. He sat back on his heels and shook his head. “It’s no use. Dr. Lampros is dead.”
    One of the nurses said something Coffin didn’t catch.
    He looked up.
    â€œDr. Lampros turned down a request for a new defibrillator,” the other nurse said. “He didn’t think the prisoners were worth it.”
    Coffin got up. “Perhaps it’s best if I went back to my cell. But call the warden and let him know you tried to save his life, but his heart gave out.”
    â€œYes, sir,” the one nurse said.
    Coffin walked out, though what he wanted was to kick everyone out of the office and look at the good doctor’s computer to erase whatever e-mails he’d received from Harvard. But he’d already come to the conclusion several days ago, especially since learning about the deaths of Wager and Fabry, that he would