think he did,” Jack said, leaning his palm on the wall beside her. It had the effect of hemming her in, but he did it because he was starting to get dizzy.
“My turn to ask why,” Maggie said, edging past him and crossing to pick up a book from the floor and set it on the coffee table.
Jack turned to face her, leaning back against the door to stay on his feet. “The way the Morgan child died last April—heart failure in the ICU after a serious accident and surgery—doesn’t look suspicious until you realize that an insurance investigator for MEDCO, the corporation that owns San Antonio General and a dozen other hospitals in Texas, discovered that at least five other children have died the same way over the past seven years in Houston and Dallas. We’re not sure yet how many other victims there might be in hospitals around the state.” Jack headed for the sofa as he said, “We’re still investigating.”
Maggie put the rocker between them and asked, “Roman is a suspect in all those deaths?”
“All of the children who died were his patients,” Jack said, easing down onto the sofa. “And we haven’t found any other common links.”
“Lots of people have access to the ICU.”
Jack laid his head carefully against the back of the couch and rubbed at his blurry eyes. “Maybe so. But I’m putting my money on Hollander.”
“What’s his motive?” Maggie demanded. “Hollander’s written a bunch of journal articles suggesting he considers quality of life more important than mere survival.”
Maggie snorted. “I feel the same way. Does that make me capable of murder?”
“Under the right circumstances, anyone’s capable of murder.”
Maggie stared at him, her eyes stark, her hands gripping the back of the rocker so hard her knuckles turned white.
The lawman in Jack saw guilt, and he fleetingly wondered whether he was making a mistake telling her so much. The man who was attracted to Maggie saw distress and concern. That man kept right on talking.
“All of the children who died would have faced some serious physical or mental handicap if they had survived,” he said. “We figure Hollander did his best to fix them up, but when he couldn’t, he killed them out of kindness.”
“What evidence do you have that he did it?” Maggie demanded.
“You sound like Hollander’s attorney!” Jack bolted upright, then froze, waiting for the dark to recede and things to come into focus again before he eased himself back down onto the arm of the couch. “Are you going to represent Hollander if I arrest him?”
“I don’t do criminal work,” she said. “But I’m certain you have the wrong man, Jack.”
“Maybe Hollander doesn’t want his failures hanging around to remind him he’s not God.”
“That’s preposterous!” Maggie started pacing between Jack’s stone fireplace-useful in South Texas maybe two or three weeks a year—and the rocker. “Anybody, even someone off the street, could be giving those kids an overdose of potassium chloride, and you’d never know who it was unless you had a video camera in the ICU.”
Jack tried to wrinkle his brow in a frown, realized that was a bad idea and, keeping his head as still as he could, said, “You seem to know a hell of a lot about it.”
“I overheard the nurses talking about the perfect way to kill a patient without getting caught,” she said, her lips twisting wryly. “Murder 101. Insulin came up, but they all agreed potassium chloride was a better killing agent.”
“Explain.”
“Potassium chloride—the nurses called it KCI—is readily available around a hospital because every patient on an IV for more than twelve hours needs potassium to replace what they’ve lost. It’s not a controlled substance, so it isn’t locked up. A little too much potassium in an IV, and wham—” She slammed her hand on the coffee table. “You’re dead of an apparent heart attack, and no one’s the wiser.”
Jack winced. “That’s for
“My turn to ask why,” Maggie said, edging past him and crossing to pick up a book from the floor and set it on the coffee table.
Jack turned to face her, leaning back against the door to stay on his feet. “The way the Morgan child died last April—heart failure in the ICU after a serious accident and surgery—doesn’t look suspicious until you realize that an insurance investigator for MEDCO, the corporation that owns San Antonio General and a dozen other hospitals in Texas, discovered that at least five other children have died the same way over the past seven years in Houston and Dallas. We’re not sure yet how many other victims there might be in hospitals around the state.” Jack headed for the sofa as he said, “We’re still investigating.”
Maggie put the rocker between them and asked, “Roman is a suspect in all those deaths?”
“All of the children who died were his patients,” Jack said, easing down onto the sofa. “And we haven’t found any other common links.”
“Lots of people have access to the ICU.”
Jack laid his head carefully against the back of the couch and rubbed at his blurry eyes. “Maybe so. But I’m putting my money on Hollander.”
“What’s his motive?” Maggie demanded. “Hollander’s written a bunch of journal articles suggesting he considers quality of life more important than mere survival.”
Maggie snorted. “I feel the same way. Does that make me capable of murder?”
“Under the right circumstances, anyone’s capable of murder.”
Maggie stared at him, her eyes stark, her hands gripping the back of the rocker so hard her knuckles turned white.
The lawman in Jack saw guilt, and he fleetingly wondered whether he was making a mistake telling her so much. The man who was attracted to Maggie saw distress and concern. That man kept right on talking.
“All of the children who died would have faced some serious physical or mental handicap if they had survived,” he said. “We figure Hollander did his best to fix them up, but when he couldn’t, he killed them out of kindness.”
“What evidence do you have that he did it?” Maggie demanded.
“You sound like Hollander’s attorney!” Jack bolted upright, then froze, waiting for the dark to recede and things to come into focus again before he eased himself back down onto the arm of the couch. “Are you going to represent Hollander if I arrest him?”
“I don’t do criminal work,” she said. “But I’m certain you have the wrong man, Jack.”
“Maybe Hollander doesn’t want his failures hanging around to remind him he’s not God.”
“That’s preposterous!” Maggie started pacing between Jack’s stone fireplace-useful in South Texas maybe two or three weeks a year—and the rocker. “Anybody, even someone off the street, could be giving those kids an overdose of potassium chloride, and you’d never know who it was unless you had a video camera in the ICU.”
Jack tried to wrinkle his brow in a frown, realized that was a bad idea and, keeping his head as still as he could, said, “You seem to know a hell of a lot about it.”
“I overheard the nurses talking about the perfect way to kill a patient without getting caught,” she said, her lips twisting wryly. “Murder 101. Insulin came up, but they all agreed potassium chloride was a better killing agent.”
“Explain.”
“Potassium chloride—the nurses called it KCI—is readily available around a hospital because every patient on an IV for more than twelve hours needs potassium to replace what they’ve lost. It’s not a controlled substance, so it isn’t locked up. A little too much potassium in an IV, and wham—” She slammed her hand on the coffee table. “You’re dead of an apparent heart attack, and no one’s the wiser.”
Jack winced. “That’s for
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