Cheri Amos, Nurse Sleuth – A Serial Novel

Something told me to take another look at the things from Edna's locker – the navy blue sweater, the insulated lunch bag still smelling mildly of mustard, and the Drug Handbook. What, Edna? I was thinking. What am I supposed to do with this stuff? Then I noticed an envelope tucked in the pages of the handbook. I opened it, of course.

Inside was a single page written in Edna's unmistakable hand. With professional exactness, she told how she had regularly stolen amphetamines in the spring of 1960 for her then boyfriend, Charles Wentworth. She told how Wentworth's roommate Ivan Horbak had threatened to turn them in, and how one night, "only as a joke to get back at him," they had laced his coffee with a couple of the amphetamines.

Later, around 3 AM, Dr. Wentworth called me back to his room, Edna wrote, where I found Dr. Horbak unconscious on the floor and Dr. Wentworth attempting cardio-pulmonary resuscitation. But it was too late. I'm so sorry. It was a terrible accident. I'm so sorry.

The narrative broke off there, and across the bottom of the page, in pencil, she had printed boldly: Charles, since you refuse to go along with me, I assume I'm alone in this.

No, Edna, not alone.

I put in a call to Wentworth's office. "It's in reference to Edna Leary," I told his secretary. "Please tell him I'll be in the ED, 3-11."

Then I went to straight to Radio Shack, where I let the salesman talk me into a tape recorder smaller than a pack of cigarettes. When I got to the ED, late for work, Maria said Wentworth had already called. "I told him you were due in at three," she said, all snippy, glaring at the clock.

Wentworth didn't call again until 10. "Ms. Amos?" he said, and chills went right up my spine. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to speak to you in person," I said.

"In reference to?"

I let him hang, and then said "Horbak, of course. Edna told me all about it. But do you really want to be discussing this over the phone?"

It was his turn to let me hang. When finally he spoke, it sounded like his teeth were clenched. "Where should we meet?"

"Down by the construction site," I said. "I think that would be appropriate."

"Fine. I'll be there at 11."

"Make that 11:30," I said, coolly as I could. "I have to give report."

*   *   *   *   *

When I got to the basement, Wentworth was waiting near the elevator.

"Here," he said, opening a big metal door.

I slipped a hand in my pocket, pressed the button on the tape recorder, and stepped before him, outside, into the cold night air. We were standing on temporary scaffolding, above the rubble of the old garage. It was dark, and I could hear the ominous wail of an ambulance.

"So tell me," I said, looking left and right. "Where exactly did you bury Horbak that night? You had a ready-made grave, didn't you?"

"I hope this isn't about money," he hissed, so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Because you won't get a penny out of me. Didn't Edna tell you it was her fault he died in the first place?"

"Peculiar isn't it," I said, "that Edna's not here to defend herself? If it was all her fault, how come you didn't go to the police in the first place?"

He grabbed me by the throat. I didn't have air to scream, and in a flash I saw myself buried for all eternity under a garage I never even got to park in. But then I remembered my can of pepper spray and gave him a good shot in the eye. He fell back, and I ran like hell for the security phone.

*   *   *   *   *

I pressed charges against Wentworth for assault, and gave Edna's confession and my tape recording to the police. The guy at Radio Shack had been right: Wentworth's voice was of excellent quality.

Wentworth is now out on bail. He took a leave from The Saints and hired a high-powered lawyer. So far he hasn't been formally charged in connection with the deaths of either Ivan Horbak or Edna Leary.

Here's my theory, for what it's worth: the death of Horbak, the tattletale roommate, was no accident. Wentworth murdered him with a massive dose of who-knows-what and blamed Edna's filched amphetamines. Even from the grave, Miss Edna Leary, RN, was taking the blame with her perfect documentation.

As for me, I'm looking to move on, checking out MedHunters for something in another city. I'm tired of parking on the street, and who knows when they'll be able lay the concrete for the new garage. It's a crime scene now, of course.

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