A Sickening Storm, page 17
Missy dialed the number on the contact page of the website, and listened for a moment. “Voicemail.” She waited. “Hi, my name is Missy Winters and I’m a contractor working for the Beach City Medical Center, and we’re doing a write-up about your brother, Dr. Ramesh Babu, for the hospital gala—the program and the online version—and we were wondering if you could give us a bit more insight—to help the local public better understand the man as well as the doctor.” She left her cell number.
“Let’s send an email with the same message,” Dora suggested, so Missy emailed with an identical query.
Dora sat down in one of the office chairs and went back to the printouts of the case notes. “So we have Marilyn Campbell, who can’t stand her father and hangs out with her infectious disease expert friend. We have Shirley Nelson, who runs a group designed to attract anyone with a gripe against the hospital and who turns out to have a major gripe herself. And now we have this Dr. Babu, who, as far as we can tell, is a paragon of virtue and will be heading the hospital’s about-to-be-launched infectious disease wing, and who is also one of the few who might have the expertise to create a crisis like the one we’re investigating—as well as to end it.”
“These unexplained infections and deaths and Babu’s upcoming job all happening at once can’t be a coincidence.”
Dora nodded and continued scanning her notes. “Agreed.”
A computer tone sounded and Missy looked at the screen. “Huh. Well, there you go.”
“What?”
“From Dr. Mahira Babu.” She clicked the email link and began to read. “Thank you for reaching out. I am confident that my brother will be a fantastic addition to the BCMC family. Following is a bit more insight into the man, and why he is so motivated to save lives by identifying and protecting against infectious diseases.”
They scanned the information, which included both typed information and a newspaper article.
“He and his family overcame challenges of misdirected discrimination following 911,” Dora read.
“They’re Hindu, not Muslim,” Missy explained.
“…which were suffered mostly by his mother, Prisha,” Dora continued, “who had been a PA at an internist’s office in Beach City, and had been let go when a patient made unfounded accusations that she had been rude. She decided to help her husband, Ramesh’s father, Kabir, at the store.”
Missy read on. “Both parents were sad, but not angry. But both Ramesh and Mahira were furious at the time, which was 2005, particularly that there was no redress.”
“As a result,” Dora read, “both brother and sister have been focused on delivering the very best quality care equally to people of all backgrounds, colors, religions, ages, and heritages. They both travel to India during their vacations, visiting the poorest villages, where they deliver their care and professional services for free.” Dora sat back and turned to Missy.
“Wow,” Missy breathed.
“Doesn’t sound like our killer,” Dora observed.
“At least not on the face of it,” Missy agreed. “I say we take a drive to the Babu lab and do a little feeling out.”
“Think he can shed any light on Traxle?”
Missy gave her a knowing look. “I’m sure they know each other. Bet they’re not BFFs.”
“Be you’re right. But how do you propose—?”
“Tell you on the way over.” Missy looked around until her eyes landed on the stack of 10” by 13” file envelopes Adam used for case files. She took one that was near to bursting with case-related papers and said, “C’mon. Let’s go.”
She explained her idea in the car, and by the time they parked in the lot behind the lab, Dora had agreed to the plan and knew what to do. Dora pushed the buzzer for Babu Laboratories.
A man’s voice answered. “Can I help you?”
Dora stood in full view of the camera that was aimed at the entryway. “I’m from city hall,” she said; they had agreed that while this was a distortion of the truth, it was not exactly a full-fledged lie, since Dora had worked out of city hall for years in her garbage collecting days.
“Just leave it at the door,” the voice responded.
“Sorry. I need a signature,” Dora responded.
The buzzer sounded and they were in.
The lab had no outer office, but instead was a large room around the entirety of which a three-foot-deep counter had been built. On the counter were vials and containers of various shapes, sizes, and colors, tubes with bar-coded labels, and devices that looked to the two newcomers like mini refrigerators.
Classical music—violins and piano—was playing.
A man with a brown beard and handlebar mustache was wearing an N95 mask; he waved a green gloved hand. “I can sign that for you.” He retrieved a pen from a container on the counter.
Missy held the file folder out to the man. “Just sign anywhere,” she said, and the man signed on the bottom right corner and handed the folder back. He waited for them to leave, but instead, Missy spoke up.
“I’m Missy Winters. We’re putting together a brochure for the BCMC gala and we were hoping you might be able to provide a little more information about Dr. Babu.”
“I’m Dr. Clay Spontana, Dr. Babu’s assistant,” the man replied, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. “You should probably get that information directly from Dr. Babu.” He walked to the only other door in the room besides the entrance and knocked lightly. A voice responded and Dr. Spontana disappeared for a moment, then emerged, followed by Dr. Babu.
The doctor for whom Babu Laboratories was named was of medium height and weight, with black hair and mahogany-colored skin, a broad smile, and no discernible accent. “Ramesh Babu—friends call me Ram. Sorry if I don’t shake hands.” He extended an elbow and both women reciprocated. “I haven’t much time, but I’ll be happy to fill you in with whatever information I can.”
“Actually,” Dora said. “That’s not exactly why we’re here.”
The doctor appeared taken aback. “No?”
Dora shook her head, “We’re private investigators. We’re looking into the unexplained infectious disease deaths at BCMC on behalf of the hospital administration.”
Dr. Babu’s face darkened. He hesitated, then seemed to grow in stature; his features hardened. “So, you’re here under false pretenses.”
Dora didn’t flinch. “We’re investigating suspicious deaths on behalf of the hospital. Wouldn’t you want to help the hospital bring an end to this crisis?”
Dr. Babu hesitated. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. You don’t have an appointment and I have no reason to believe you! You need to leave.”
“We wanted to ask about Dr. Traxle,” Dora said quickly.
The doctor hesitated again, then reasserted himself. “I said get out!” Dr. Babu pointed to the door, then turned and stalked from the room.
Dora and Missy both looked at Dr. Spontana, who gave a sheepish shrug. “It would be better if you left.”
Chapter 19
The informal meeting at Rudy’s Bar the night before the union vote was packed and boisterous. Kelvin, who had agreed to play for free, had not shown up. Neither he nor Martine were there, so the house music that played blended with the excited hubbub in anticipation of the following day’s union vote.
Keisha Williams was standing and addressing the crowd; she still wore her down parka, as the early December weather had turned chilly. “The good news—settle down, everyone. People!” The talking quickly subsided and Rudy turned off the music. “Thank you. The good news is that we are still at fifty three percent. The challenge is that we can’t afford to lose anyone between now and tomorrow. We need all of your votes. And if you can bring in a few more, that would be great. Hakeem?”
Hakeem Woods threaded his way through the crowded to the front of the room. “I don’t really have anything to add, except to say to all of you, thank you. You’ve worked hard and you’re going to get a union that works hard for you and gets you the benefits and pay you deserve, and that will make your lives better. Okay?”
“I’d like to say something,” a voice said from the back of the room. The same two men who had addressed the crowd weeks earlier in the hospital’s lunchroom stepped to the front of the bar. “My name is Darius Winston and my friend is Greg Wright—I just call him Mister Wright.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else joined him. The bar had gone silent. “We’re here to let you know that those of you who vote for this union will be doing yourselves a disservice—one that might just lead to you losing your jobs.”
“That would be against the law,” said Hakeem, who had not moved from his spot in the center of the front of the room.
“So you say, but when a company feels threatened by an outside influence, sometimes they take matters into their own hands for simple self-protection.”
Rudy had come out from behind the bar. He took a few steps toward the men, just as two hefty white men wearing the same light blue shirts and jeans stood up from a table in the center of the room. No one had noticed them because those around them had been partying and enjoying the company of others who were doing the same, while these two men had sat silently through the pre-speaker festivities. Each one was taller than Rudy, and carried more upper body weight. The two men got between Rudy and the two union busters.
“You need to leave,” Rudy said to all four men.
“Hey,” Darius Winston responded, smiling and holding up a hand. “Freedom of expression.”
“This is my place, and I say you need to leave.”
“Soon as we have our say,” said Wright, and Winston took a breath to speak. Suddenly, he took a step back to make room for another body pushing its way in front of him.
“Man said to leave,” Dora said, purposely standing in Winston’s space.
Winston’s smile broadened. “Look what we got here, a little lady activist. A round, little lady activist. Tom, would you move the little lady so I can say my piece.”
One of the union bodyguards placed his hands on Dora’s shoulders and began shoving her away from the front of the room.
“Stop assaulting me, sir!” Dora yelled. She stepped to one side at a forty-five-degree angle and windmilled her right arm in a counter clockwise arc, with her thumb extended, sweeping the man’s arm out of the way and stabbing her thumb deep into the man’s eye. The man screamed and fell to the floor before anyone could react, both hands clutched over his right eye.
“Guy attacked me.” Dora shrugged. “You guys saw it,” she said. “He grabbed me, then I guess he tripped and fell. Looks like he banged his eye. Maybe someone should call a doctor.”
The other bodyguard took a step toward Dora but turned at a sound behind him. Two distinct clicks, which stopped him in his tracks. The sound of a shotgun being cocked.
“You need to leave,” Rudy repeated, death in his voice. The room was silent, save for the moaning of the bodyguard on the floor.
Winston, Wright, and the remaining bodyguard helped their companion off the floor and out of the bar.
A phone rang, and moments later, Keisha Williams addressed the room in a shaky voice. “Everybody, I need to have your attention. That was Eunice Paulson. She’s been at the hospital with Martine. You probably don’t know, but Martine’s been really sick and has been in the hospital for the last few days. Well,” her voice caught. “Eunice called to say that Martine Franklin just passed.”
Kelvin and Martine were widely admired for the love they shared and universally loved by all who knew them. Gasps could be heard around the room, as well as several exclamations of “Oh, my God!” and “No!”
• • •
Elder Reginald Williams, the youngest of Keisha Williams’s first cousins, stood at the front of the main viewing room at Trabor’s Funeral Home. At nearly six foot nine inches tall, his placid face was easy to see, and more so when he lifted up on his tiptoes whenever he came to particularly meaningful passages in the prayers he was reciting. Elder Reginald claimed he did this in honor of the Jewish practice—the practice of “our predecessors,” as he called the Jewish people—who rose up on their toes when they came to the phrase “holy, holy, holy” in their thrice daily prayers.
Keisha Williams had delivered the eulogy, and since Martine Franklin had been beloved by so many members of several different communities, enough time had been made for as many speakers as wanted to speak.
One who did not speak was her husband, Kelvin, who was too devastated to talk to anyone. He always referred to Martine as his rock, and indeed, without her anchoring presence, the normally buoyant, joyous musician was rendered silent and sad. He sat on a bench off to one side and appeared not to notice the proceedings at all.
While the service proper was conducted by Elder Reginald and those who chose to say a few words in Martine’s memory, a subtext of fast and furious discussion was conducted around the room in stage whispers.
Martine had died after a ten day stay at BCMC with a rare disease known as Nipah virus, which was said to originate in bats from Asia, and which left those with the disease with symptoms that included fever, nausea, sore throat, and cough—symptoms that might have been attributed to any number of illnesses. Martine’s death was also the most recent in a half-dozen unexplained deaths from rare deadly diseases at BCMC, which had eroded public trust in the hospital to the point that many, especially those grieving Martine’s passing at Trabor’s, were questioning whether the hospital ought to be allowed to operate at all.
• • •
The notice in The Chronicle and on BCMC’s social media accounts announced a press conference at 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday, which George Campbell had invited Dora and Missy to attend in person.
The protesters numbered in the hundreds on either side—about half protested the mysterious infections and demanded that the hospital close while the opposing protesters demanded that the hospital continue to serve the barrier islands, albeit with appropriate safety protocols. The protests had been moved off of the hospital grounds by police and hospital security, and were now congregated just beyond the gates to the main entrance.
Because New York’s mask mandates had recently been lifted by the governor, the protests were now focused solely on the hospital’s operation, which was to be the subject of the press conference.
Despite the temperature, which was 43°F, the press conference was held outside the hospital’s front entrance and slightly off to one side, so that the facility’s signage would be in the picture while the use of the entrance remained unencumbered. News trucks from the major New York news organizations were clustered just outside the patient drop-off and pick-up area, as members of the Beach City Police Department kept the vicinity functioning for patients and their families.
The press conference participants waited just inside the hospital’s main double doors and consisted of hospital CEO George Campbell, Senior Medical Director Akira Matsumoto, Bonnie Jansen, BCMC’s communications director—a fiftyish, pale, freckled woman with round green eyes and shoulder length blonde hair, and Beach City Mayor Christine Pearsall, who wore a smart reddish brown pants suit. Along with them were two women in blue business attire, both brunette and in their late thirties, who were representatives of the State Department of Health.
At 3:07 p.m. the group stepped outside to a lectern that had been set up for the occasion, and George Campbell tapped the microphone as dozens of cameras focused in on his grim countenance.
“Good afternoon and welcome. Here at Beach City Medical Center we pride ourselves on offering the best care in the state, and yet today we find ourselves faced with a health crisis that must be directly addressed. And so, I am here today to tell you of the actions we have been taking and some new changes that, for the short term, and under the guidance of the Department of Health, we will institute as a temporary safety net. First of all, let me be crystal clear in saying that closing BCMC is not an option. The citizens of Beach City and our barrier island need our hospital.”
He paused as a cheer could be heard from beyond the front gate, along with angry exclamations. The press conference was carried live by area news networks and the hospital’s social media feeds.
“For the time being,” the CEO continued, “we will limit new patient admissions to only those whose lives are in imminent danger, and who, for logistical or health-related reasons, cannot be admitted to other hospitals in the vicinity. The decisions as to who will be admitted to BCMC going forward will be made on a case-by-case basis by Dr. Matsumoto, our senior medical director and patient safety administrator of medical affairs and his team of advisors. Let me assure the Beach City community: we are here for you. We are facing a challenge, but we will overcome this challenge.”
Dora and Missy were standing at the edge of the crowd nearest the two health department officials, who were quietly whispering to one another.
“He didn’t really address the situation,” Dora observed.
Missy looked chagrined. “He didn’t exactly mention the situation directly, either.”
“He’s a politician,” Dora agreed. “Smoke and mirrors.”
“We are therefore,” George continued, “temporarily, and I must stress that this is temporary, postponing our gala. Despite the gala’s postponement, our new infectious disease wing, which will be headed by renowned specialist and leader in the field, Dr. Ramesh Babu, will continue to move forward. The Anderson Julienne Infectious Disease Center, as the new facility will be known, is moving full steam ahead. Our fundraising continues, with the donations required for the opening of the center already in hand. Rather than hosting a gala, we are tending to the current medical challenge we face, and will continue fundraising virtually. Please visit Beach City Medical dot org and look for the links for the Anderson Julienne Infectious Disease Center, should you wish to donate. Dr. Matsumoto, did you want to say a few words?”
Dr. Matsumoto held up a hand, shook his head, and leaned toward George, who turned to the mayor.
