Page 69 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

He turned to his computer. “Every single person, from the head of the hospital down to the candy striper who volunteers once a week at the gift shop, is issued a badge with their photo on it. If your man is in here, we’ll find him.”

“How many employees do you have?” I asked.

“Aboutforty-twohundred, give or take.”

“Wow,” I said. “I never would have guessed.”

“I know. But we have five hundred andfifty-sevenbeds, and more than six hundred thousand people come through our doors every year. It takes a small army, but don’t worry, I can narrow it down fast,” he said, putting his fingers on the keyboard. “We can start with medical professionals—doctors, nurses, therapists, techs. That will eliminate about seventy percent.”

“Can you just pull up white males over fifty?” Kylie asked.

“In the old days, I would have had to say no,” he said. “But now it’s all about diversity. Human Resources keeps track of how many women, how many people of color, and as you well know, we no longer live in a world with only two genders. Bottom line: all I have to do is enter the criteria, and I can slice and dice our entire workforce six ways to Sunday.”

“Slice away,” Kylie said.

Within seconds, Rayborn pared down the pool of possibles to 114. We scrolled through their pictures one at a time.Click. Click. Click.

About fifty clicks into the process, Rayborn took his hand off the mouse, and the three of us stared at the man who killed Curtis Hellman.

“Barbara,” Kylie said softly.

“His real name—or at least the one he’s using here—is Barnett Drucker,” Rayborn said. “He’s a nurse. Jesus, he’s been on our staff for seven and a half years.”

“What time does he come in to work?” Kylie asked.

A few strokes on the keyboard, and a new screen popped up. “He swiped in at sevenfifty-fourthis morning,” Rayborn said. “He signed out the bloodmobile at nine fifteen.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have aforty-five-footmobile blood unit. A couple of times a month, we staff it with nurses and volunteers and go out into the community. It’s all part of our outreach program for blood donations.”

“Where do they set up?”

“Anywhere and everywhere. We usually partner with corporations, colleges, churches—any organization that can help us generate volume. Then we turn it into an event—y’know, give a pint, get aT-shirtor a gift card. That kind of thing.”

“And where’s the bloodmobile now?”

“I don’t know, but Bonnie Green, our director of nursing, will,” he said.

He dialed his phone and put it on speaker.

A woman answered. “Clay,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was just wondering where the bloodmobile is today. I’ve got a friend who wants to give you a pint. He’sAB-negative.”

“Oh, my goodness, Clay. That’s my favorite flavor. We never have enoughAB-neg. Hold on a sec.”

Rayborn sat there in silence, probably thinking about the shitstorm that would upend his life when the hospital found out it had a murderer on staff.

Nurse Green came back on the phone. “The bloodmobile is at Citi Field today. We’re doing a promotion with the Mets. Give a pint; get a free ticket to one of their home games. Give two pints, and you have the option of not going to the game and having to sit through the agony of watching them lose.”

Rayborn responded with a laugh. “You’re a Yankees fan, aren’t you?”

“Diehard.”

“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

He hung up. “Citi Field,” he said. “It’s going to be packed with families. We’ve got to call the whole event off—get that bloodmobile back to the hospital.”

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