Page 99 of Deathmarch
“I’m almost there. Who do I talk to regarding his condition?”
A pause before the response came, the nurse probably looking up the information in the computer. “His surgeon was Dr. Abara. Sixth floor. Cardiac surgery suite.”
“Thanks.”
In another fifteen minutes, Harper could see the hospital up ahead. He didn’t bother with the parking lot, but pulled up right at the front doors. He hurried through the lobby, then up the elevator. In minutes, he was talking to the surgeon.
The man, a clean-cut sixty-something in scrubs and fancy sneakers, told him the same thing the nurse had. “The patient is in recovery. He’ll be out of it for a while. And even when he’s awake, I’m not going to let you interrogate him. He just had open-heart surgery. They almost lost him in the ambulance on the way here.”
“I’m going to have to secure him to the bed.”
The doctor blocked his way. “You’re not listening to me, Detective. My patient couldn’t get out of that bed if you offered him a million dollars.”
“I’ll need to put an officer in front of his door.”
“Fine. But I’m telling you, he’s no danger to anyone.”
“He might have murdered a man in cold blood.”
“How?”
“Shooting.”
“Maybe,” the doctor said. “A shooting, maybe. Certainly not in a fight or anything that required strenuous activity.”
That last bit gave Harper pause. “How bad was his heart? Could he have walked a couple of miles through that snowstorm a week ago?”
“He had ninety-five-percent blockage in one artery and eighty percent in another. I doubt he could walk to the end of his driveway without having to lean against something to rest.”
“You’re saying it’s impossible?”
“I’d stake my professional reputation on it.”
“Could he have pushed aside a fifty-pound pallet of canned food?”
The doctor laughed. “No.”
“He spent half of last week in Florida, fishing.”
“He said that’s when he started to feel weak. He never left his motel. Since he came home, he’s been in bed.”
“And you believe him?”
“After having seen the blockage? One hundred percent.”
And there they were, the doctor with his official medical opinion, and Harper left with nothing—all his suspects cleared.
Lamm’s prepper buddies had been crossed off the list one by one.
Who the hell killed the old man?
Harper stepped back from the doctor, severely aggravated with himself. What had he missed? And where had he missed it?
A nurse called from the end of the hallway. “Dr. Abara?”
The doctor looked to Harper. “Are we done here, Detective?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help.” As the surgeon hurried away, Harper called Chase. “Hey, I’m here at the hospital. Are you still with Zane?”
