Chapter Five

Driving the half mile home, Bill’s thoughts resembled a roulette ball bouncing around a spinning wheel. Kristina Jacobs was a good person. A single mother of three, friendly with everyone but distant, guarded. It was a shame that at 35, she had built such a palpable shell , the kind that people form after being burned by someone or something.

She hadn’t been the same since returning from a four-week leave after her husband’s death. Everyone knew he died in a car accident, but the only details came from the rumor mill. Kristi had never said a word, and no one had the guts to ask. She was quieter now, almost mousy , but to overlook the rock-solid strength underneath would be a mistake. Kristi could hold her own with anyone in an ER, a place where only the assertive survived.

Bill flipped open his cell phone, scrolled to “ICE Kristi,” and hit call.

“Hello?”

“Kristi. How are you doing?”

“OK, Bill. You?”

“What’s up with state? Do you know?”

There was a long pause, followed by an audible sigh. “Bill… you better come over. Do you remember how to get to my house?”

“It’s only been two months, Kristi. I doubt I could ever forget,” Bill said with a small smile.

She lived far out on the east side, in one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods, older than the labels people now used to define where they lived. Her place predated master-planned communities, HOAs, and the half-million-dollar cookie-cutter homes Vegas had come to know. But it wasn’t much better. Old homes in town were just as poorly built, and keeping one up took money Kristi didn’t have.

Bill parked in front, making sure no valuables , especially his .45 caliber H&K , were visible. His favorite toy, a Heckler & Koch full-frame semi-auto with a 12-round mag, came everywhere with him. Like a dog, only it didn’t shed or drool. Carjackers were a real thing in Vegas.

Kristi stood on the front steps, arms crossed, hugging herself. Bill gave her a long, tight hug.

“Why the glum look, Kristi?”

“I’m scared to death, Bill,” she said, voice trembling.

He nearly carried her inside, kicked the door shut, and sat her at the kitchen table. He grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and popped the caps.

Kristi looked like someone who had been up crying all night. Fear was turning into resignation. She looked exhausted.

“Okay, Kristi,” Bill whispered. “Let’s hear it.”

“Bill, you’re probably going to hate me.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“State’s here for me. I diverted narcotics , but not how everyone thinks.”

Bill sat silently, chin resting on his hand, half-wishing he hadn’t called.

“They’re not here to investigate diversion,” she continued, picking at the label on her water bottle. “That’s secondary.”

“Secondary to what?”

“The Health Department is investigating the unusually high number of deaths in our ER over the past year. Apparently, death rates are tracked , flagged or something , in the hospital or state system.”

She took a long drink and watched Bill’s face. He didn’t seem to understand yet.

“So, what does this have to do with you?” he asked. “And why would I hate you?”

“Shut up and I’ll tell you,” she said with a weak smile. “They went through charts looking for patterns. My name came up the most. More than any other nurse or doctor.”

“Enough to raise a red flag in a department as busy as ours? That’s a lot. Where’s this going, Kristi?”

“They said I’m on more dead-patient charts than all the other nurses combined.”

“But I heard they were upset you hadn’t shown up for work yet.”

“They came to my house the first day. I wouldn’t let them in. I talked through the screen door. Now they’re waiting for me to show up at work so they can go over charts.”

“Kristi… what does this have to do with me?”

She finally looked him in the eye. “I’ve been using diverted narcs to push people over the edge.”

Bill stared blankly. “What?”

“Euthanasia. Pillow therapy without the pillow. Mercy killing.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Bill’s left eye twitched. His mouth hung open. Minutes passed.

“Kristi… how long? How many? Why?”

She slumped in her chair, face buried in her hands. Bill paced the kitchen before sitting back down.

“Kristi, why would you do that?”

She looked wrecked , sunken eyes, ragged skin, grief etched into her. “It started with one patient. I had him all shift. His family left around 4 a.m. and I spent a couple of hours with him. He was only in his 30s. Had new-onset seizures. The CT showed massive brain tumors. He told me he already knew. Had been hiding it from his wife for months. His oncologist said he had two weeks left.”

“Jesus.”

“He begged me not to let his wife and kids watch him suffer. He was afraid he’d forget their names. So, I added a little morphine to what he was already on , a pump and a fentanyl patch.” She exhaled hard, as if lifting a hundred-pound weight.

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve all been in that spot. Some do what you did. I have. But it didn’t become a habit.”

Her eyes widened. She blushed.

“But how do you say no when someone in genuine pain begs you to end their misery?”

“And for that, you put your life and career on the line? Kristi… I worked in hospice for two years. I know how much it tears you apart. But you gave your life to cancers that weren’t yours.”