To Sleep... Perchance to Die Page 15

  Bret administered another two milligrams of midazolam to quell the seizures.

  “I can’t get a blood pressure or pulse,” Corrie said.

  Sandy followed, “She’s not breathing on her own.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Bret said. He looked to his helpers as if unsure of what to do and wanted advice. He turned to Pearlie, “Bring the chair all the way back,” The dental chair was flattened to stabilize Frankie.

  “We need to start CPR,” he said, as he began to compress Frankie’s chest at the rate of one hundred compressions per minute. Pearlie positioned herself across from him, prepared to relieve him when he tired. Meanwhile, she continued to suction the froth that dripped from Frankie’s mouth. Every six to eight seconds, Sandy was giving a breath with the Ambu bag.

  The defibrillator arrived.

  Bret said to Sue, “The electrode pads have to contact skin. Cut her clothes out of the way.”

  Sue grabbed a blunt-nosed bandage scissors taped to the side of a cabinet and made a vertical cut through Frankie’s sweater, blouse, and bra. When the task was completed, the clothing was pushed aside. Frankie’s torso was exposed allowing the two defibrillator leads to be attached. Chest compressions were discontinued to enable the defibrillator to analyze her heart rhythm.

  “Shock Advised,” a mechanical voice announced.

  “Everyone stand back.” Bret had to insure no one other than Frankie would be shocked. After confirming all staff members were out of danger, “Now, Sue.”

  Sue pressed a button and a shock was delivered. The electrical charge shot across her chest. Frankie’s body, as if a rag doll, went into a violent spasm. CPR was reinstated until time for the defibrillator to analyze the cardiac rhythm to determine if the shock had returned Frankie’s heart beat to normal.

  Although terrified, Bret forced himself to control his emotions to keep his assistants from panicking. After a cycle of cardiac compressions, the defibrillator was allowed to reanalyze Frankie’s cardiac rhythm. Sandy maintained a proper breathing rate with the Ambu bag.

  Bret considered alternative causes of the current dilemma. The red blotches on Frankie’s body and subsequent high-pitched breath sounds indicated she had suffered an allergic reaction. Adrenaline was the treatment of choice.

  “Sue, get me an adrenaline syringe for the I.V. line . . . one to ten thousand concentration.”

  “On it,” she said and rushed to the emergency drug cart. For easy access syringes of adrenaline were kept in the top drawer. Sue searched the cart. With disbelief in her voice, she said, “Doctor Manley, they’re not here. I can’t find them.”

  “What!” Bret said. “Pearlie, help her.”

  “I’ll help too,” said Corrie.

  “No. Take over for Pearlie and suction Frankie’s mouth,” Bret ordered.

  As Pearlie and Sue looked for the adrenaline syringes, Pearlie shouted, “Corrie, it’s your job to see that they were in the top drawer. What happened?”

  Corrie was defensive and hesitated. “I . . . I don’t know. They were there the last time I looked. Someone must have moved them.”

  “Shock Advised,” the defibrillator interrupted. A second shock was delivered.

  Although tiring from the exertion of the chest compressions, Bret continued CPR. Pearlie and Sue were looking for the adrenaline, Sandy was providing breaths for Frankie, and Corrie was busy suctioning her mouth. No one was free to relieve him.

  Another defibrillator evaluation revealed Frankie remained in cardiac arrest.

  A siren was heard. Brittney had summoned the Windham Hospital paramedics as soon as Pearlie called for help. Bret glanced at Corrie’s record of events. Although it seemed longer, the record showed seven minutes had passed since Frankie had convulsed and froth issued from her mouth. More important, she had been unresponsive and without recordable vital signs for more than four minutes, the time within which a person in cardiac arrest must be resuscitated to prevent brain death.

  “I’ve found the adrenaline,” Sue shouted. “They were mixed in with the steroids. The syringes all look alike.” She handed a syringe to Bret who injected the contents into the I.V. line. The potential lifesaving liquid poured into Frankie without effect.

  The paramedics arrived and accessed the situation. To Bret’s relief, they took over the care of his patient. The paramedics continued CPR, defibrillated, and medicated Frankie without success. Continuing their resuscitation efforts, they placed Frankie on a stretcher, wheeled her to their ambulance, and transported her to Windham Hospital. Covered in sweat and tears, Bret accompanied them.

  Despite his emotional state, he was impressed by the abilities and professionalism of the Windham Hospital paramedics. On the way to the hospital, with a breathing tube in her throat, an intravenous infusion in her lower leg bone, and several monitoring devices attached to her, the consensus of those involved in Frankie’s care was she was beyond saving.

  After several minutes of resuscitation in the emergency department, the physician in charge said, “Stop everything. She’s gone.”

  I’m responsible for the death of my friend. The thought flooded Mai’s mind as she paced the reception room. She dreaded taking Frankie to the office that morning. Vital Frankie had no inkling her life would end that day. Every time Mai had looked at her, she visualized Frankie dead and lying in a coffin. To get rid of the morbid visions, she forced herself to concentrate on driving, the road, and her future with Jake.

  I don’t care if I’m a monster. It had to be done. There was no other choice. Her hope of being with Jake had been theoretical, a future event. Today, their dream was to become reality.

  Frankie and Bret must pay the tab for their happiness. Frankie’s part of the bill had come due. It saddened her to think Frankie would not see another sunrise. Never see the flowers in her garden. Never paint on a canvas.

  Her life is being taken because of a decision I made. She agreed with Jake when he told her what he proposed to do. She had planted the seed of Frankie’s destruction and knew Jake would follow it to its logical conclusion. Logic and her heart said Frankie must die, if she and Jake were to be free. Freedom’s price was premeditated murder and placing the blame on an innocent person.

  Mai stopped pacing and looked through the receptionist’s window. She saw people scurrying about. It’s happening. I can tell by their actions and the fear on their faces. Our plan is being executed.

  She was startled by the opening of the reception room door. Corrie entered to tell her of the tragedy. Mai sensed a smile under Corrie’s phony sadness. Did she wink before beginning to explain what she knew? Did Corrie think she was more than someone to be used by Jake and her?

  “Something terrible has happened,” Corrie said. She regurgitated her practiced rendition of the tragedy for anyone within earshot to hear. Mai wanted to leap and scratch her impertinent eyes out. Corrie would never give another sly wink.

  She didn’t hear a word. It didn’t matter. It was to deceive the staff and make them think Mai was without guilt. In the coming investigation, it would be important they feel she had no knowledge of her husband’s plans. She was under the impression Frankie and Bret had resolved their differences.

  Desperate people make desperate decisions and do desperate things. Corrie personified her desperation. Although critical to their success, Mai hated her. After the present affair was over, Corrie would be barred from their lives. She’d put the presumptuous bitch in her place.

  When finished with what she had to say, Corrie placed a consoling arm around Mai.

  “Get away from me,” Mai screamed and pushed her with both arms. An observer would believe the reaction was consistent with someone in shock.

  Pearlie was in the doorway leaning into the waiting room. Having witnessed Mai’s outburst, she offered, “Can I help? What can I do? Do you need a ride home?”

  Mai looked at Pearlie, turned, and ran from the office.

  Pearlie began to follow. With a hand signal Corrie
stopped her saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it and take her home. Frankie was her friend, and she needs to grieve.”

  Mai went to her car and sat. She thought about the legal barrage that was going to fall upon them. She must be strong. They couldn’t undo what had been done.

  Bret, distraught beyond description, was assisted by an emergency department nurse to one of the private rooms reserved for people who received tragic news. The room was small, and a family grieving the loss of a loved one might feel cramped.

  A counter held informational pamphlets on religious organizations, hospice care, and funeral services. Above the counter were two large windows that provided a claustrophobic view of an adjacent wing of the hospital. He had closed the blinds.

  The nurse poured him a cup of black coffee from an urn also on the counter and put it on a wooden coffee table. Bret sat in one of the leather chairs arranged around the table. Wretched thoughts invaded his mind. He put his hands to his face and sobbed.

  Jake burst into the room and rushed to him. On a knee at Bret’s side and with an arm over the weeping man’s shoulder, he said in a soft voice, “How are you doing, buddy?” He oozed deep sympathy.

  Bret made no attempt to respond.

  “I’m here with you. Behind you all the way.” After patting Bret on the back, Jake stood, went to an empty chair, and slid it in front of Bret before sitting. He watched his friend in silence.

  Minutes passed before Bret lifted his head. His eyes were red and watery and his voice cracked, “Frankie’s gone. I’ve been thinking and thinking and still can’t figure out why or how she died.” Taking a tissue from the container on the table, he wiped his tears and blew his nose.

  “We’ll get an answer,” Jake encouraged. “They’ll examine her.” He knew Bret was aware of the required procedures for handling an unexplained death. He avoided the unpleasant word, autopsy. If the cyanide and peanut oil were going to be discovered as he planned, Frankie Grimaldi’s body had to be examined and her blood and body fluids tested.

  It wasn’t easy for Jake. A sweet and kind young woman was dead, and a good man was going to suffer because of what he did. It was impossible not to feel guilt, but the remorse in his heart didn’t matter. Like Mai, he had made a desperate decision to live by the Machiavellian principle of the end justifies the means.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m going to take you home.” He helped Bret stand and assisted his distressed partner from the room.

  In the month since Frankie’s passing, Bret remained in a self-imposed house arrest. The one time he ventured from home turned disastrous. It was when he observed Frankie’s funeral from a distance. The burial was held at the cemetery on Catholic Cemetery Road across from a golf course. It was a strange juxtaposition of happy golfers on one side of the street and unhappy mourners on the other.

  As he watched the proceedings, a large and burly member of Frankie’s family recognized him and shouted, “What are you doing? Get the hell out of here. We don’t want you near this place.” Those on both sides of the street heard.

  Recognition led to a maelstrom of verbal abuse from Frankie’s relatives. Several began to approach while hurling curses and insults. Bret feared for his life, and fled what threatened to turn into an uncontrollable mob. If a pile of rocks had been available, the family would have tossed them in place of the vile invectives. It hurt him that Frankie’s family didn’t realize he was as devastated as they. Since the incident, he hadn’t left his house.

  The situation at home was bad. Mai offered no pity for his plight. Speaking was kept to a minimum. The couple avoided each other by cooking and eating separate meals and sleeping in separate bedrooms. With the exception of a few trips to a local convenience store to purchase groceries, Mai was as housebound as he. Bret was chafed by Mai’s aloofness and her failure to try to soothe the pain he felt over Frankie’s death.

  His family visited him, although when they called, Mai avoided them by remaining in her bedroom and not emerging until they had gone. Time spent with his family was short, but Bret gained strength from their presence. His uncle Hubie, who acted as a bulwark against what Bret perceived as a cruel world, was his most welcome visitor.

  During the period of isolation, Jake called and visited under the pretense of attempting to convince Bret to return to work. On one visit he said, “After all, in the United States there are a number of anesthetic deaths every year. It can happen to any of us. It’s a risk we all take.”

  Bret replied, “I can’t face patients, Jake. I’m done with oral surgery.”

  Jake responded, “Look, other doctors have gone through what you have and survived the ordeal. They’ve returned to work. Besides, I’m sure you’re going to be exonerated of any wrongdoing. Most likely, they’ll find Frankie’s death was the result of some medical condition she had and didn’t know about. Your anesthesia just uncovered it. She smoked and, most likely, used drugs. My guess is she was a time bomb waiting to explode.”

  Angry at the allegation, Bret said, “Frankie didn’t do drugs, and I don’t want to hear that again.”

  Jake backed-off, “No offense.”

  Bret calmed a bit and said, “Look, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working.” Displaying frustration by hand gestures, “No matter what you or my family says, I’m not going back. The only thing concerning me now is what’s going to become of Mai and me. Our relationship is in jeopardy.”

  Jake’ final words were, “Well, I’ll be back. Maybe the next time you’ll change your mind.” He left, and Bret didn’t see the grin on his face as he walked out the door.

  A little before ten a.m. on the Monday of his fifth week at home, the noise of multiple automobiles speeding into the driveway was heard. Mai and Bret rushed to the picture window. There was a screeching of brakes as a Willimantic police cruiser with lights flashing and an unmarked gray Ford sedan stopped in their driveway. The cruiser held two uniformed officers, and the sedan contained two men dressed in conservative suits. The four exited and walked to the front door. Their slow approach contrasted with their dramatic entrance into the driveway.

  Mai turned and leaned her back on the window. With her hands over her face she sank to the floor muttering, “It’s happening.”

  Bret wondered what she was saying. He felt Mai was on the verge of mental collapse and was talking nonsense. Ignoring her, he watched the approaching men whose countenances and bearing communicated they were not bringing glad tidings. On the first knock, he opened the door and was in the process of asking why they had come to his house, when the shorter of the two suits asked in a severe manner, “Dr Manley?”

  With shaking knees and in his most placating but trembling voice he replied, “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

  The man spoke as the others paid close attention. “My name is Detective Powell. We’re from the Willimantic Police Department. We’re here to arrest you for the murder of Ms. Frankie Grimaldi. You have the right . . . ”

  In total shock and disbelief over what was happening, Bret didn’t understand why four men were leading him from his house in handcuffs.

  ’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d, When not to be receives reproach of being …

  Brooklyn, Connecticut: Bret was booked and processed in the Police Department in downtown Willimantic. The building’s modern design and brick construction clashed with its older neighborhood. In the months Bret had been a resident of the town, he never gave it more than a cursory look. He considered himself a model citizen and never envisioned being forced to inhabit it.

  The men in suits who arrested him were in charge of his interrogation. Booking included another reading of his rights, fingerprinting, and photos. When these preliminaries were completed, he was taken to a large rectangular room with a black vinyl floor. What he assumed was a two-way mirror covered a large part of one wall. Furniture consisted of a rectangular wooden table in the center and several chairs strewn about. Bret noted the l
egs of the table were screwed into the floor. Although there were flush mounted lights in the ceiling, the light being used was a single, green metal shaded lamp about three feet above the table. The smell of cigarettes and stale tobacco emanated from ashtrays full of debris.

  Pointing a finger at a chair, Detective Jablonski, the taller and friendlier of the detectives, said, “Sit, please.” Jablonski’s superior, Detective Powell had accompanied them. The latter exhibited a military bearing and, although of less than average height, he was a powerfully built Black man.

  As told, Bret sat in the assigned chair. He thought it had to be the perp’s side of the table as someone on the other side of the two-way mirror would have a clear view of him. The light from the hanging lamp shined in his eyes. No attempt was made to adjust it. He thought of repositioning the lamp but decided not to.

  Attached on the upper part of each corner of the room were cameras on rotating arms. They appeared able to provide front, side, and back views of everyone. There were three circular grates in the ceiling that Bret would not have been surprised to learn concealed microphones and additional video recording devices.

  Detective Powell placed an audio recorder on the table, pointed to a corner camera, and said, “Dr. Manley, for your information, we’ll be recording this interview. I’m going to remind you that your rights have been read to you. Can we agree there’s no question about your having gotten them?”

  Bret nodded.

  “Speak up, please.” The detective said in a louder voice, “Have you been read your rights and do you understand them?”

  “Yes, I have,” was the meek reply.

  Detective Powell continued, “As you’ve been advised, if you want an attorney present, you can call one. If you don’t have an attorney, we can and will provide one.”

  Bret pleaded, “I told you several times, now, you’ve made a big mistake.” He repeated, “A big mistake.”