Terminal

Dr. Mason was surprised to learn that Sean and his nurse friend had headed to the morgue. “What on earth were they doing there?”

“That was something else I was hoping you could tell us,” Sterling said.

“I can’t imagine,” Dr. Mason said, shaking his head. He again looked at Ms. Richmond. She shook her head as well.

“When the mysterious man entered the morgue behind Sean Murphy and Miss Reardon,” Sterling continued, “I only got a quick glimpse. But it was my impression he was holding a gun. That later proved to be correct. At any rate I was concerned for Mr. Murphy’s safety, so I rushed to the morgue door only to find it locked.”

“How dreadful,” Ms. Richmond said.

“There was only one thing I could do,” Sterling said. “I turned off the lights.”

“That’s a nice touch,” Dr. Mason said. “Good thinking.”

“I’d hoped the people within wouldn’t hurt each other until I could conceive of a way to get the door open,” Sterling said. “But there was no need. The man in brown apparently has a strong phobia of the dark. Within a short time he burst from the room significantly distraught. It was then that I saw the gun clearly. I gave chase, but unfortunately I was attired in leather-soled shoes, which put me at a distinct disadvantage to his running shoes. Besides, he seemed entirely familiar with the terrain. When it was clear that I’d lost him, I returned to the morgue. By then Sean and Miss Reardon had already departed as well.”

“And Wayne followed the man in brown?” Dr. Mason asked.

“He tried,” Sterling said.

“I lost him,” Wayne admitted. “It was rush hour, and I was unlucky.”

“So now we have no idea where Mr. Murphy is,” Dr. Mason moaned. “And we have a new worry about an unknown assailant.”

“We have a colleague of Mr. Edwards watching the Forbes residence for Sean’s return,” Sterling said. “It is important we find him.”

The phone on Dr. Mason’s desk rang. Dr. Mason answered it.

“Dr. Mason, this is Juan Suarez in security,” the voice at the other end told him. “You asked me to call if Mr. Sean Murphy appeared. Well, he and a nurse just came in and went up to the fifth floor.”

“Thank you, Juan,” Dr. Mason said with relief. He hung up the phone. “Sean Murphy is safe,” he reported. “He just came into the building, probably to inject more mice. What dedication! I tell you, I think the kid is a winner and worth all this trouble.”

_______

IT WAS after ten o’clock at night when Robert Harris left Ralph Seaver’s apartment. The man had not been particularly cooperative. He’d resented Harris’s bringing up his rape conviction in Indiana which he’d dubbed “ancient history.” Harris didn’t think much of Seaver’s self-serving assessment, but he mentally took the man off his list of suspects the minute he laid eyes on him. The attacker had been described as being of medium height and medium build. Seaver was at least six-eight and probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

Climbing into his dark blue Ford sedan, Harris picked up the last file in his priority category. Tom Widdicomb lived in Hialeah, not too far from where Harris was. Despite the hour, Harris decided to drive by the man’s home. If the lights were on, he’d ring the bell. Otherwise he’d let it go until morning.

Harris had already made several background calls regarding Tom Widdicomb. He’d found out that the man had taken an EMT course and had passed the exam for his license. A call to an ambulance firm where Tom had worked didn’t yield much information. The owner of the company refused to comment, explaining that the last time he talked about a former employee the tires of two of his ambulances were slashed.

A call to Miami General had been a bit more helpful but not by much. A personnel officer said that Mr. Widdicomb and the hospital had parted ways by mutual agreement. The officer admitted he’d not met Mr. Widdicomb; he was merely reading from the employment file.

Harris had also checked with Glen, the housekeeping supervisor at the Forbes Hospital. Glen said that Tom was dependable from his point of view, but that he frequently clashed with his colleagues. He said that Tom worked better on his own.

The last call Harris had made was to a veterinarian by the name of Maurice Springborn. That number, however, was no longer in service and information did not have another number. So all in all, Harris hadn’t turned up anything incriminating concerning Tom Widdicomb. As he drove into Hialeah and searched for 18 Palmetto Lane, he was not optimistic.

“Well, at least the lights are on,” Harris said as he pulled over to the curb in front of an ill-kept ranch-style house. In sharp contrast to the other modest homes in the neighborhood, Tom Widdicomb’s was lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Every light inside and outside the house was blazing brightly.