The Devil's bed

“He denied taking the marbles?”

“No. He said he didn’t remember. He often claims he doesn’t remember.”

“Claims?”

“Who can say?”

“As nearly as the sheriff’s people can tell, the accident occurred sometime between ten and eleven-thirtyP.M. After visiting hours. Did you, or anyone else, notice someone on the floor who shouldn’t have been there?”

“No. I didn’t anyway. And I don’t recall anybody mentioning anything like that.”

“But someone would have noticed?”

“Probably.”

“How about regular staff? Would you have noticed regular hospital staff on the floor?”

“What do you mean?”

“A stranger you would have seen. But someone who should have been there, say for example Randy O’Meara, would you have noticed?”

“Not necessarily. Unless he stopped to talk.”

“Who else?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Who else comes onto the floor that you might not notice if they were just doing their job? Particularly between ten and eleven-thirtyP.M.”

“Let’s see.” She thought a moment. “Orderlies. But usually we’ve requested their help. Housekeeping, although they’re normally finished on the floor by ten. Central Service staff, but only if we’ve ordered supplies. The laundry man. Maintenance, sometimes. Sometimes a doctor. Why are you asking?”

“It’s the nature of the job, Ms. Rivera. I ask a lot of questions, then I sort through answers.”

“You’re responsible for the First Lady’s safety. What does the accident have to do with her?”

“Probably nothing, but we need to be certain, you understand.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for your time.” He turned back toward the door. As he stepped outside, he offered her his hand in parting and said, “I hope you’re not taking the responsibility for what happened to Randy O’Meara on your shoulders. No one could have predicted it.”

“Everyone says that. Why don’t I believe it?”

She let go of his hand and closed the door.

Dee Johnson, assistant director of human resources for the St. Croix Regional Medical Center, greeted him cordially. “Come in, Agent Thorsen. Please sit down.” She was a tall, handsome woman, a big-boned Scandinavian with a small-town demeanor, open and friendly. “Thorsen,” she said, taking her seat at her desk. “There are lots of Thorsens out where I grew up.”

“Where was that?” Bo asked.

“Blue Earth.”

“No kidding. Ever hear of Harold and Nell Thorsen?”

“Oh, sure. They had that farm out north of town. Took in all those foster kids.”

“I was one of those foster kids.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake. Can you beat that? Foster, you say? But you have the same last name.”

“I changed it legally.”

“Well, what do you know? Did you graduate from Blue Earth High?”

“I sure did.”

“I don’t remember you. But you look like you were probably a few years behind me. Go Cyclones,” she said with a huge smile and a lift of her arms, reminiscent of the cheerleader she probably had been. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like some information on the hospital staff. You do the hiring for most support services?”

“The initial screening anyway. Then I send the applicants to the department that’s hiring.”

“I’m interested in anyone who may have been hired recently for the shift that would cover the time between ten and eleven-thirtyP.M.”

Her face assumed a solemn cast. “The time of Randy O’Meara’s accident.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“The First Lady is visiting here on a daily basis. We want to be sure that anything unusual isn’t somehow related to her safety. You understand.”

“Of course.” She accepted it without further question and spent a moment thinking. “We’ve hired two people for evening support service positions in the last six weeks. An orderly and a man for the laundry.”

“Max Ableman.”

“You know him?”

“I met him yesterday. What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing really. I haven’t had any contact with him since he was hired.”

“Do you have a personnel file for him?”

“I’m sure it’s thin at this point.”

“Do you have his job application?”

“Of course.”

“May I see it?”

“I’ll have my secretary pull it.”

Dee Johnson left the office for a moment. Bo’s cell phone rang.

“Bo, it’s Jake Russell. Manning and Dreamcatcher just returned from the hospital. He’s mad as hell you’re not here. He’s on the phone to Diana Ishimaru right now.”

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Aside from Manning, is everything else quiet?”

“As a cemetery.”

When he had Ableman’s application, Bo looked it over carefully. Maxwell Frederick Ableman. Born in Duluth on April 1, 1960. Graduated from East High School there. Briefly attended a technical school in Bemidji. Worked for a landscaping firm in Milaca for ten years, then a couple of years as a short-order cook in Brainerd. His last job had been with E.L. Tool amp; Die in Sandstone, a job he’d left, according to his application, because the company closed.

“Did you check any of his job references?” Bo asked Dee Johnson.

She looked guilty. “The position he applied for is a hard one to fill. The hours are bad, the pay is low, and it requires handling unpleasantly soiled linen. I was just happy to get an applicant.”