It's Nothing Personal Read online

Detective Pacheco strolled back into the interview room with a cold bottle of water, which he politely handed to Hillary.

  Detective Morris resumed his questioning. “So, Hillary, when did you get hired at St. Augustine?”

  “Back in November of last year. I can’t remember the exact date.”

  “And before you worked at St. Augustine, did you have any problems with drugs or substance abuse?”

  “Yeah,” Hillary replied. Images of high school occupied Hillary’s consciousness – snorting coke in her friends’ basements, skipping school to get high, stealing alcohol and money from her parents. These memories gave way to more recent events. She thought back to her time in L.A. and the filthy apartment she shared with four other people. Flies swarmed around dirty dishes piled in the sink. Garbage littered the floor. Hillary could almost feel the scratchy fibers of the stained carpet against her bare legs as she sat on the floor, shooting up in the sweltering heat of summer. Subconsciously, she grabbed her left arm as she recalled holding a hypodermic needle to her skin and pushing the sharp metal tip into her flesh. She longed for the rush she derived from injecting heroin into her vein.

  Detective Morris watched Hillary intently. Her head was down and her hair fell forward, covering her face.

  “When did your problems start?”

  Hillary picked at a string hanging off the left thigh of her jeans, bracing herself for the horrible reality she was about to disclose.

  “Well, it probably started when I was a kid. When I was about twelve, I broke my arm and had to have surgery to fix it. I was in a lot of pain, and I was taking pain pills for it. Even as a kid, I liked the way the pills made me feel. They just took everything and made it go away. I would sneak extra pills when my mom wasn’t looking. I think that’s what got the ball rolling. From that point forward, I’d pretty much take whatever I could get my hands on. Alcohol, weed, pills, whatever.”

  Detective Morris switched topics. “According to St. Augustine, the Department of Health, and the CDC, their investigation has revealed that you tested positive for hepatitis C during your pre-employment physical at St. Augustine. According to officials from the hospital, a nurse informed you of the test results when you were hired. She encouraged you to follow up with a specialist. Do you remember that?”

  “I don’t remember the exact details. I didn’t feel sick, so I pretty much blew it off.”

  Hillary’s lower lip trembled. She struggled in vain to hold back the tears before they slid from her eyes. Instinctively, she wiped her nose with the back of her arm. Detective Morris slid a box of tissues toward her.

  Leaning forward, Detective Morris rested his arms on the table and remained silent. He stared at Hillary until she could feel his piercing gaze. She was compelled to look up at him.

  With their eyes locked, Detective Morris asked, “Hillary, a big part of this case rests on whether or not you knew you had this infection while you worked at St. Augustine. Did you or did you not know you had the virus before you started working there?”

  Hillary squirmed in her chair. All eyes were on her, pinning her down. “Yeah, I knew.”

  Emotionless, Detective Morris continued, “Do you admit to taking Fentanyl intended for patients and using it to inject yourself?”

  Hillary rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs. Her right foot tapped uncontrollably under the table. She bit down hard on her lower lip, leaving an impression of her teeth embedded in her skin.

  “Yes.” Hillary choked on her words.

  “Was it only Fentanyl? Did you ever divert any other drugs?”

  “No. I never took anything else.”

  Detective Morris scooted his chair in so that he was even closer to Hillary. The screech of the metal legs grinding against the floor caught Hillary off guard, and she impulsively raised her head. For several moments, the only sound in the interview room was the humming of the air conditioner. Finally, Detective Morris cleared his throat and asked, “Can you tell me exactly how you stole the Fentanyl and what you’d do with the syringes?”

  “Getting needles and syringes was easy. I would just grab some saline from wherever, draw up 5 cc into a syringe, and put a Fentanyl sticker on it. The Fentanyl labels were on top of all the anesthesia carts. They were real easy to get, too. Then I would keep the syringe in my pocket and wait for a chance to switch it out for the real deal. If the anesthesiologist walked out of the room and left their drugs, I’d sneak over and make the switch.”

  “So you would switch a syringe of Fentanyl that was drawn up by the anesthesiologist, intended for the patient, and then replace it with a syringe of saline?”

  “Yep,” Hillary answered bluntly. Although her tone indicated indifference, Detective Morris noticed Hillary swallow nervously.

  He continued, “And once you had a syringe of Fentanyl in your pocket, when and where would you use it?”

  “It all depended. Sometimes I’d save it and use it at home. Other times, I’d use it at work.”

  “I’m curious, with all the people around in the OR, how exactly would you administer the drug while you were at work?”

  “I’d go into a stall in the women’s restroom.”

  “And then you’d tie up your arm with a tourniquet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And inject?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And no one, not one of your colleagues or supervisors or any of the doctors, no one ever noticed that you were . . . ?”

  “High? Nope. I guess I knew my limit. I was smart enough not to overdo it.”

  “Okay,” Detective Morris continued, “I’d like to get back to the syringes. From what you’ve told me so far, it sounds like you would steal a syringe that was clean and contained Fentanyl and replace it with a syringe that was also clean, but contained saline. However, we now have at least six patients who have hepatitis C with your exact genotype, and four more that will likely be confirmed to have your genotype within the next several weeks. Can you help me understand how these patients contracted your strain of the virus?”

  Hillary glanced up at the flashing red light on the camera and then at her reflection in the one-way mirror behind the detectives. Staring blindly at her image, she said, “There were times when I would keep the used syringes. I guess I got lazy. As time went on, I wouldn’t always get a new syringe every time I made the swap. Sometimes I’d just fill the used syringe with saline and put it back in the cart.”

  Detective Morris masked his outrage and calmly asked, “Okay. So you said earlier you were aware that you had hepatitis C. When you were swapping syringes, trading out Fentanyl for saline, and doing that with a contaminated syringe, did the thought ever cross your mind that you could be infecting other people?”

  “No,” she responded flatly as her eyes shifted to her lap.

  “Why not?”

  Hillary clenched her fists under the table, digging her fingernails into her palms. “It just didn’t.”

  “Do you now understand that you were responsible for infecting patients?”

  Hillary focused on the scratched surface of the table and nodded.

  “We need you to answer out loud.”

  Hillary inhaled deeply and replied, “Yes.”

  “How many times would you estimate that you stole Fentanyl from the anesthesia carts and replaced it with another syringe?”

  Hillary shrugged, “I really couldn’t say. I don’t know an exact number.”

  “Well, we just want to try to get some kind of handle on the magnitude of this situation. Do you think it was closer to ten or a hundred? Did you do it every day?”

  Hillary’s head whipped up as she spat out, “Oh no, not every day! It mostly depended on whether it was available or not. I’d estimate maybe fifteen to twenty times total.”

  “Do you remember any particular anesthesiologists whom you may have habitually targeted?”

  Hillary’s eyes and mouth opened wide, and she raised her eyebrows. “It wasn’t like that. It was based complet
ely on opportunity. If I saw the drugs lying out on the anesthesia cart and no one was in the room, I’d make the swap. Some days, I had the chance and took it. Other days, not so much.”

  Detective Morris persisted, “Which kind of leads us to how you were ultimately caught. You were in a room that you weren’t assigned to. Isn’t that part of how you also found the opportunity to divert? By going into other rooms and looking for narcotics?”

  “On that day, the day I think you’re talking about, I finished setting up my room early and had time to kill before my case started. I was friends with a nurse who was working in one of the other rooms, and I wanted to tell her about this new guy I was seeing. I hadn’t gone in there looking for Fentanyl, but when I walked past the anesthesia cart, I noticed there was a syringe of it sitting out, and I made the switch.

  “The scrub tech in the room noticed that I was lurking around the anesthesia cart, and she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was looking for a Band-Aid. She didn’t buy it. I’m pretty sure she was the one who reported me to the charge nurse. Anyway, I just left the room.

  “Later that morning, I was scrubbed in on my case, and another tech came in to relieve me. I thought I was just getting a break. When I walked out of the OR, the charge nurse and the nursing supervisor were waiting for me in the hallway. They immediately escorted me down to the ER, where I was given a drug screen.”

  “And the drug screen came up positive for Fentanyl?”

  “Obviously that’s true, or I wouldn’t be here today,” said Hillary, agitated.

  Detective Morris ignored her sarcasm. “What did St. Augustine do from there?”

  “They immediately suspended me. They told me they would arrange for a meeting to discuss things. I knew my job was over, so I pretty much blew off all their phone calls and letters from that point forward. I never bothered to show up for any of their meetings.”

  Changing subjects, Detective Morris asked, “Do you know how you were initially exposed to hepatitis C?”

  Hillary mumbled, “Um, probably in L.A., before I moved out here. I was shooting up heroin. I did it for about three months. I was sharing needles with some people up there.”

  The detective rubbed the stubble on his chin and furrowed his brow.

  “Hillary,” he said with reproach, “you just told me that you got hepatitis from sharing dirty needles. Yet, you want me to believe you didn’t think that your dirty needles would infect patients?”

  Hillary remained quiet.

  Detective Morris leaned back and stretched his legs. He inhaled deeply, filling up his chest. After holding his breath for several seconds, he released, and the hard rush of his breath travelled across the table. Hillary could feel the warm air and smell the stale scent of coffee as the blast hit her face. She shifted back in her chair to escape it.

  Detective Pacheco recognized his cue and spoke into the microphone. “This concludes our interview. Still present in the room are Hillary Martin, Detective Morris, and Detective Pacheco. Time is 17:05, and the date is June 5, 2010. Ms. Martin will now be read her rights and taken into custody.”

  The red light on the camera continued to blink. Hillary sat motionless with her arms crossed against her chest.

  Detective Pacheco instructed her, “Please stand and place your arms behind your back. You are under arrest for diversion of and tampering with narcotics.”

  Stiffly, Hillary obeyed his orders. Staring at the one-way mirror, she felt the heavy metal handcuffs being tightened around her wrists. Her mind drifted as Detective Pacheco read her Miranda rights and led her out of the room. Before following them, Detective Morris looked into the one-way mirror and nodded.

  Keith Jones, the CEO of St. Augustine Hospital, frowned back at the detective, knowing his expression was invisible to the officer. Mr. Jones dialed his attorney.

  “We need to meet. Now. But before then, make sure this story stays out of the press for at least a few days. I don’t care what it costs, just make it happen.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Keith Jones hung up and marched out of the police station.

  CHAPTER 7

  June 14, 2010

  Jenna woke at 5 a.m. to the incessant beeping of her alarm clock. Her fingers expertly located the snooze button as she dove under the silky sheets and lazily lingered in bed. Her back was to Tom, but she could feel the mattress shift as her husband began to stir. Tom rolled toward Jenna and pressed his warm body against hers. She wiggled herself closer to her husband, moaning as their skin touched. Tom gently kissed the back of her neck, working his way to her ears. His hot, moist breath sent shivers through Jenna. He slid his fingers underneath her silk panties. Jenna was wet with anticipation. Tom plunged his fingers inside her, slowly dancing in and out, tantalizing her with his touch.

  “Good morning, Mr. Reiner,” Jenna purred. She peeled off her panties and guided Tom inside her.

  “Good morning, sexy,” Tom whispered into her ear.

  Jenna’s breathing became erratic as Tom’s thrusts grew more forceful and aggressive. Within minutes, they cried out into the silent house as they both climaxed.

  She giggled as she pulled away from her husband. “We better learn to keep it down. One of these days, we’re going to wake Mia.”

  The morning sun was beginning to rise, filling their bedroom with a soft glow. Jenna could just make out the contour of Tom’s muscles. Looking at him, with his blonde hair and light blue eyes, she started to get aroused again.

  Jenna forced herself to check the time and groaned. Ginger, their Golden Retriever, interpreted Jenna’s sound as an invitation. Without hesitation, the dog jumped on the bed and snuggled up to Jenna.

  Tom laughed. “Looks like, at the very least, we piqued our dog’s interest.”

  Unenthusiastically, Jenna climbed out of bed. The sweet scent of sex lingered on her body. She pulled on her fluffy, pink robe and sauntered barefoot down the cool, travertine tile hallway into the kitchen. Jenna let Ginger outside to do her business and made coffee. With two warm mugs in her hands, she returned to their bedroom and handed a cup to Tom.

  “Thanks, babe,” Tom replied, propping himself up in bed.

  Jenna grinned as she leaned over her husband and kissed him hungrily. He attempted to pull her back into bed, but Jenna shook her head seductively and walked into the bathroom. She turned on the shower, waited for steam to rise from the glass walls, and stepped inside. Closing her eyes, Jenna relaxed under the stream of hot water. From the bedroom, she heard Tom turn the television on.

  Jenna was scrubbing her hair when Tom began shouting. She could not understand what her husband was saying, but he kept calling her name. With her head still covered with shampoo, Jenna threw a towel around her body and ran into the bedroom, dripping a trail of water and suds along the way.

  Tom was sitting upright in bed, pointing at the television. He turned up the volume. The tail end of a commercial blared from the TV.

  Jenna was perplexed and mildly annoyed. “Tom, what the hell is going on?”

  Tom hushed his wife and stared at the TV. The broadcast returned to the morning newscast. A petite, blonde reporter from Channel 8 was standing outside of St. Augustine Hospital with a microphone in her hand.

  Jenna fell silent as she watched the report.

  “Channel 8 News has just learned that a surgical scrub technician who, up until recently, worked at St. Augustine Hospital, may have put thousands of patients at risk for acquiring hepatitis C. The scrub tech’s name is Hillary Martin, and she is infected with the hepatitis C virus. In a videotaped police interview, Martin admitted to stealing syringes filled with Fentanyl, an extremely powerful and addictive narcotic. Martin also confessed to injecting herself with the drug. She would swap the stolen syringes with used ones filled with saline and remnants of her own virus-laden blood. Anesthesiologists, unaware of the theft, may have used the contaminated syringes on surgical patients during their procedures.

  “Representatives from St. Augustine
hospital have yet to confirm Martin’s alleged actions, stating that the investigation is ongoing. Standing here, we have Keith Jones, the CEO of St. Augustine Hospital. Mr. Jones, what can you tell us?”

  The cameraman zoomed in on Mr. Jones, an attractive, middle-aged man, with short, gray hair and an athletic build. Jenna was immediately drawn to his eyes. They were small, dark, beady, and ominous. Something about Keith Jones intimidated her.

  A man of power and control, Mr. Jones demonstrated nothing less as he spoke to the camera in a commanding voice. “St. Augustine strives to provide the very best in patient care. Our patients’ health and safety have always been, and continue to be, our highest priority. We urge all patients who had surgery at St. Augustine between November 2009 and April 2010 to come to our hospital for free, confidential hepatitis testing. We are shocked at the allegations that have come to surface and are diligently trying to work out the best plan of action to make sure our patients receive the care they deserve. Thank you.”

  Mr. Jones turned and walked away before the reporter could attempt another question.

  Tom turned down the volume and looked directly at Jenna.

  “Do you know the tech?” he asked nervously.

  Jenna thought for a minute and then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I suppose I may have worked with her.”

  Jenna nibbled at her thumbnail. Tom reached up and pulled her hand away from her mouth. He knew his wife was deeply troubled.

  “Jenna, what are you thinking?”

  “Things are only going to get worse,” she said glumly. Jenna left her husband alone on the bed and returned to the shower.

  Between her interlude with Tom and the news story, Jenna was running late. She rushed to get dressed.

  Mia came down from her room to kiss her mother goodbye for the day. Jenna buried her head in Mia’s long blonde curls and hugged her tightly. Before letting go of her daughter, Jenna she sneaked a glance at the television.

  It was a few minutes after 7 a.m., and the local news had switched over to the national affiliate. To Jenna’s horror, the lead story was St. Augustine Hospital and the hepatitis C outbreak. The event was officially big news.