Chapter 7 - THE DOCTOR CAME TO FINISH THE EXAM
Dr. Mercer walked into Desmond’s bedroom carrying a medical bag.
He did not know they knew.
Sadi stood behind the door.
Frankie waited outside.
Desmond sat in his chair near the window.
Exactly as usual.
Mercer smiled.
“How are the spasms?”
“Worse.”
“Did Sadi increase the baclofen?”
“Yes.”
Mercer nodded.
“I warned you we might need stronger sedation.”
Desmond’s expression remained blank.
“Sedation?”
“To control autonomic response.”
Sadi wanted to throw something.
Instead she stayed silent.
Mercer opened his bag.
Removed a syringe.
Desmond looked at it.
“What’s that?”
“Muscle relaxant.”
“Name?”
Mercer paused.
“You’ve never asked before.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Diazepam.”
“Let me see the vial.”
Mercer smiled patiently.
“You’re agitated.”
There.
The same technique.
Turn questions into symptoms.
Sadi stepped out.
“Then let me see it.”
Mercer froze.
“Sadi.”
She held out her hand.
“Vial.”
He did not move.
Desmond’s voice changed.
“Give it to her.”
Mercer slowly complied.
Sadi checked the label.
Diazepam.
Sealed.
Correct.
Then she looked inside the medical bag.
“May I?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Patient confidentiality.”
Desmond laughed once.
“I’m the patient.”
Mercer closed the bag.
“I think we should reschedule.”
He turned.
Frankie entered.
Mercer stopped.
No guns drawn.
No threats.
Desmond said:
“Sit.”
Mercer looked at Frankie.
Then Sadi.
Then Desmond.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“It can be a conversation.”
Mercer sat.
Sadi placed the tampered medication report on the table.
His face changed.
Tiny.
Enough.
“Those tablets came from your compounding lab.”
He said nothing.
“Did you make them?”
“No.”
“Who has access?”
“Technicians.”
“Names?”
“My attorney can provide—”
Desmond cut in.
“You forged my medical-capacity letter.”
Mercer looked startled.
“I signed a medical opinion.”
“The signature beneath mine is forged.”
“I had nothing to do with your signature.”
Possible.
Then Desmond asked:
“Did Patrick ask you to declare me impaired?”
Mercer’s silence lasted one second too long.
Sadi noticed.
Desmond noticed.
“Yes,” Mercer finally said.
“Why?”
“He believed you were making unstable decisions.”
“Did you?”
Mercer looked at him.
“At times.”
That was credible.
Desmond had been drinking heavily.
Refusing therapy.
Firing nurses.
Running criminal and legal enterprises while sleep-deprived.
Impairment had not been entirely fabricated.
But Mercer’s medication made it worse.
“Why alter the pills?”
Mercer’s face tightened.
“I didn’t.”
Sadi said:
“Your lab did.”
“My lab has forty employees.”
“Then give us access logs.”
He looked at her.
“You’re not law enforcement.”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Fair.
Desmond could fire him.
Could sue.
Could report.
Could not simply seize records.
Sadi hated that the doctor was correct.
Then Mercer stood.
“I’m leaving.”
Desmond let him.
That shocked everyone.
At the doorway, Mercer stopped.
“You think Patrick tried to kill you.”
Desmond did not answer.
Mercer continued:
“You’re wrong.”
He looked toward Sadi.
“The bomb was meant for Patrick.”
Everything stopped.
“What?” Desmond asked.
Mercer turned back.
“The vehicle schedule changed that morning.”
Desmond’s face emptied.
Patrick had been scheduled to use the armored sedan.
At 8:10 a.m., Desmond took it instead because his own car had a flat tire.
Sadi whispered:
“Who knew about the switch?”
Mercer answered:
“Only the garage team.”
Then he left.
May you like
Frankie looked sick.
Because six months earlier, Frankie had supervised the garage.
