Organ Donor: A Medical Thriller (Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner Book 1) Read online

  Organ Donor

  Dr. Beckett Campbell Medical Examiner

  Book 1

  Patrick Logan

  Bitter End

  Prologue

  PART I – Coconuts and G-strings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART II – Blindfolds and Acid Reflux

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  END

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Patrick Logan

  Organ Donor

  Prologue

  Dr. Beckett Campbell stood in the shadows, his eyes fixated on the taxicab as a large man in a white T-shirt stepped out. The man had shoulder-length brown hair that was pulled back into a greasy bun, and close-set eyes that were as dark as the night.

  Beckett had seen him before.

  He’d seen the man on TV over a year ago and then he’d seen him again on the news a few days prior after the judge had reluctantly declared that they had a hung jury.

  A second hung jury.

  Winston Trent was his name, and he would live the rest of his life as an accused, but never convicted, child murderer and rapist.

  Twice he had been tried for the murder of nine-year-old Bentley Thomas, but both attempts to put him behind bars had failed. Beckett was a forensic pathologist and medical examiner and not a lawyer, but he knew enough about science to conclude that Winston was getting off on a technicality. A semen stain found at the crime scene was deemed inadmissible as it was stored incorrectly before a DNA profile had been generated — it had been placed in a mislabeled container.

  It didn’t matter that there was only a one-in-five-billion chance that the DNA belonged to anyone but Winston Trent, the defense argued. Or that the type of container was irrelevant and that the DNA wasn’t tampered with or degraded. What the CSU tech had done was cast a shadow on the entire case, shooting reasonable doubt into the chain of command the way Winston had shot his load in the warehouse where Bentley’s corpse had been discovered.

  But Beckett wasn’t bound by the same rules as the lawyers, the judge, or even the jurors; he had his own guiding principles, ones that superseded all other laws.

  And he knew that Winston Trent was a guilty man. It wasn’t just the sadistic grin plastered on his face as he taunted Bentley’s family after the two mistrials. It was his eyes. His dark eyes were flat and even.

  Eyes that Beckett recognized in himself when he stared in the mirror.

  Beckett performed a cursory rundown of his own equipment and clothing as Winston made his way up the steps to his trailer. Beneath a black jogging suit, his body was covered in saran wrap to avoid leaving any of his own DNA at the scene. On top of his head he wore a balaclava that was rolled up, and in a gloved hand, he held a small leather case.

  Although he didn’t open the case, not just yet, he knew exactly what was inside. He knew, because he’d checked a half-dozen times already.

  Beckett had made some mistakes with the others — Craig Sloan, Donnie DiMarco, Ray Reynolds, Bob Bumacher, Boris Brackovich — but he was a quick study.

  He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

  This time was going to be different.

  Beckett waited until Winston slid the key into the trailer door before pulling a syringe from the case and hurrying across the street. He wasn’t worried about being seen here; the people in this neighborhood loathed Winston Trent as much as any other and would turn a blind eye to anything that happened to him.

  It was basic human psychology; if you wanted something to happen badly enough, you will accept your reasoning no matter how flawed when it eventually does occur.

  If the gambler believes that his underwear are lucky before a big win, it was nearly impossible to convince them otherwise after the fact.

  Someone as reprehensible as Winston Trent must abhor himself, so why wouldn’t his death be a suicide?

  Peering up the sweat stains beneath Winston’s arms and the dark V that extended down his back, Beckett spoke for the first time in several hours.

  “Winston,” he said simply.

  The man opened the door and then turned. When he caught sight of Beckett, dressed all in black, a smile appeared on his thin lips.

  “What the fuck you want?” he snapped. “I ain’t givin’ out no autographs.”

  With the hand holding the syringe still behind his back, Beckett took two steps up the stairs. When Winston responded by reaching inside the door, it was Beckett’s turn to smile.

  The man wouldn’t find what he was looking for. In fact, if he turned around, not only would Winston not see his shotgun resting against the doorframe, but he might not even recognize the interior of his trailer.

  Beckett had done some redecorating; when he’d come earlier in the day, the decor had not been to his liking.

  He’d gone to the trouble of hanging images of Bentley Thomas’s smiling face from pieces of thread that crisscrossed the interior of the trailer.

  Beckett had also cleaned up a little; not because he’d wanted to, but because he needed to make room for his table and his tools.

  “You killed that boy,” Beckett said matter-of-factly.

  Winston’s grin became a sneer.

  “That’s not what the jury said,” he snapped back. Winston was becoming visibly nervous now, reaching for a shotgun that wasn’t there.

  Beckett knew that he only had a few moments before Winston gave up and bolted inside, slamming the door in his face.

  With an agility only afforded to him by his heightened state, Beckett bounded up the final three stairs until he was within inches of the foul-smelling Winston Trent.

  “You better get off my property,” Winston ordered. “Or you’re—”

  When the man’s eyes flicked to the interior of the trailer, Beckett pounced. Catching the much bigger man by surprise, Winston stumbled over the lip of the doorway and fell backward.

  Beckett landed on his chest and then drove the syringe into the soft skin on the side of his neck. Then he grabbed the man’s chin and forced his head backward.

  “Look around, Winston; you killed that boy — you killed Bentley Thomas. Just say it and I’ll make this less painful than you deserve.”

  PART I – The Grand Opening

  Chapter 1

  “You’re late,” Suzan Cuthbert said out of the corner of her mouth.

  Dr. Beckett Campbell wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “Yeah, well, so long as you’re not late, then I’m not all that worried,” he shot back.

  Suzan glared at him, but the lower half of her face gave her away; there was a hint of a smile forming on her pretty lips.

  “You should—” she began, but Beckett elbowed her playfully in the ribs and lifted his chin towards the stage in front of them.

  �
��C’mon, Suze, can’t you see I’m trying to listen here?” he joked.

  The truth was, this was the last place Beckett wanted to be right now. The opening of another hospital wing, the McEwing Transplant Unit, inaugurated by some douchebag with silver hair and deeply tanned skin who had likely never set foot in a public hospital in his entire life.

  It didn’t matter that Beckett himself had been elected to the Board of Directors for the new wing; he still didn’t want to be here.

  The man at the podium introduced himself as Sir — yes, Sir, as if he were a knight in shining armor — Francis England and looked to be between 45 and 55 years of age. Therefore, Beckett assumed that he was actually 102 and was being kept alive by a very specific cocktail of Botox, hair dye, and exogenous testosterone.

  “Now, before I cut this here ribbon,” Sir Douche began, “I would like to formally introduce two very proud members of the McEwing family, late Peter McEwing’s children, who also serve on the board of the McEwing Foundation. Please put your hands together and help me welcome Flo-Ann and Grant McEwing.”

  Jesus, the guy speaks like he’s starring in a Monty Python flick, Beckett thought, then immediately regretted the opinion. How dare I soil the Python name by thinking such filth?

  Sir England pressed his lips together and clapped with hands that looked like aged beef jerky.

  Beckett shuddered and Suzan nudged him until he clapped along with the rest of the sheep.

  Once he managed to peel his eyes off the spectacle that was Sir England, he realized that he knew Grant McEwing. Well, more precisely, Beckett knew of him. He had spent a month or two learning from the late Peter McEwin during his residency, and the man had talked at length about how bright his son was, how good a doctor he was going to make one day.

  “Recognize Grant?” Suzan whispered as she continued to clap. “He’s one of your residents this year.”

  Beckett’s eyes focused on Grant’s face, his shaved head, the narrow nose.

  Then he raspberried his lips.

  Nepotism at its finest.

  “Lucky me.”

  Beckett’s focus quickly shifted to Flo-Ann, a woman in her early twenties with short blond hair cut bluntly just below her ears. She was wearing a Navy skirt that she picked at nearly constantly, pulling it away from her thighs, as she stepped forward. Grant moved with her, but he stayed behind his sister as she adjusted the microphone.

  Flo-Ann cleared her throat before addressing the crowd.

  “First of all, I would like to thank everybody involved with bringing my father’s dream to light, including Sir England and the rest of the Board of Directors.” Beckett did a small curtsy. “For those of you who don’t know, Peter McEwing was my father. But he was more than just a great dad; Peter was also an accomplished transplant surgeon and it had been one of his dreams to one day open a brand new, state-of-the-art Transplant Unit right here in New York City. And you have made his dream come true.”

  Beckett raised an eyebrow. Although he didn’t have the greatest memory under the best of circumstance, and spending just a few months with the man during rotations didn’t leave an indelible mark, Beckett recalled that Peter McEwing was quite the asshole.

  But most doctors were, anyway; it was essentially part of the training. In fact, Beckett was debating starting a course that revolved around this very idea.

  Doctor Etiquette 101: how to make a shit ton of money while being an asshole.

  Maybe a course isn’t the best idea, Beckett thought. But a self-published book on Amazon? Shit, if a children’s book about a homophobic bunny could get a bestseller tag, anything was possible.

  Flo-Ann looked as if she had more to say, but Sir England nudged her out of the way and commandeered the mic.

  “Now for the official inauguration of The McEwing Transplant Unit!” he exclaimed. Someone from behind Sir England handed him a pair of comically large scissors. There was some confusion as to who would hold the scissors, but eventually all three of them — Grant, Flo-Ann, and Sir England — wrapped their hands on the plastic handle and together they cut the ribbon.

  Beckett rolled his eyes. It was all ceremonial bullshit, which was as fake as Sir England’s accent.

  He looked over at Suzan.

  “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

  Suzan blinked.

  “To prepare for the upcoming semester, I presume?”

  Beckett rolled his eyes again.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll do something very responsible.”

  Suzan shrugged.

  “It’s not like you do any work, anyway,” she replied. “Where would you be without me? On second thought, don’t answer that — probably a ditch or an alley. By the way, a package came for you earlier — it’s on your desk.”

  “What are the odds?” Beckett replied with a smirk. “I’ve got a package for you, too.”

  Chapter 2

  “Good morning, Delores,” Beckett said as he entered the hallway leading to his office with Suzan in tow.

  The woman looked up from the newspaper she was reading and offered him a weak smile. She had wide, puffy cheeks, and a doughy expression that for some strange reason reminded Beckett of Oysters Rockefeller.

  “Morning, Dr. Campbell,” she replied.

  Typically cheery to the point of curdling Beckett’s stomach, her demure tone made him stop.

  “Alright, Delores. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Delores pressed her lips together and handed the paper over to Beckett.

  “What could be so—”

  When his eyes fell on the inset mugshot, his heart skipped a beat.

  Winston Trent, accused child killer, takes his own life, the headline read.

  Beckett swallowed hard.

  “Sickening, isn’t it? Just doesn’t seem fair that he gets off so easily,” Delores said, but Beckett barely heard the woman.

  His mind had transported elsewhere, and he suddenly found himself back in Winston’s dilapidated trailer.

  ‘You do this, and you’re no better than me’, Winston screamed as Beckett pressed the scalpel against the soft skin of his wrist. ‘You hear that? You’re no better than me!’

  Beckett paused and he stared at the line of blood that seeped from the incision.

  ‘I never said I was better than you, Winston. But you know who was better than both of us?’

  ‘Don’t do this, please,’ Winston pleaded, tears in his eyes. ‘I’m begging you.’

  ‘Little Bentley Thomas, that’s who. He was better than both of us.’

  “Looks like that asshole got what he deserved,” Suzan offered.

  Beckett shook his head and handed the paper back to Delores.

  “I’m going to have to side with Suzan on this one; he most definitely got what he deserved.”

  Delores shook her head.

  “But imagine what would have happened to him if he went to prison? A child rapist and murderer? That is what he deserved.”

  “Welp, happy Monday,” Beckett said as he backed away from the desk. “Have a good one, Delores.”

  “You too, Dr. Campbell.”

  ***

  “Well? Are you going to open it?” Suzan asked.

  Beckett looked at the large cardboard box on his desk.

  “No, not with you here. What if it’s some racy negligée from one of my other lovers?”

  Suzan nearly choked on her iced coffee.

  “Well, even if I can overlook your use of the disgusting term ‘lovers’, I’d say that no one is willing to put up with your shit. Except for me… but that’s only because I’m too young and naïve to know better.”

  Beckett nodded; she had a point.

  “What the hell,” he said as he tore the tape off the top of the box. Suzan was pretending not to be interested, but Beckett knew better; she was far too focused on the forensic pathology course outline that she herself had created.

  Turning the unboxing into a charade, Beckett started peeling the top back slowly w
hile making exaggerated facial expressions, but when he saw what was inside, his brow furrowed.

  “It’s a little early for drinks, even for me,” he said to himself as he stared at a white vinyl cooler.

  He pulled it out and then used his elbow to push the cardboard box off to one side.

  The cooler was cold to the touch.

  Confused, Beckett frowned and unzipped the top.

  “What the hell?” he whispered.

  The cooler was cold because it was nearly filled to the top with dry ice. But this wasn’t what gave Beckett pause, it was what was lying atop the dry ice that did that: a thick plastic bag adorned with a biohazard symbol. Inside the bag, which was filled with a peach-colored liquid, was something dark red roughly the size of a dinner plate.