Heartless: a Derek Cole Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: T Patrick Phelps
after the investigation showed that Ken was not only off-duty when the warehouse fire erupted but also that his blood alcohol level was 1.3, the city needed to make an example out of someone.
“We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pettingall, and wish there was something that the city could do. However, rewarding behaviors like those that the report proves your husband was doing, sends a message to every firefighter in the city. We are sorry for your loss.”
For the last three years, Michelle had put up with Straus, the horrible working conditions at Hilburn, and the loneliness of losing the only man she had ever loved. She put up with it all without the support of friends or family. Her parents were divorced when Michelle was seven, and while she maintained somewhat of a relationship with her mother who lived in Maine, her father had drunk himself to death over eight years ago. As for friends, all of those were the wives of other firefighters that were stationed with Ken. When Ken died, so did the friendships.
When Straus dismissed the team, Michelle turned to walk back up the two flights of dusty stairs to Ward C to make sure nothing was missed. She was no more than ten steps away when she heard Straus call her name.
“It will certainly be nice working so closely with you, Michelle. It will certainly be nice.”
She turned and only offered the briefest of smiles before hurrying her pace towards the assumed security of the stairwell.
“Bastard,” she whispered, being sure that no one could hear, but then double-checking over her shoulder to be absolutely certain that Straus hadn’t heard her whisper.
Straus was still standing in the hallway, admiring the view of her backside as she was walking away from him. Still standing there with a smug smile of ignorant expectation when she reached the stairs.
“Bastard,” she said again, in an even quieter whisper.
Ward C wasn’t a ward at all, at least not in the typical sense. The ward was comprised of only four rooms and a bathroom. The most important room was called “the hub.” It was a semi-circular room with two-way mirrors affording the room’s occupant a clear and private view into the three adjoining rooms. To the east was a small, 15 by 15 foot bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, and nothing hung from the walls. The only furniture in the room was a 1950’s style baby crib, three fold-up metal chairs, a small, well-worn coffee table, and a large cabinet filled with medical supplies.
To the north, the hub looked into a dimly lit room, much longer than wider, that contained one long, white table. On the table were strewn several notebooks, empty blood vials, several syringes – some in and some outside of their packaging, a coffee pot in dire need of cleaning, and three microscopes. Towards the far end of the room, a small, squared off area contained the only restroom in Ward C.
The room that could be seen when looking westward from the hub was a well-lighted lounge. The couch, four reclining chairs, and solid oak end and coffee tables seemed out of place for an institution struggling to get sufficient funds to improve patient care. This was the only room of the four that was carpeted, clean, and comfortable.
Each room could only be accessed from the hub, and no room had any windows.
Only mirrored walls.
The hub was used to closely monitor specific patients in the years that Straus and his team had more “freedom” in their treatment plans. Now, it was to be used to monitor the new patient that was being delivered to them from Chicago.
As Michelle Pettingall checked the medical supply closet, making sure that it was stocked for what Straus had called an “indefinite stay,” she began to wonder what kind of experiments Straus and his team had conducted in Ward C only a few years before. And she wondered what
“We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pettingall, and wish there was something that the city could do. However, rewarding behaviors like those that the report proves your husband was doing, sends a message to every firefighter in the city. We are sorry for your loss.”
For the last three years, Michelle had put up with Straus, the horrible working conditions at Hilburn, and the loneliness of losing the only man she had ever loved. She put up with it all without the support of friends or family. Her parents were divorced when Michelle was seven, and while she maintained somewhat of a relationship with her mother who lived in Maine, her father had drunk himself to death over eight years ago. As for friends, all of those were the wives of other firefighters that were stationed with Ken. When Ken died, so did the friendships.
When Straus dismissed the team, Michelle turned to walk back up the two flights of dusty stairs to Ward C to make sure nothing was missed. She was no more than ten steps away when she heard Straus call her name.
“It will certainly be nice working so closely with you, Michelle. It will certainly be nice.”
She turned and only offered the briefest of smiles before hurrying her pace towards the assumed security of the stairwell.
“Bastard,” she whispered, being sure that no one could hear, but then double-checking over her shoulder to be absolutely certain that Straus hadn’t heard her whisper.
Straus was still standing in the hallway, admiring the view of her backside as she was walking away from him. Still standing there with a smug smile of ignorant expectation when she reached the stairs.
“Bastard,” she said again, in an even quieter whisper.
Ward C wasn’t a ward at all, at least not in the typical sense. The ward was comprised of only four rooms and a bathroom. The most important room was called “the hub.” It was a semi-circular room with two-way mirrors affording the room’s occupant a clear and private view into the three adjoining rooms. To the east was a small, 15 by 15 foot bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, and nothing hung from the walls. The only furniture in the room was a 1950’s style baby crib, three fold-up metal chairs, a small, well-worn coffee table, and a large cabinet filled with medical supplies.
To the north, the hub looked into a dimly lit room, much longer than wider, that contained one long, white table. On the table were strewn several notebooks, empty blood vials, several syringes – some in and some outside of their packaging, a coffee pot in dire need of cleaning, and three microscopes. Towards the far end of the room, a small, squared off area contained the only restroom in Ward C.
The room that could be seen when looking westward from the hub was a well-lighted lounge. The couch, four reclining chairs, and solid oak end and coffee tables seemed out of place for an institution struggling to get sufficient funds to improve patient care. This was the only room of the four that was carpeted, clean, and comfortable.
Each room could only be accessed from the hub, and no room had any windows.
Only mirrored walls.
The hub was used to closely monitor specific patients in the years that Straus and his team had more “freedom” in their treatment plans. Now, it was to be used to monitor the new patient that was being delivered to them from Chicago.
As Michelle Pettingall checked the medical supply closet, making sure that it was stocked for what Straus had called an “indefinite stay,” she began to wonder what kind of experiments Straus and his team had conducted in Ward C only a few years before. And she wondered what
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