THEASSOCIATE ENTERED THEWOODSCOUNTYCONVALESCENTCenter. The single-story building sat just outside Concord, near the regional hospital. It had been built five years ago, replacing a facility that had far outlived its usefulness. Its stats were impressive. Seventy-eight beds, a staff of fifty-one, its equipment state-of-the-art. The average age of a resident was seventy-nine, the current population divided sixty/forty, women to men. Everythingwas geared toward comfort. There were morning-coffee socials, craft classes, movies, video games, even candlelight dinners and birthday celebrations. As the center’s promotional brochure noted,We work together with the family to provide ongoing therapeutic programs that meet every resident’s needs.
Sounded great.
But he was a long way from retiring and, when he did, it would be to a beach somewhere warm where he could enjoy the fruits of his many labors.
After all, he was a pro.
He’d timed his visit to coincide with the evening shuffle. The file had indicated that 5:00 to 7:00P.M.each day was not only a shift change, but a time when family members came and went, many dropping by either on their way home from work or after supper. Nearly all the elderly residents were locals, most born and raised in Woods County, men and women who’d worked their whole lives either at the paper mill, or for the county, or in the school system. Those were the top three local employers. The first convalescent center had been built in the 1960s, fully funded by Southern Republic Pulp and Paper, which owned the local paper mill. It was eventually remodeled twice.The company’s way to give back, was how it had been billed both times in the press.
The file he’d studied on the Priority had contained photographs, license plates, and physical descriptions of the nearest relatives, but none of those faces had arrived during the past three hours of his surveillance, and none of their cars were parked in the nearly empty lot.
He knew the building stretched a little over twenty thousand square feet under roof, spread across two acres of flat, wooded land that had also been donated by Southern Republic. The Priority resided inside Room 46, in the building’s east wing. His name was J. J. Jordon, seventy-four years old, suffering from severe blood clots in his legs, aggravated by gout and kidney failure. He should have died three weeks ago when another Associate had paid a visit to Jordon’s home and switched out medications. That was acommon method for processing, since the only question it raised was the liability of the pharmacy that had filled the prescription.
Which wasn’t his problem.
In fact, the whole idea of the Priority program was to make a death somebody else’s problem.
He’d studied Jordon’s medical records, to which he had easy access, and noted that the old man’s condition had stabilized. His family had chosen to admit him to the local convalescent center since they were no longer able to care for him on a twenty-four-hour basis. The incident with the bad pills had taken a toll, aggravating things, but not to the point of being fatal. So far, nineteen days of constant care had racked up quite a bill, the amount growing every day, with no end in sight.
This was not his first visit to the convalescent center, so he knew its layout. Thankfully, they’d caught a break with the family choosing here as the place to admit him. An outside facility would have only complicated matters. Medical records indicated that Jordon was being fed a constant supply of nasal oxygen. He was also heavily sedated, sleep being deemed the best medicine. That might explain why there were no visitors this evening to Room 46.
Information was so important.
It could be your best ally, which was why the files were prepared with such detail.
He walked down the carpeted corridor and bypassed the residents’ rooms, heading instead for a closed door at the end of the hall. He was dressed in a suit and tie, one of the facility’s security badges draped around his neck, which identified him as a physician from Savannah. He carried a small black bag. Medical professionals with regular business at the center were issued the badges, which allowed them to come and go as they pleased. Those from Savannah or Augusta were commonplace.
He stopped at the door and glanced around.
No one was in sight.
Security cameras had intentionally not been installed. The governing board that ran the facility, comprising seven WoodsCounty residents, had thought the measure unnecessary. This was a place where people came to live their final years in peace. Nothing nefarious about that.
So why spend the money.
He inserted the key that he’d brought and freed the lock. Inside was a mechanical room. He flicked on the light switch then relocked the door. His internal clock began ticking. He could not stay here long. Every second increased the risk of exposure. Processing this Priority, in this manner, was not standard operating procedure. But correcting the mistake of three weeks ago had demanded that more risk than usual be taken.
He opened the black leather bag and removed a small cylinder. He then approached a bank of tubes and valves, all leading to the center’s respiratory generator. From there, pure oxygen was sent through the walls to each of the rooms, available if needed.
And currently, Room 46 was in need.
Actual processing decisions were always left to the Associate’s discretion, though the final choice had to be approved before implementation. Once he’d learned that J. J. Jordon was here, the choice had been a no-brainer. Years ago, in central Alabama, an eighty-year-old woman had died in the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s. Police ultimately determined that a bleed line used to carbonate the drink dispenser had disconnected and flooded the bathroom with carbon dioxide. Levels built to a lethal dose, killing the elderly woman when she entered. Talk about a freak occurrence. How many people died going to the bathroom?
When the convalescent center was remodeled, this particular oxygen feed system had been purchased because of its quick-release valves. Normally there for purging, they also made for an excellent entry point. It had been three years since they’d last been utilized—by him then, too. That Priority had been easily eliminated, and this one, tonight, should be the same. The cylinder he’d brought already had a short span of flex-tubing leading from its valve, the male counterpart to that female attachment on the oxygen line leading to Room 46. The cylinder contained diosogene.Colorless, but with a slight odor that resembled cut hay or grass. It, along with phosgene, was used as a chemical weapon in World War I, but had fallen out of favor in the time since. The great thing about it was that it didn’t take much to kill and it left no residual traces, dissipating quickly.
He snapped on latex gloves, then disconnected the oxygen line for Room 46, connecting the cylinder and opening the valve, flooding the line. But instead of life-giving oxygen, J. J. Jordon was now breathing poison. Being heavily sedated helped, as there should be no convulsions. Unconsciousness would be nearly immediate. No heart or breath monitors were attached to Jordon. Instead, the file stated that he was checked several times an hour by the on-duty staff.
He kept the gas flowing.
Two minutes.
Three.
Five.
That should do it.
He disconnected and reattached the oxygen, which would quickly flush the line clean. He then deposited the cylinder and the gloves into his bag and prepared to leave. Back in the hall he worked his way toward the main entrance, blending in with people coming and going from the rooms.
