Chapter 9 - The Doctor in the Pocket
I didn't wait for Detective Miller to assemble a formal SWAT warrant to apprehend Thorne. While the police department began navigating the bureaucratic red tape required to raid a high-profile medical facility, I left the precinct with Mark Davis and Elena, who had insisted on accompanying us. We drove directly to the West End Medical Pavilion in my armored sedan, the engine roaring through the midday city traffic.
When we pushed through the double glass doors of the private cardiology wing, the reception staff recognized me instantly. A young nurse stood up behind the mahogany desk, flashing a polite, well-rehearsed smile. “Mr. Vance! We weren't expecting you today. How is little Noah doing this afternoon? Dr. Thorne is currently in a private consultation in his executive suite, but I can—”
“Stay at the desk,” Mark Davis commanded, his voice carrying an icy authority that froze the nurse mid-sentence. Two of my security operatives stepped forward, quietly positioning themselves by the elevators and the stairwell exits, effectively sealing the executive suite off from the rest of the building.
I didn't bother knocking on the frosted glass door marked Chief of Cardiology: Dr. Gregory Thorne. I grabbed the brass handle, threw the door open, and stepped into the plush, leather-appointed office.
Dr. Thorne was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of digital patient files on his monitor while sipping an espresso. He looked up, his polished, silver-haired patrician features twisting into an expression of mild annoyance at the intrusion before he recognized my face. He stood up immediately, buttoning his tailored white lab coat.
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“Marcus!” Thorne said, smoothly adopting his best bedside manner—the same deeply empathetic, concerned tone he had used when telling me my son was going to die. “This is a surprise. I was just reviewing Noah’s latest blood panels. I know how difficult these final stages are for a parent, but you really shouldn't be away from his bedside right now. We need to discuss transitioning him to palliative hospice care before the weekend.”
I walked across the Persian rug until I was standing directly across the desk from him. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the glass dropper Elena had recovered from beneath Noah’s breakfast tray, and dropped it onto the center of his polished desk. It landed with a sharp, heavy clack, rolling until it bumped against his porcelain espresso cup.
