Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script

To Madison, author of "The Adventures of Kitty Wonder," who has promised to support me one day with her writing.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, Dr. Doug P. Lyle was an invaluable asset, available day and night for my insane medical questions. Any errors are entirely my fault and I am already deeply embarrassed about them.

I couldn't have written this book without technical assistance in matters of law, technology, ballistics, accounting, and computer science from Robert Bruce Thompson, Stuart Dumas, Paul Bishop, Jason Stoffmacher, Jacquelyn Blain, Gerald Elkins, and Gary G. Mehalik.

And finally, special thanks to Tod Goldberg, William Rabkin, Gina Maccoby, Dan Slater, and most of all my wife,

Valerie, for their continued enthusiasm and support.

PROLOGUE

Over the years, dozens of hospital administrators have tried to force Dr. Mark Sloan, Community General's eccentric chief of internal medicine, to follow some simple rules of conduct.

All they asked was that he maintain a professional demeanor, attend regular administrative meetings, operate his department within a strict budget, and not indulge his inexplicable interest in homicide investigation on hospital time.

By and large they were an impressive bunch of administrators. Smart, capable, often fearsome, but Dr. Sloan had conquered them all.

That wasn't going to happen with Noah Dent. Community General's new chief administrator was fresh from the Hollyworld International corporate office in Ft. Lauderdale, where the thirty-one-year-old had been a rising star in the acquisitions department. Although primarily known for its amusement parks, Hollyworld had diversified into cruise lines, fast-food franchises, office buildings, and hospital ownership.

Dent's aggressive, take-no-prisoners approach to the hostile takeover and absorption of businesses into the Hollyworld corporate family impressed his superiors, who felt he was just the right person to wring a wider margin of profitability from Community General.

Before Dent was transferred to his new post in Los Angeles, he put together a detailed file on Mark Sloan and the administrators the doctor had defeated. Now, in advance of Dent's first meeting with Dr. Sloan, the administrator once again studied the case histories of his immediate predecessors to see what lessons he could learn from their embarrassing failures.

Kate Hamilton came to Community General after steering two mismanaged hospitals from the brink of bankruptcy to profitability. But within a year, Dr. Sloan defanged her, convincing her to quit her job, sell her home, and use the proceeds to establish a nonprofit food bank in the inner city.

Norman Briggs, her successor, showed great promise as a hard-line bottom-liner, having spearheaded the hostile takeover of the hospital by Mediverse Corporation. But somehow Dr. Sloan managed to compromise Briggs completely. Not only did Briggs let Dr. Sloan use hospital resources and staff as he pleased in his murder investigations, but the administrator became his eager flunky.

When Community General was sold to Healthcorp International, they brought in General Harold Lomax, who'd spent ten years running battlefield medical operations for the United States Marine Corps before being lured into the private sector. Healthcorp was certain that Lomax could bring Dr. Sloan, and the Community General budget, under control. But eight months later, Lomax resigned with an extreme case of irritable bowel syndrome and left behind a hospital literally in ruins, decimated by a serial bomber stalking Dr. Sloan.

From what Dent could tell, it wasn't that Dr. Sloan possessed any Machiavellian political skills. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He wore his administrative adversaries down with his utter affability, gentle humor, and relentless good will.

Those days were about to end.

Noah Dent was immune to humor and goodwill, especially where business was concerned. Mark Sloan would find himself powerless against him.

Mark showed up promptly at the appointed hour, which was at the end of a long shift on a weekday afternoon. Dent had chosen that time purposely to catch Mark at his lowest ebb, when he was tired and off his game. Even so, Mark entered flashing a warm smile and extending his hand.

"Welcome to Community General," Mark said. "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, but I hope you'll call me Mark."

Dent offered the tightest of polite smiles in return as he shook Mark's hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Sloan. Please, take a seat."

He motioned Mark into his spartan office and tried to hide his disappointment. In the flesh, Mark Sloan just didn't live up to Dent's expectations.

Although Dent knew Mark's weapons were his charm and good-natured humor, he still expected the doctor to be an overpowering force of nature, to fill a room with his indomitable personality. But compared to the corporate executives Dent had symbolically beheaded in the past—men who commanded a room and exuded hurricane-strength charisma—Dr. Sloan seemed decidedly weak. He was just a white-haired old doctor in a wrinkled lab coat.

Mark took the seat that was offered to him and smiled as warmly as he could, considering the chilly temperature of both the room and the man who inhabited it.

"I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to get together until today," Mark said. "My life has been kind of chaotic lately and is only just settling down again."

"Indeed." Dent settled into his chair behind his desk and opened the file in front of him. "You've been traveling a lot over the past few weeks. Hawaii, Colorado, New Mexico, Palm Springs. Quite an itinerary."

"I wish I could say it was for pleasure, but I was helping the authorities pursue a killer," Mark said, well aware that Dent already knew that. The details had been widely reported by the media, mostly because the case involved the kidnapping and murder of a Las Vegas casino owner's teenage daughter.

"I'm sure the FBI and the LAPD appreciated having an internist on the case," Dent said. "I just wish you put as much effort into your duties at this hospital as you do playing amateur sleuth."

Mark was prepared to defend himself to Dent; it was something of a ritual for each new administrator to try to exert some control over him. But he didn't expect such a direct attack.

"I've been on the staff of this hospital longer than any other doctor here," Mark said. "I've treated generations of families and trained countless physicians over the past forty years."

"I don't doubt your qualifications, Dr. Sloan, or your skills as a physician. You're a respected member of your profession," Dent said. "What I question is your commitment to this hospital and your blatant abuse of the privileges you've been granted here."

"I haven't been granted anything, Mr. Dent. Whatever I have, I've earned." Mark was surprised how quickly Dent had managed to get under his skin.

Dent sighed wearily. "An inflated, and misplaced, sense of entitlement. That's usually the excuse employees use to justify to themselves stealing office supplies, padding the expense account, and making long-distance calls on office phones."

"I admit sometimes I forget to take my pen out of my pocket before I go home," Mark said. "If you like, you can deduct the cost from my paycheck."

Dent referred to the file in front of him. "Your son, Steve, is a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Frequently over the years you've assisted in his investigations."

"I'm a consultant to the police," Mark said.

"Really?" Dent said. "Do they pay you?"

"No, I volunteer my time."

"That's not all you volunteer," Dent said. "You also freely offer the resources of this hospital and the services of its employees. Who do you think pays for the overtime when Dr. Bentley pulls an all-fighter dissecting a corpse for you?"

"Amanda is the adjunct county medical examiner," Mark said. "The county compensates her for her work."

"Yes, they do, for the work they order, not the work you ask her to do," Dent said. "Let's be honest, Dr. Sloan. The medical examiner's satellite office is here for your amusement and convenience—a personal playground cleverly paid for by our shareholders and Los Angeles taxpayers."

"The medical examiner's office is here because they desperately needed additional manpower and more morgue space," Mark said. "We're providing a service to the community."

"But it was you who suggested they open their morgue here at Community General and staff it with one of our pathologists."

"Because it was a fast, simple, and inexpensive way to solve a serious problem facing the county and help shore up the hospital's finances at the same time."

"And it brought you a constant supply of fresh corpses to play with," Dent said, shaking his head with disgust. "I don't know how you managed to pull it off, Dr. Sloan."

"As I recall, the board voted unanimously for the project," Mark said stiffly, trying to keep his rising anger in check.

"The same board that drove Healthcorp International into bankruptcy," Dent said. "Which is why they no longer own this hospital and we do."

"I can't tell you how thrilled we all are about that, too," Mark said. "I've always wanted to work for a division of an amusement park company."

"Hollyworld International has diversified into many areas," Dent said. "But we treat each of them as if they were our core business."

"Which is to make as much money as possible," Mark said.

"Of course," Dent said. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Making money is the whole point of operating a business, Dr. Sloan."

"I don't look at medicine as a business."

"That is abundantly clear," Dent said. "You look at it as a way to subsidize your detective work."

"It's unfortunate that you see things that way." Mark glanced at his watch and rose from his seat. "As much as I've enjoyed our chat, I'm coming to the end of a long shift. I should be getting home."

"Well, that's one thing we agree on, Dr. Sloan," Dent said. "In more ways than one."

* * *

Cleve Kershaw was irresistible and he knew it. He had the complete package: money, charm, and power. Looks had nothing to do with it, though by his estimation he was no slouch in that department, either.

Part of his undeniable allure, he knew, was his casual self-confidence, which came from having an accurate sense of who he was and where he stood in the Hollywood universe. He was a player. Certified, bona fide, and blow-dried. Somebody who made things happen. Somebody that nobodies aspired to be. A producer, with a capital "P."

"God, it's beautiful," Amy Butler said, standing on the wide deck of Cleve's Malibu beach house, the gentle breeze rippling the thin fabric of her sheer, untucked blouse as she admired the view. "Just awesome."

Cleve was also admiring an awesome view—at least what he could see of it when the wind hit her shirt just right.

Amy was irresistible and probably knew it, too. She had it all: beauty, youth, and innocence, though the fact she was with him now put that last quality in doubt. Not that he cared. Amy's ability to project innocence she didn't have revealed a natural talent for acting, which was more valuable than innocence, anyway.