Free GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 by Wayne Batson

captures in my hand and stared down at the analysis of the murder weapon. The knife was fourteen inches long, though only two and a half of those were blade. It had a wooden handle, studded with brass like a steak knife, but the body of the weapon was enclosed in nickel plate—not brass. The blade was twin sided, likely surgical steel, but very old. FBI’s analysis said the blade would have been used by turn-of-the-century thoracic surgeons who would use the added length to cut deep inside the chest cavity. Of course, all they had were still photos of the murder weapon, so all of this was conjecture. Informed conjecture, but conjecture nonetheless.  
    One thing for sure, it was a very unusual weapon. I needed a second opinion. Who better to ask than doctors to get a second opinion, especially concerning a blade?  
    Thunder rumbled out over the Gulf. Storms were like clockwork in parts of the deep South. Almost every day between 4:30 and 4:45, you could count on the heat and humidity to bubble over into a mess of roiling dark clouds. Wind, torrential downpours, plenty of thunder and lightning—and it would all clear out in less than an hour.  
    I never grew tired of storms…the more powerful, the better. Looking at the black sky churning behind the hospital, I knew this storm would pack a wallop when it opened up. I hoped to be finished with my business so I could watch.  
    Yellow pastel facade with orange stucco shingles on its roof, towering palms scattered about the grounds, and all manner of bright, tropical flowers bursting from manicured beds—the hospital looked more like a resort, I thought. Cool, climate-controlled air washed over me as I entered. I found myself staring up into a beautiful atrium enclosed with massive sheets of glass. It felt like walking into a hollowed out prism. Colored light spilled down onto the marble floor and bathed patients and visitors alike. Three stories up hung a tall sculpted cross surrounded by winged cherubs and doves, all in brushed silver.  
    The angels looked like naked toddlers. I shook my head and went to the receptionist.
    She was a fifty-ish woman with hair the color of dark chocolate with ribbons of caramel. Frosty clear blue eyes looked out from behind stylish black framed reading glasses. She smiled and gave me a look like she knew everything there was to know. I held up an identification card and shield, aside from money, the only contents of a wallet from my silver case. The credentials didn’t say I worked for the FBI, CIA, or NSA. But hardly anyone looked closely enough to know for certain. I flipped shut the billfold and asked, “You have cardiac surgeons?”    
    “Best cardiac docs in the U.S.,” she replied. Her accent, deep south, rolled off her tongue: one part brilliant, one part honey. She didn’t question my identity at all. Picture ID and shiny shield. Works every time.
    “I’m looking for a certain kind,” I said. “Male or female, it doesn’t matter. Someone who has been around the field for a long time but still sharp.”
    “They’re all like that,” she said. “Most heart cutters are sharp.”
    “Point granted,” I said. “But I’m looking for someone who’s as clever as they come, the type who sees around corners, if you take my meaning.”
    “Doc Shepherd’s who you want. Chief of Surgery, the best cutter bar none, comes from a family of surgeons.” She lowered her glasses a little. “What do you need a surgeon for? Anyone in trouble?”
    “No, no, nothing like that,” I said, giving my best It’s just standard procedure shrug. “I need an expert’s opinion about a surgical instrument.”
    She smiled as if she understood completely. “Cardiology’s third floor, Gulf side. Ask the nurse if Doctor Shepherd is free. Oh, and you’ll need this.” She handed me a clip-on Panama City Beach Hospital guest card.  
    Photo ID, shiny shield, and now a hospital badge. Nothing could stop me now…or so I thought.  
       
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