Free GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 by Wayne Batson Page A

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    The charge nurses upstairs weren’t quite as friendly as the receptionist. They looked like photocopies of each other, except one had hair dyed blonde and the other, hair dyed black. I told them I needed to see Doctor Shepherd. They told me to sit in the waiting room.  
    The waiting room turned out to be an uncomfortable bench in the middle of a hallway. And it’s relatively safe to say that waiting is not one of my finer qualities.  
    Twenty minutes later, I heard muted thunder. I went to the desk again and held up my badge and ID. Neither of the nurses looked up. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said. “But I’m investigating a serious crime. I really do need to speak to Doctor Shepherd.”
    The fake brunette said, “Doctor Shepherd is in surgery. I don’t much care what your badge says or what you’re investigating. No one rushes surgery.”
    “So, unless you’re God,” the fake blonde said, “and you’re planning a miracle, I suggest you take a seat or make an actual appointment during Doctor Shepherd’s office hours.”
    The nurses glanced at each other, and I could see high fives in their eyes.  
    Thirty more minutes on the bench later, and I couldn’t hear any more thunder. I missed the storm.  
    “Ah, there you are.”  
    I looked up and found an amiable gentleman standing there. He had dark gray, close-cropped hair and matching sideburns. Wire-rimmed glasses framed his owlish, gray eyes. He wore a blue bow tie and a smile. His handlebar mustache looked perfect for twirling, and I thought maybe he did twirl it as his genius intellect worked.  
    “They kept you in the hall, all this time?” he asked with a subtle gesture towards the charge nurses.
    I nodded. “I understand you were in surgery.”
    “Oh, nonsense. It was just a routine aortic stent.” With a humorous pigeon-toed gait, he strode to the nurses station. “Nurse Brandywine, Nurse Pelagris, how could you keep this fine officer waiting on this ridiculous bench?”
    The brunette looked carefully indignant. “He didn’t make an appointment.”
    “Oh, don’t be obtuse,” he said. “Crime doesn’t make an appointment. This man has work to do. You should have at least let him wait in my office.” He cast a surprisingly stern glare at both of them and then motioned for me to follow.

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    Covered by so many matted diplomas, certificates, awards, and special recognitions, the office had almost no visible wall space. Apparently, Dr. Shepherd was very good at what he did. Either that, or he was an egotist.  
    He sat backward at his desk so he could face me. “So tell me, detective, how can I help you?”
    “You know I’m a detective just from looking at me?”
    “No, no,” Dr. Shepherd replied. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Carol—receptionist in the front lobby—left me a message, said you had a badge and some questions.”
    I decided not to correct the good doctor’s notion of my identity and nodded. “I was wondering if you could identify this instrument.” I handed him the photocopy.
    He held it in both hands for a moment. Then he leaned back in the chair and used one hand to twirl his mustache while he stared on. Genius at work, just as I suspected.  
    “Surgical steel,” he said quietly.  
    “You’re sure?”
    “Young man, I refuse to speak unless I’m sure. This is a steel-chromium-nickel alloy—surgical steel. Look here.” He held the photo and gestured from the blade to the handle. “Notice there’s no corrosion on the blade. None at all. The handle and casing, however, all show signs of many years of use.”
    I nodded affirmation and then offered, “Some have claimed that this is the type of blade Jack the Ripper used.”
    Shepherd laughed and cleared his throat. “Jack the Ripper, mmhm. The Rumbelow blade, eh? No, this blade is quite different. Of course, no one really knows what weapon the Whitechapel killer used.