Camouflage

Chapter 38

The rest of that day, and into the next, was the worst yet.

Don arrived back at the hospital to find reporters loitering around the hospital entrance, apparently waiting for anyone who could give them an update on Charlie's condition. They saw him and surged forward, clamoring for information. "Agent Eppes, what's your brother's condition? Agent Eppes, have you found out who did this?"

To them, he was a walking jackpot – Don was sure they believed he had information not only on Charlie's condition, but also on the investigation that they knew was ongoing. None of them had any inkling that what happened to Charlie was linked to the Warriors investigation, or that the focus of investigation had turned toward Murciano. Don spotted a familiar face in the crowd – the red head of Mark Wallenstein was at the front of the pack. Their eyes met, and Wallenstein must have seen something in his face, for as Don struggled to push through the crowd, Wallenstein started pushing them back. "Come on guys," he said. "Be respectful – give the guy his space."

"Easy for you to say," groused one of them. "Mr. Exclusive – maybe you're getting your info on the side."

"I won't honor that with an answer," Wallenstein said flatly, but in spite of resistance from the heckler, the crowed obeyed Wallenstein and reluctantly dropped back, at least enough for Don push his way through, although their clamor followed him all the way to hospital doors.

He got upstairs to the ICU to find that Charlie had continued his decline. He had received two transfusions of the stem cells and Camouflage so far with no effect; in fact, the markers that the doctors were tracking pointed to continuing system decline. In addition, they were tracking the level of production of enzymes in the pancreas. Those enzymes were powerful and caustic, produced in small amounts by a healthy pancreas to help digest food. Charlie's pancreas was in overdrive, dumping far more of the powerful enzymes into his body than his system could handle. The hope was that the stem cells would promote enough healing that the pancreas would calm down, and the enzyme level would decline. There was no sign of that yet. Don and Alan began a vigil, with Larry and Amita joining them for most of it. The hospital staff again chose to look the other way and allowed the four visitors instead of the limit of two.

They sat for hours, hopes rising every time blood work was drawn, and enduring silent disappointment every time it came back with worse results. Charlie's oxygen levels were down, his kidneys were showing preliminary signs of failure, his pancreatic enzyme level was still extremely high, and he had stopped opening his eyes. He was teetering on the edge of no return; even if the stem cells started working, he was fast approaching a point at which his body could not recover. As the grim reality of that set in with yet another test result, Amita cracked.

"It's not fair!" she stormed, suddenly standing upright, her voice quavering. "Why him?" She turned and hurried out of the room as tears overcame her, and Larry rose quietly and went after her.

Although the comment wasn't directed at him, Don took the full brunt of it. Why Charlie? Charlie was here in this situation because of Don – perhaps indirectly, but he was still here because of Don's work, Don's involvement in this particular case. Charlie was dying, and Don couldn't shake the feeling that it was essentially because of him – and he was equally certain that the thought would remain with him long after Charlie was gone, until the end of his days.

He was so immersed in a misery of self-recrimination that he didn't realize that the latest round of tests had come back, didn't hear the quiet conversation in the hallway between Alan and Doctor Schilling concerning the results. Alan came back in the room, his face somber but with just a bit of hope in his eyes, and laid a hand on Don's shoulder as he sat hunched in his chair.

"That last round showed that the production of the pancreatic enzymes was down somewhat," he said. "Doctor Schilling said we would need a couple more rounds like that to show that we have true improvement, but it is a hopeful sign. He said they are getting ready to give him another transfusion."

And so began a glimmer of hope, which stayed with them on through the wait and was bolstered at the next round of blood work, and the next, both of which showed a slight decrease in the pancreatic enzymes. The other markers were still slipping, however; Schilling warned them that they would likely continue to decline for a period of time even after they stabilized the function of Charlie's pancreas.

Visitors came and went – Donna Bainbridge was in again to check on Charlie's progress, and disappeared again to go consult with the other doctors. David and Colby stopped by after office hours. Their visit reminded Don how much Charlie had declined. Don had grown somewhat accustomed to seeing him this way – gaunt, bedraggled, with tubes protruding and skin that had taken on a grayish cast. David and Colby had last seen him before he'd gone into surgery, and they looked taken aback at the sight of him now. They didn't stay long, and offered subdued words of support. Their visit made Don think back to how Charlie had looked when they last saw him, before surgery – just a few days ago – and that made his mind return to their last interaction, and he winced. Their last real conversation had ended with an argument, with Don upbraiding his brother for his decision not to have the surgery, and now it seemed that Charlie's worst fears were coming true – that he would not awaken after the surgery – or that if he even made it through the operation he would be so sick he could not spend his last moments making the most of his time with his family and friends. He was being robbed of that wish, because Don had pressured him into the surgery.

The thought was so depressing that Don could feel tears starting again and to try to squelch them, he rose suddenly and muttered that he was going for a walk. It was around ten o'clock in the evening, and the activity in the hospital hallways was dying down. Don took the elevator down and found himself on the first floor, which was mostly empty that time of night – no people coming for lab work or x-rays. He wandered around the block of hallways back past the main lab. The seating area that had been set on fire had been repaired, with new carpet and fresh chairs, the scent of smoke obliterated by the smell of fresh paint. Down the hallway, the room next to the small lab where Charlie was put the evening of the fire was closed and dark, but Don could see through a small window in the door – the bullet-marked wall had been replaced by a new partition. The lab door next to it also looked new – the old one had been shot up on the other side. He stood and stared at it for a while, remembering the chaos of that night, remembering Gruselli stalking them in the hallways – trying to get back some of the anger he felt for the man – any feeling was preferable to the emptiness he felt inside.

He wandered back around and realized that the cafeteria was getting ready to close and neither he nor his father had eaten in hours, so he ordered two chicken sandwiches and asked for them in boxes. Amita and Larry had eventually come back in Charlie's room after her meltdown, but they had been gone for a while, and Don figured they had gotten something while they were out – but if not, he reasoned, he would tell them that they needed to get down to the cafeteria soon. The thoughts, practical and mundane, floated through his mind, in and out. He was numb; he was on auto-pilot.

He headed for the elevators, and his wandering mind was pulled back into the present by the buzz of his cell phone. He frowned at the display, and answered. "Eppes."

"Hi Agent Eppes, it's Mark Wallenstein."

"I don't have any comment."

"I wasn't looking for one." Wallenstein's voice was tentative, empathetic; sincere. "I just wanted you to know I'm wishing the best for you and for your brother. I have to admit – I saw your face outside today and I just assumed things are not the greatest right now – and, well I felt badly. I just wanted you to know I'm rooting for you both."

There was an awkward pause, and then Don said quietly, "Thank you, I appreciate it."

"No problem." And then the line went dead. Don tucked his cell phone in his pocket and rubbed his forehead – he had to admit it was the oddest call he'd ever gotten from a reporter – but then again, he'd never been in a position like this before, with his brother dying almost in public, due to the media storm that Don himself had started.

He got upstairs to find that yet another round of blood work had come in, and his father was pacing out in the hallway, apparently anxious for his return. "You're back!" he exclaimed, with the first smile that Don had seen on his face in days. "The last round of blood work came back. The pancreatic enzymes are way down – the stem cells are working, and faster than they thought they would."

Don handed him a sandwich, and they walked down the hallway to recessed area with a cluster of chairs. "What about the other markers?"

Alan's smile dimmed a bit. "Still declining," he said. "But Doctor Schilling told us they would decline for a bit, even after they stabilized his pancreas." He took the sandwich from its box and just held it; it could have been a piece of cardboard, for the interest it got from him. "He's got a chance, now, Donny. If he can just hang on long enough, he has a chance."

Amita and Larry stayed until two in the morning, and left only because they had classes to teach the next day. Don and Alan remained there, taking turns napping in the recliner and keeping vigil, the longest night Don could remember. Two more rounds of blood work – they were being done every three hours. The first one still showed decline in his oxygen levels and kidney function, and sparked a muttered, heartfelt prayer from Alan. The second one came back the same as the first. The same. When the lab technician reported that to them as she recorded the results in Charlie's chart, Don wasn't quite sure what that meant. The same, as in still declining, or the same, as in the same as the last readings?

"The same," she assured them, with a small smile. "No deterioration from last time." She didn't go so far as to say it was a good sign, but her smile was encouraging.

She left, and it was Alan's turn in the chair, and he settled in with another quiet prayer, this one of thanks. He fell asleep almost immediately, and Don lowered himself onto the straight-backed chair next to Charlie's bed, and laid a hand on his brother's wrist. "Come on, Charlie," he whispered. "You can do this."

The next day dawned cool and sunny. Don left his father and Charlie, both out cold, and headed into the office. He got there early, but David and Colby were in ahead of him. They both gave him the look – the "what are you doing here, what happened" look, not sure if they should be encouraged by his presence or be getting prepared to offer condolences.

"He's doing a little better," Don said, and they both broke into relieved grins. "They seem to have his pancreas under control, and the other markers are holding their own."

"That's great," said Colby, beaming. "Megan called in this morning, she's going stir crazy, she said. She has two more days at home before they'll release her to come in – and then she'll need to be on desk duty for a while. I'll give her a call and let her know - she was asking how he was."

David seemed energized by the news. "We're going over - with some LAPD help - to conduct a search at Murciano's home today," he said briskly. "We got the warrant signed yesterday afternoon. Gruselli coughed up plenty. Unfortunately he wasn't in on all of it at the beginning – but he came in early enough and got the scoop from Murciano himself on what had happened before he got there. Apparently, Ansel Stevenson was providing steroids masked by Camouflage to the team, under Murciano's orders. Murciano threatened to pull his lab funding if he didn't cooperate. Trainer Frank was the contact – he'd pick the steroids up from Stevenson and deliver them to the six team members. As we suspected, the six team members were given pre-paid cell phones, and they carried out business using those – when to meet to pick up the stuff, and so on."

Don nodded with approval. "Donna Bainbridge can verify at trial that Trainer Frank was at Stevenson's lab. She'd seen him there twice picking up the stuff."

"Frank Sczechnewski is also apparently the one who delivered the defective medicine to Charlie's tea," David said somberly. "Murciano didn't give Gruselli any details on how he did it, but he did tell him that Frank did it when Murciano was bringing Gruselli up to speed after he arrived. They originally planned it as a distraction, but when Donna Bainbridge disappeared, they tried to use it as a lever to get you to give her location to them. Rocky Dellarocco was brought in before Gruselli. He was the one who bugged your SUV, and Gruselli said he bugged the six player's phones, too, so they could listen in on them and make sure none of them caved under the pressure of the investigation. Dellarocco was the one who made the phone calls to you about Charlie being poisoned. Rocky was also the one who attacked Charlie in the parking lot at CalSci the night he went into the hospital. Rocky and Frank killed Stevenson in his lab, and were in the gray Taurus that chased you and Donna Bainbridge the night we brought her down from Madera. It was those two who were firing at you over the top of that cliff. Gruselli had just got into town from Vegas that evening, and he said he listened to it all over the recording equipment, along with Murciano in his office. Murciano was giving the orders. While they listened, Murciano filled him in on what had been going on."

"The hospital attack was carried out by Gruselli and Rocky," David went on. "Frank wasn't a career criminal, like them, and they didn't trust him to help with that one. Gruselli and Dellarocco had apparently worked together before. Gruselli said they were given orders by Murciano to find Donna Bainbridge and try to take her alive if possible, or, if they could get out of her where the research material was that she had taken, he gave them the order to kill her and to go get the material. Later, when that was unsuccessful, they decided to take out Frank instead, because he had been identified by Donna as someone on the team – they had heard Donna tell you that via the bug, and they knew it was just a matter of time before she got a chance to look at team personnel and identify who he was. So they took Frank out that night, and Gruselli said he was told to take out Rocky too, since Bainbridge had also seen him. That way, they cut the link."

"What about turning up Charlie's morphine drip?" Don said. "What'd he have to say about that?"

"We think he's lying on that one, and possibly the Dellarocco killing, also, but there's no way to prove it. He said that was Murciano's order also, but Bob Patrick and the LAPD detective who was with him said they think that was Gruselli's own idea. He had a habit that only showed up during the sketchiest parts of his story – he kept rubbing the back of his neck while he was explaining tampering with the morphine, and also when he said Murciano told him to take Rocky out in addition to Frank. They think he was lying both times, and that both of those were his idea. It'll be his word against Murciano's."

Don reflected that it was going to be Gruselli's word against Murciano's for much of the story, which might pose a problem. They would need to get as much independent verification as possible.

"Gruselli did say he took the football from Charlie's room, and used it to look like a visitor with a gift as he walked the hospital halls looking for Donna Bainbridge," David continued. "He walked right past us in the hallway – you and Colby both saw him and can verify that piece. He said he gave the football to Murciano the morning after he shot Rocky and Frank – he paid Murciano one last visit in his office and they solidified payment terms. He said Murciano was going to put the money in his offshore account. He gave us the number and we checked the account. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened yet, and if we bring Murciano in today it might not. If Murciano has heard somehow that Gruselli is in custody, he won't transfer the money – he won't want to incriminate himself."

"When are you going to serve the warrant?" Don asked. "I want to go along."

Colby and David both looked at him, and Don knew they were thinking about his apparent loss of control in the interview room yesterday. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm going with you."

End, Chapter 38

Author's note - back from my trip - look for a bonus chapter tomorrow..