Chapter 17 - The Trial of Public Opinion
By the next morning,
the story had broken.
The headlines were sensational:
“THE POISON PHARMACIST,”
“SURGEON UNDER SCRUTINY,”
“FORTY YEARS OF LIES.”
The hospital board had called an emergency meeting,
and Charles was the guest of honor.
He stood before the long,
mahogany table,
the same table where he had once been celebrated for his surgical breakthroughs.
The board members,
men and women he had known for decades,
looked at him with a mixture of pity and suspicion.
“Dr. Fletcher,”
the chairman began,
clearing his throat.
“The allegations regarding Mr. Prescott are...
disturbing.
But the fact remains that you are the beneficiary of a ten-million-dollar policy.
And there are recordings of you admitting to negligence.”
“The recordings were made while I was under the influence of illegal sedatives,”
Charles stated,
his voice echoing in the large room.
“Sedatives administered by Warren Prescott over the course of several years.”
“Can you prove this?”
a woman at the end of the table asked.
“I have a toxicology report,”
Charles said,
tossing a folder onto the table.
“My own blood work,
taken yesterday,
shows traces of long-term chemical manipulation.
I am not a killer,
and I am not a negligent doctor.
I am a survivor.”
The board members whispered among themselves.
The hospital’s reputation was on the line.
If they supported Charles and he was found guilty,
the lawsuits would bankrupt them.
If they fired him and he was innocent,
they would lose their greatest asset.
“Until the police investigation is concluded,”
the chairman said,
“we are placing you on administrative leave.
Your surgical privileges are suspended,
effective immediately.”
Charles nodded,
not surprised by the decision.
He felt a strange sense of relief as he handed over his ID badge.
For the first time in thirty years,
he wasn't a surgeon.
He was just Charles.
As he walked out of the hospital,
a swarm of reporters descended on him,
their cameras flashing like strobe lights in a nightmare.
“Did you kill your best friend for the money,
Dr. Fletcher?”
“Was Lillian in on it?”
“Tell us about the girl at the lake!”
He pushed through the crowd,
his jaw set,
his eyes focused on his car.
He drove home,
but his house didn't feel like a sanctuary.
It felt like a museum of Warren’s influence.
Every gift,
every bottle of wine in the cellar,
every photograph on the wall was tainted.
He went to the living room and began taking the pictures down.
He found a small,
black device hidden behind a framed photo of the three of them at the lake.
A camera.
He found another in the bedroom.
Another in the kitchen.
Warren hadn't just drugged him;
he had watched him.
He had watched Charles sleep,
watched him eat,
watched him struggle with his guilt.
Charles sat on the floor,
surrounded by the electronic eyes of his dead friend,
and he began to laugh.
It was a hollow,
jagged sound that filled the empty house.
The man he had trusted most in the world had turned his life into a reality show for a single,
pathological viewer.
But as he sat there,
he noticed a small red light blinking on the camera from the bedroom.
It was still transmitting.
May you like
Warren was dead,
so who was watching?
