The Murders of the Hospital Social Workers Part 1 by Maxine Flam, Bloody Mary

 ‘Well Gloria, what happened yesterday?’ asked Rose. ‘Did the lady in 327-1 still give you problems?’

            ‘Oh boy, did she? She has her marbles and refused the idea of going into a nursing home. We are going to try again today and suggest she go to a short-term rehab place. We don’t make as much of a kickback from those places as we do with a nursing home but at least we’ll get something,’ replied Gloria as she gathered up the files on all her current patients.

            ‘I know. We can’t involve the doctors because what we do is unethical. Just about everyone else knows. We must keep the doctors in the dark about our little way to make extra money. How else can we afford a new car and trips to Mexico and Las Vegas. Physical Therapy has been giving bad reports all week on just about all the patients,’ said Rose laughing.  ‘These stupid old people. We’ll get all of them yet.’

What did she know about being older? She was only twenty-seven living life to the fullest of the backs of the old people.

            The report could have been worse because everyone said Mary was weak and frail. Even Dr. Rumsfeld asked her about placement after he naively believed the reports.  It was because of those reports that Mary screamed holy hell and said she wants to be put on hospice in lieu of being sent to one of those places.

            ‘Mary is right about that. We stick people there for the kickback but, really, do you want to be in one of them?’ said Gloria.

            ‘No way. But for us, it’s a nice extra income and we need to warehouse as many people as we can. Being a social worker or case manager in the hospital doesn’t pay good money; private practice does, but that is more internship and more schooling,’ replied Rose. ‘Do you want to go back to school to do that?’

            ‘No way. This brings us the same pay if not more as private practice and it is easier to forge the paperwork plus you don’t have to pay tax on the money,’ said Gloria smiling.

            ‘Dr. Porter is for the patient, you know that, so he ordered Mary a shower and her IV discontinued. Boy, the nurses were pissed off about that. And they were ordered to help her use a walker so she can use the toilet on her own. Before that, she was totally helpless, staying in bed and using a bedpan. We had her right where we wanted her and BAM, here comes Dr. Porter. If he only knew what we were doing, he’d explode.’

            ‘I heard Mary called her psychologist and had a session with him in her room over the phone and he screamed for her to get the hell out of the bed. Things really moved after that.’

            ‘Well, there are other fish in the sea.’

            ‘I’m going to try again but I think it’s a lost cause.’

            ‘Be my guest.’

##

            It was late in the day The nurses’ swing shift was 3-11. Night shift was 11-7. Day shift was 7-3. This was when the most action happened: the doctors did their rounds, food trays were delivered, nurses answered call bell and handed out medication. Mary decided to exact her revenge on the social workers who wanted to put her in a home but she had to be careful and time it just right. She casually asked one of the day nurses where the social workers sat. She was told they had offices down the hall and they worked from 8-5. All day, Mary planned how she was going to kill those two bitches. She decided the easiest way to kill each woman would be one at a time, the first one she would use a fork and shove it in the neck of the first bitch. Simple…but Mary had to make sure she didn’t get blood all over her. It must be done from behind…a quick stab and she must leave the fork behind. She planned this down to the last detail. She needed to grab a pair of rubber gloves so there would be no fingerprints on the fork and should some blood splatter, she would dump the gloves in the trash.

            It was five to five. Mary picked the social worker closest to her room. She got up on her walker and strolled down the hall saying good afternoon to the various people she saw. She touched her robe pocket which carried the fork walking slowly and confidently with each closing step. Mary saw Rose in her office. She was on the phone, talking about the various people she had planned to warehouse; talking about how much money she was going to make; telling the person about her planned trip to Puerto Vallarta for a week of fun in the sun; paid for by the kickbacks from the nursing home.

            As quietly as possible, Mary entered the room. She came up from behind Rose and stuck the fork in her neck. Rose grabbed her neck, choking…unable to breathe. Mary turned her walker around, dumped the bloody glove in the trash, walked outside into the hall casually strolling back into her room. She got into bed, turned her TV on low, and waited for the body to be found.

            Mary didn’t have to wait long. A coworker found her and called a code blue to the office but she was dead…murdered. Mary heard the murmurs, ‘Who would do such a thing to such a nice lady?

            Mary turned over on her side with her back to the door and silently laughed. Who would do such a thing to a nice lady? Seriously? How about one of the people that she tried to stick in a home?  People were walking around in disbelief crying. You’ve gotta be kidding. You are a bunch of dumbasses.  You can’t figure out who could have possibly done it. How about a patient too infirm to use the bathroom. Ha! Tomorrow I’ll go after the second social worker and then I’ll go after the big man himself, Bob Rousseau. One at a time until they are all dead…I will have my revenge.

##

            ‘Hey Joe, it’s almost 6,’ said Kelby. ‘Let’s sneak out a few minutes early. My wife and I are having a date night. We’re going to drop the kids off at the grandparents and then we’re off to a nice dinner at that Italian place on Vineland.’

            ‘Remember the last time we did that? We had to drive back because a murder case came in. Let’s just wait until quitting time,’ replied Miller.

            ‘Yeah. I remember. That was the pits.’

            ‘Hey boys,’ shouted Captain Reno. ‘You need to get over to Van Nuys Hospital a.s.a.p. There’s been a murder. The coroner is rolling and will meet you there. Same with Crime Scene Investigation. They just arrived and are in the process of roping off the area.’

            ‘You have any details?’ asked Miller

            ‘Only that a hospital employee was stabbed in the neck with a fork.’

            ‘A fork?...That’s nasty. We’re on our way, Captain,’ said Kelby.

            Miller and Kelby got their jackets and headed for the elevator when Kelby said, ‘Why do you always have to be right?’

            ‘Huh?’ replied Miller.

            ‘Don’t leave early because there might be a murder. Gee wiz.’

            ‘Not my fault someone decided to be killed at dinnertime.’

##

            ‘So, what do we have here?’ said Miller to the coroner.

            ‘Exactly what you know, I know. Someone approached the victim from behind and stabbed her in the neck with a fork. I haven’t removed the utensil yet. I’ll do that at the ME’s office. It appears the fork went through the carotid artery and she bled out.’

            ‘How much force was needed to do this?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘To be honest, anyone could have done this from a kid to an old person.  The killer appears to be right-handed as the victim was stabbed on the right side of the neck but that’s just a guess on my part.’

            ‘Can we look around the office?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Ask CSI. It’s okay by me.’

            ‘Hey Charlie, have you photographed the scene?’ asked Kelby,

            ‘Yeah, but we need to do some more processing of the desk area. Give us 10 minutes.’

            ‘Alright…Well Kelby, in the meantime, what do you want to do?’

            ‘Let’s start talking to some of the staff and get some information on the victim.’

##

            Going over to one of the people in the hallway, Miller asked, ‘What’s her name?’

            ‘Rose…Rose Nyland.’ responded her co-worker, Gloria Tillis.

            Miller and Kelby interviewed some of the staff and asked about the deceased. It quickly became apparent that they were going need to gather the files that the victim had been working on going back at least six months to find a motive for this brutal crime. Meanwhile unbeknownst to everyone, the murderer was only a couple rooms away enjoying a delicious supper.

                                                                            ##

Miller and Kelby worked into the early hours of the morning going over the files with a fine-tooth comb looking for something…anything that would cause this young woman to be murdered but they came up empty. At 4 a.m., they left the office to get some sleep all the while Mary was wide awake planning her next murder.

About the author

1.    

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com. 

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Common Ground by Jenny Palmer, Bloody Mary

‘I’m interested in end-of-times civilization,’ the man said. I’d seen him hovering around before he finally decided to come over to my table. He was getting on in years and had an amicable face. He had visited every other author in the room. I was at a book event trying to sell my latest offering. It was one of those ‘Meet the public’ events, where you sit at a table all day long, trying to interest people in your thoughts, the ones you’ve written down on paper at least, hoping that someone will fork out and buy a book.

‘Can you tell me what you mean by end-of-times civilisation?’ I asked him. I’m of the opinion that it’s better to engage with the public, rather than go in for the hard sell, which only tends to put them off. And I was genuinely interested. I had been reading about the concept of end-of-times fascism, a phrase coined by an American political analyst to describe the current state of US politics. I didn’t know which side of the political divide this man was on but maybe we could find some common ground.

‘The world is in turmoil,’ he said. ‘Just look around you. There are wars everywhere. Countries are in upheaval. We’re heading for the end of civilization. Humanity is going to the dogs and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. It’s all been written down. You need look no farther than Ecclesiastes.’

When people start quoting the Bible at me, the warning bells go off. I once got caught out by a Mormon who tried to convert me at one of these events and it had taken ages to shake him off. I attract people of a theological bent. They must think I’m fair game or something. It has to do with the books I’m selling about my Quaker ancestors. I should have known better than to bring them along this time and stuck to the short stories instead. I didn’t want to engage with him on a theological level. He would have a superior knowledge of the Bible to me.

‘I agree with you about the state of the world,’ I said tentatively. ‘It is all heading in the wrong direction now that the oligarchs are in control. They don’t care about the likes of you and me. They are doing nothing to try and stop the fighting. They are ignoring climate change and are intent on furthering their own ends, while claiming to be on the side of the people. If things carry on like this, it will only get worse.’ I avoided using the word Armageddon. It would only encourage him.

‘It’s up to us to stand up and be counted,’ I continued. ‘The Quakers back in the seventeenth century weren’t fatalistic,’ I said, referring to the personalities I’d researched for my family history book. ‘Their lives were in turmoil too. They were persecuted during the Civil War and after the Restoration of the Monarchy. They were excommunicated by the church and sent to jail by the state for their faith. But they didn’t give up. Once their religion was tolerated, they went on to become successful citizens and were at the forefront of peace processes in the world. They are still doing it today.’

 I admit I was trying to steer him on to talking about my books. After all that was what I was there for. But he showed no interest in them or what I was saying.

‘These things are cyclical,’ he told me. ‘It’s all been predicted in Ecclesiastes. They will recur again and again, until they don’t.’ 

I had a knowledge of the New Testament but had never read the Old. But the message he was propounding was coming over loud and clear. The fate of the world had been written down long ago. And now the end was nigh.

‘It’s up to us all to do something about it,’ I said. ‘There have been huge developments in technology of late. We have the tools to solve the climate crisis if we would only put our minds to it. There is a lack of political will. That is the stumbling block.’

‘I’m really enjoying this conversation,’ he said. ‘I’d love to continue it, but I haven’t got time right now.’

Everyone was packing up and I could see he had no intention of buying any books from me. He had not been in the least receptive to my ideas. His ideas were fixed. There was nothing original about them. They were determined by a text which had been written by another human being, thousands of years before. A gap had opened between us. There was no common ground. 

About the author 

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

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Autonomic, Again by Steve Gerson, Bloody Mary

"I'm sorry, Jennie," he said, again, for the twentieth time that week, maybe for the twentieth time that hour. He'd lost track.

She shook her head, saying, "Your sorries don't work anymore, Jack. They're like the loose change I find under the couch cushions, next to lint and dead skin. You say it so often that it's like your breaths taken, your heartbeats, without thought, without feeling. It's autonomic, Jack."

"I'm sor . . . ," he almost said, his autonomic reflexes sparking in spasms. He had become a jangle of ganglia, more random nerve cells than sentient being. "Jennie, I mean it. No more. It'll never happen again. Honest."

"Autonomic," she said. "Do you even know what you're sorry for this time?"

He paused, as if stuck at a crossroad with oncoming traffic, all targeted toward colliding with him. As if he were an addled air traffic controller at Heathrow with 50 planes stacking up to land in heavy fog. "Uh," he paused again, running through possibilities, then mentally ticking off items like a cashier at a checkout lane. Maybe this sorry was because he kept talking at the movie yesterday, peeving those around him. Maybe because he left the kitchen light on all night, again. Maybe because he kept her awake with his snoring, but how would he know? He was asleep, damn it. How was he supposed to control himself during REM moments? Maybe because he lost $100 at poker last Tuesday with his buddies (really it was $250, a tiny lie, he thought). Maybe because he had covertly ogled the cute waitress at Sunday brunch when she delivered his third Bloody Mary with an extra shot of vodka and two strips of bacon. Maybe because he forgot Jennie's birthday, again, but she always said she hated getting older. He just didn't want to remind her. "I was being thoughtful," he said out loud, autonomically, more like an involuntary hiccup than a reasoned thought.

"What?" Jennie asked. "Thoughtful? Wishful thinking Jack. That's the problem. Thoughtlessness is more your speed. In fact, that's all I'm asking for, thoughtfulness. Think of me, Jack, not just yourself. "

"I'm sorry, Jennie," he said, again, for the twentieth time that week, maybe for the twentieth time that hour.

 About the author 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in CafeLit, Panoplyzine, Crack the Spine, Vermilion, In Parentheses, and more, plus his chapbooks Once Planed Straight, Viral and the soon to be published The 13th Floor: Step into Anxiety from Spartan Press. 

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An Old Bag by Liz Cox, Bloody Mary

Christina had to get out of the house before she exploded. Jim was on one and she really couldn’t stand any more of his idiocy. He’d just decided that her wardrobe needed to be cleared out – again. Who would even suggest that to a woman!

‘You’ve got far too many clothes and handbags, he roared. ‘I’ll go get some bin bags from the corner shop.’ His face was puce, his demeanour condescending.

‘No, you won’t and no, I haven’t,’ Christina retorted, ‘I need everything in there.’ She turned her back to him and bit her lip. Clenching her fists by her side, she turned around to face him, but he was gone. Deflated, she returned all the handbags to the wardrobe, hung up her dresses which he’d discarded on the bed, and stuffed her underwear and t-shirts into their rightful drawers. She took a deep breath.

Before he could return, she grabbed her coat, her pink Hermes scarf and her best Chanel handbag and ran out of the door slamming it behind her. She tottered down the street in her Jimmy Choos to the bus stop. If she didn’t take the car, he would think she was still at home. She paced, looking up the street for the oncoming bus and glancing behind her to see if Jim was following. Once on the bus she heaved a great sigh of relief and gave a little cheer, causing her fellow passengers to stare. She didn’t care, she was out. She would show him.

The bus arrived at the Marketplace, and she alighted. She rubbed her hands together in glee. There were lots of lovely shops here. Jim was always criticising her, saying she had too many ‘things’. He was impossible to live with. Admittedly, she did have twenty designer handbags, two drawers of Hermes scarves and rails of couture dresses and shelves of Manolo Blahniks but it’s not as if she had more than any other woman. Did she?

 

Maison Flora was the name above the store. It was an antique shop, and someone had decorated the window with elegant vintage clothes and glittering artifacts. Christina stopped. Her eyes sparkled. She bit her lip: so much beauty, so much grace, so much class. In the centre of the window, resting on a dark blue satin pillow and surrounded by fairy lights, was an elegant silver chain mail handbag. She stared and stared. It was so pretty and winked at her in the spotlight. She thought for less than a minute, pushed open the door and a bell tinkled somewhere in the back. She gave a little shiver.

A moment later, a young woman sidled out of the stockroom and smiled.

‘Can I help you?’ Her voice had the timbre of a woman who smoked too much.

‘You most certainly can,’ Christina replied, ‘there’s a silver bag in the window, can I see it please?’

‘Of course,’ the woman replied sauntering over to the window to get the bag. She laid it on the polished countertop, stroking it with her long fingers. ‘It’s a very special bag,’ she purred.

‘Special? How?’ Christina hopped up and down and reached for the bag.

‘It belonged to a duchess. She carried it when she went to balls in the 1920s – for her dance card and cigarettes.’ She paused. ‘It also has a secret.’ 

‘A secret? What’s the secret?’

Before the assistant could answer, Christina had the bag in her hands and was clasping and unclasping the diamanté fastening. It gave a smooth satisfying click. She stroked the beautiful silver chain work and ran her fingers over the initials outlined on a silver cartouche, CM. ‘Oh look,’ she cried, ‘they’re my initials, it’s meant to be.’ She examined the scarlet silk lining, which was faded and smelt a bit funny, metallic and fusty, but not too much to deter her.

‘I’ll take it. How much is it?’

The assistant smirked. ‘It’s seventy-five pounds and you get a bonus with it.’

‘What’s the bonus?’ cried Christina.

‘You’re only allowed to keep it for one year and then it must be returned to the shop, otherwise the curse will become active.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Christina retorted.  ‘There’s no such thing as a curse. Is there?’ She felt the wrinkle above her nose deepen and she slid the bag onto the counter as if it were red-hot. Was it worth the risk? ‘Why is there a curse?’

‘Ah,’ said the girl, ‘I forgot to tell you, but the duchess used the bag to conceal her silver knife after she had murdered her husband. The lining then had to be dyed red as they couldn’t eradicate the blood stain.’

Christina felt her heart beating against the silk of her blouse as if it were going to leave her body. ‘Perfect,’ she said, ‘please could you wrap it.’ She gave the bag one last stroke. ‘That was seventy-five pounds you said? It’ll be worth every penny.’ The assistant nodded. ‘What’s your name?’ Christina asked.

‘It’s Flora,’ the girl smiled. ‘The bag belonged to my great-aunt.’ 

Christina raised her eyebrows.

While Flora wrapped her bag, Christina continued to explore the shop, turning over all the stock, ferreting in all the corners and boxes of miscellaneous junk. Flora walked over to her.

‘Your parcel has been wrapped, madam. When you’re ready to pay, I’ll be at the till.’

From her vantage point behind the counter, Flora watched Christina as she rummaged. ‘Is there something else you were looking for in particular, madam?’

‘Ah yes! I wondered if you had any silver knives in your stock,’ she said, rifling through a box of cutlery. ‘Just to match the bag of course.’  

 

About the author

Liz writes short stories and poetry and is just finishing her first novel. She lives in North Yorkshire and at the time of writing the beautiful Yorkshire Dales are looking dismal and wet. 

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Saturday Sample: The Best of Cafelit 9, No Laughing Matter, Bloody Mary,

 

Writing For CaféLit

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So, perhaps, no more than 3000 words. Shorter stories and flash fiction are naturally very welcome.

We’ll read your story. If we like it, we’ll let you know and if we don’t like it we’ll let you know – within a month. We will work on editing with you.

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 No Laughing Matter

by Paula R C Readman

Bloody Mary

Periodontitis is a real problem that someone like me shouldn’t have, especially when I rely so much on my appearance. Bad breath can be such a killer with the ladies. It is difficult enough to look after your gums at the best of times.

I used to live in the lap of luxury, having access to the best of everything. Now that I’m living in a tiny crypt, if one can say that after death, I don’t have access to a bathroom, only a dripping tap in the graveyard.

I know we vampires are not renowned for having a great sense of humour, but it is no laughing matter, when every time you sink your teeth in, they come out.

About the author

Paula R C Readman learnt ‘How to Write’ from books which her husband purchased from eBay.  After 250 purchases, he finally told her ‘just to get on with the writing’.  Since 2010, she's had 34 stories published and is now busy editing her crime novel again.

 

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