The Night Nurse

Chapter 13 — The Application

Alan Weiss met her at a diner on Devon Avenue at 6 a.m., the kind of place where the coffee was bitter and the waitress called everyone honey. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He kept glancing at the door.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“I’ve been sneaking into a hospital I’m banned from,” Priya said. “It does that to a person.”

He leaned forward, voice low. “You said you saw something. On the phone you said—”

“I saw Helen Voss kill Thomas Callahan.” Priya said it flat, the way you’d report a lab value. “Morphine, straight into the IV port. I watched her do it. She didn’t deny it, Alan. She stood there and told me she frees them from pain. Like it was a kindness.”

Alan’s face went through three expressions and settled on something bleak. “Did you call Ortiz?”

“And tell him what? That I, a suspended nurse under investigation for the exact same crime, broke into the ICU at 3 a.m. and watched the most beloved nurse in Chicago commit murder, with no recording, no witness, and the syringe already in the sharps bin?” She laughed, a short ugly sound. “He’d add it to my file.”

Alan rubbed his face. “Jesus, Priya.”

“There’s something else.” She wrapped her hands around the coffee mug to stop them shaking. “I need to tell you why I’m really here. Why I applied to St. Mercy in the first place.”

He waited.

“My mother died in that hospital eight years ago. I was twenty-two. She had terminal cancer, she was in agony, she begged — she begged everyone — to be allowed to go, and the law said no.” Priya’s voice stayed level with enormous effort. “And then one night she just… died. Peacefully, they said. In her sleep.” She looked at him. “I never believed it. The timing, the calm, the smoothed sheets — someone ended her suffering that night, Alan. Someone made the decision the law wouldn’t make. I never knew who.”

Alan exhaled slowly. “Priya. That’s — I don’t even know what to say to that. You’re telling me you chose your hospital based on—”

“On a suspicion I’ve carried for eight years. Yes.” She stared into her coffee. “When I applied to St. Mercy, the interview panel asked why I wanted to work there. I gave them the whole speech — excellent ICU, commitment to patient care, blah blah. They nodded and wrote things down. The truth is I picked St. Mercy because it was the building where my mother died, and I couldn’t let it go. I told myself I was being morbid. Then I told myself I’d grown out of it. Then three patients died on my shift, all hopeless cases, all morphine, all ‘peaceful’ — and it was like someone had picked up the exact thread of my life and pulled.”

“Did you ever think,” Alan said quietly, “that you might be seeing a pattern because you needed one? That grief can do that — it can make coincidences look like answers?”

“Every day for eight years, I asked myself that.” Priya’s eyes were bright but dry. “And then I watched Helen Voss push a syringe into Thomas Callahan’s IV and tell me she was freeing him. So no, Alan. It’s not grief making patterns. It’s a woman with a God complex and a thirty-year head start.”

Alan was very still. “And you came to St. Mercy to—”

“To find whoever did it.” She met his eyes. “I told myself it was a good hospital, a good ICU, a good career move. That was the story I told everyone, including myself. But the truth is I came back to the building where my mother died because I needed to know. And now people are dying the same way she did — hopeless cases, morphine, ‘peaceful’ — and I think it’s the same hand. I think it’s been the same hand all along.”

The waitress refilled their coffee and left. Alan stared into his cup for a long time.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said finally. “Helen Voss has worked at St. Mercy for thirty years. She’s won awards. The board consults her. Half the doctors in this city trained under her shadow.” He looked up. “If you go after her, you need proof that would convince a jury, not a suspicion that would convince a grieving daughter.”

“I know.”

“And you need to be careful. Because if you’re right, she’s killed before, and she’ll know you’re circling.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need — logs, schedules, access. I’ll help you get proof.”

“Thank you,” Priya whispered. “There’s one thing I need first. The pharmacy logs you showed me before — the ones with someone using my credentials. I need the full audit trail, not just the summary. Every dispense, every override, every timestamp for the last six months. If Helen’s been doing this for years, there has to be a pattern in the numbers — times, amounts, which Pyxis machine. Something a jury can see.”

Alan nodded slowly. “I can get that. It’ll take a few days — I’ll have to be careful, pharmacy audits leave footprints. And Priya…” He hesitated. “Ortiz. You need to tell him what you saw. Not the part about your mother — not yet, he’ll think you’re compromised. But the Callahan thing. Even without proof, it goes on record. It starts a paper trail.”

“I know. I’ll call him today.” She squeezed his hand. “Alan — why are you doing this? You could lose your residency.”

He smiled, tired and crooked. “Because I’ve worked with Helen Voss for two years, and I’ve watched families thank her through their tears for the ‘peaceful’ way their loved ones went. And I never questioned it. Not once.” His smile faded. “Somebody should have. I’m just sorry it took a suspended nurse breaking into the ICU to make me see it.”

Alan held her gaze, and his voice dropped. “But Priya — listen to me. Helen Voss is untouchable. In that building, she isn’t a nurse. She’s a saint.”