The Good Nurse: A True Story of Medicine, Madness, and Murder by Charles Graeber Page B
Authors: Charles Graeber
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Cullen.”
“What’d she say?”
“She told me about Allatt.”
“Yeah, but about Cullen?”
“Nothing,” Danny said. “I guess he wasn’t the focus of the investigation.” Danny told Tim about the Pyxis machine, and how it only stored records for the previous thirty days. “Going back, that’s what, September 7 or 8, right? So we can only look at the drug orders for Mr. Crews.”
The only problem was, Crews’s coroner’s report had come back normal; according to Mambo, he had died of natural causes. 3
“Okay, well, that sucks,” Tim said. “How about the other nurses? We got anything for them?”
“The lawyer might,” Danny said. “Lund didn’t.”
“She didn’t have any of their interviews? They did interviews, I thought.”
“She didn’t have shit,” Danny said.
Tim held his breath, let it go with a sigh. “So what you’re telling me,” he said finally. “We got nothing.”
“Well, no,” Danny said. “We got Allatt.”
32
I t was Danny’s case but as supervisor, Tim had co-lead, and he was particular about doing the standard-operating-procedure stuff himself. First he ran Edward Allatt’s name through the state’s motor vehicle system, checking for a registration and license. He found the guy and his car but no red flags, so he transcribed the address and personal info in his notebook before plugging the name into the National Crime Information Center database. Edward Allatt came back clean, no hits. Dead end. Tim tried again using alternate spellings and nicknames. Nothing. So the guy had a car and he had never been in jail. Next, Tim logged into the New Jersey Department of Justice’s PROMIS/Gavel database, which followed the progress of criminal cases through the New Jersey court system. Tim had gotten some big hits like this—even if they’d never done time, bad guys usually tended to be mixed up with the court system one way or another, whether as witnesses or victims or they had been acquitted of charges. But Allatt, Alatt, Allat came up clean. The phlebotomist was a dead end. Tim sat for a moment. A redball sat burning on his desk and he had nothing to chase. They’d set up an interview with this Allatt guy tonight, catch him at home, see him tomorrow. Meanwhile, Braun figured, what the hell. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook and typed “Charles Cullen” into the database.
Charles Cullen was in the Motor Vehicles database as the registrar of a baby blue Ford Escort station wagon and the possessor of a valid driver’s license. NCIC came up with two hits for Cullen: once for criminal trespass in Palmer, Pennsylvania, another for drunk driving in South Carolina, both charges over ten years old. Cullen owned no firearms, had no registered pets, and hadn’t been involved with so much as a speeding ticket for a decade.
There were still some loose threads to pull before he closed the book.Tim stood up from the terminal, walked back to his desk, and dialed 411 for the Palmer, Pennsylvania, police.
Tim identified himself as a Homicide detective from Somerset, New Jersey, and asked for the records bureau. The female voice on the other end laughed and told him, “Nope, we don’t have one, just me!” Tim thinking, Oh great, Barney Fife, and explained he needed background on a guy Palmer picked up in ’93 and would she be so kind as to pull the case jacket.
“Just a sec,” the lady said. Tim could hear the phone conk on the desk, the drum roll of big metal file cabinets opening and closing. A couple minutes, then she was back on the line, saying, “Uh-huh, it’s here, a case jacket with a yellow Post-it.”
She had one Charles Cullen. Date of birth February 22, 1960. Arrested in Palmer in March 1993 for trespassing and harassment, charges dropped. Braun had started into his thank-yous when she said, “And oh, and there’s a note. You want that, too?”
The sticky note indicated that the State Police had called for the file a couple months earlier. 1
“What’d she say?”
“She told me about Allatt.”
“Yeah, but about Cullen?”
“Nothing,” Danny said. “I guess he wasn’t the focus of the investigation.” Danny told Tim about the Pyxis machine, and how it only stored records for the previous thirty days. “Going back, that’s what, September 7 or 8, right? So we can only look at the drug orders for Mr. Crews.”
The only problem was, Crews’s coroner’s report had come back normal; according to Mambo, he had died of natural causes. 3
“Okay, well, that sucks,” Tim said. “How about the other nurses? We got anything for them?”
“The lawyer might,” Danny said. “Lund didn’t.”
“She didn’t have any of their interviews? They did interviews, I thought.”
“She didn’t have shit,” Danny said.
Tim held his breath, let it go with a sigh. “So what you’re telling me,” he said finally. “We got nothing.”
“Well, no,” Danny said. “We got Allatt.”
32
I t was Danny’s case but as supervisor, Tim had co-lead, and he was particular about doing the standard-operating-procedure stuff himself. First he ran Edward Allatt’s name through the state’s motor vehicle system, checking for a registration and license. He found the guy and his car but no red flags, so he transcribed the address and personal info in his notebook before plugging the name into the National Crime Information Center database. Edward Allatt came back clean, no hits. Dead end. Tim tried again using alternate spellings and nicknames. Nothing. So the guy had a car and he had never been in jail. Next, Tim logged into the New Jersey Department of Justice’s PROMIS/Gavel database, which followed the progress of criminal cases through the New Jersey court system. Tim had gotten some big hits like this—even if they’d never done time, bad guys usually tended to be mixed up with the court system one way or another, whether as witnesses or victims or they had been acquitted of charges. But Allatt, Alatt, Allat came up clean. The phlebotomist was a dead end. Tim sat for a moment. A redball sat burning on his desk and he had nothing to chase. They’d set up an interview with this Allatt guy tonight, catch him at home, see him tomorrow. Meanwhile, Braun figured, what the hell. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook and typed “Charles Cullen” into the database.
Charles Cullen was in the Motor Vehicles database as the registrar of a baby blue Ford Escort station wagon and the possessor of a valid driver’s license. NCIC came up with two hits for Cullen: once for criminal trespass in Palmer, Pennsylvania, another for drunk driving in South Carolina, both charges over ten years old. Cullen owned no firearms, had no registered pets, and hadn’t been involved with so much as a speeding ticket for a decade.
There were still some loose threads to pull before he closed the book.Tim stood up from the terminal, walked back to his desk, and dialed 411 for the Palmer, Pennsylvania, police.
Tim identified himself as a Homicide detective from Somerset, New Jersey, and asked for the records bureau. The female voice on the other end laughed and told him, “Nope, we don’t have one, just me!” Tim thinking, Oh great, Barney Fife, and explained he needed background on a guy Palmer picked up in ’93 and would she be so kind as to pull the case jacket.
“Just a sec,” the lady said. Tim could hear the phone conk on the desk, the drum roll of big metal file cabinets opening and closing. A couple minutes, then she was back on the line, saying, “Uh-huh, it’s here, a case jacket with a yellow Post-it.”
She had one Charles Cullen. Date of birth February 22, 1960. Arrested in Palmer in March 1993 for trespassing and harassment, charges dropped. Braun had started into his thank-yous when she said, “And oh, and there’s a note. You want that, too?”
The sticky note indicated that the State Police had called for the file a couple months earlier. 1
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