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Flashpoint

Ash Krafton

    All it took for Debbie to go from hero to victim was a simple point and click. A tap of a finger, a tiny nudge forever changed the spin of her world.
    “Anything else?” The officer tapped his ballpoint against the back of a small memo pad. He’d forgotten his in the squad car and had to buy one from the store. This store made money off everyone.
    “No,” Debbie said. “That’s pretty much all.”
    “Here’s my card. If he comes back, stall him. Give us forty-five minutes and we’ll come in the back door. That type of surprise has worked well in the past.”
    “Sure, officer. Do you need me for anything else?”
    “No, that’s all for now, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.”
    Debbie returned to the pharmacy, grabbing her sandwich and chomping off a hurried bite.
    Another lunch ruined. After twelve years in retail, she wondered why it continued to irritate her. Not like she ever had a real lunch break. Pharmacists didn’t often get that luxury.
    “That trooper still here?” Kim called from the dispensing area without even looking up from the counting tray. The technician’s voice held an edge; she wasn’t much one for grace under pressure. Debbie wondered why Kim stayed in retail pharmacy. Grace under pressure was an absolute must-have.
    She swigged her iced tea and swallowed down the thick mouthful before hurrying out to the counter. “On his way out. Everything okay?”
    “Check those top three. I’m gonna to strangle Mrs. Connors if she doesn’t stop staring.”
    The waiting area was congested. Customers had been delayed while she’d been in the back, and patience wasn’t a quality they possessed, either.

    Delays were uncommon at her store. On a good day, the staff—usually just one pharmacist and one tech—could run through two to three hundred scripts in twelve hours without breaking a sweat, as long as problems kept to a minimum. The longest a customer normally had to wait for their orders was fifteen minutes, tops.
    Ah, but there’s the rub. Problems kept to a minimum? In a drugstore, problems came in boatloads. Insurances. Gabby customers. Constant phone interruptions. Zero refills. Out of stocks. Still, procedure after refined procedure helped to streamline even those problems. Of course, the easiest solution, and most obvious, would never be instituted: schedule more staff.
    Staffing costs money, and things that cost more money didn’t jive with the company’s obvious policy of squeezing blood from a stone. End of story.
    Ironically, Debbie’s bonus depended upon the customer satisfaction surveys that printed out on random register receipts. She could bust her behind all day without more than a bathroom break and a five-minute meal but if the wrong customer got that receipt, it all meant nothing. She did a lot of hoping that the wrong customer never came in.
    The pharmacist clamped down on her concentration and checked the completed orders. Darn doctors and their illegible handwriting. Some doctors wrote as if they held the pen with their toes, but if she read something wrong, it could risk a customer’s safety and her livelihood.
    But this was her job. Thankfully, she was good at it.
    And, thankfully, most doctors had turned to the practice of printing computer-generated scripts. For the most part, it made the job infinitesimally easier. Except for today.
    She carried the bags to the check out and pulled out one belonging to a stout woman who’d stubbornly parked her oversized purse on the counter. Squatter’s rights. Mrs. Connors was first, come hell or cliché. Stifling a sigh, Debbie rang out the order, deftly stickering and x-ing the sign-in logbook. “Any questions about your medication?”
    “Yeah. Why did it take so long? You know I have to catch the bus.”
    “Sorry. We always get busy on check day.”
    “Well, get another girl back here. It’s not right to keep a person waiting. Twenty minutes is too long.”
    Twenty minutes was too long? Boy, Debbie thought, she’d spoiled these people. “I’ll pass that along to someone who can actually do something about it. Three dollars is your change, your receipt’s in the bag, and I hope you have a wonderful day.”
    The next customer wasn’t so ornery as he was curious. “Was that a State Trooper?”
    “Yup. Sign here and here.”
    “How come he’s here?”
    “They’re looking for a guy in a green coat that ripped off Fashion Bug.” She eyed his camouflage jacket with feigned suspicion. “You wouldn’t have a liking for women’s belts, would you?”
    “Oh, hell, no.”
    “That’s ten dollars after the insurance, from ten.” The cash drawer popped open. “I didn’t think you did. You’re definitely the big belt buckle type.”
    That seemed to mean more than it should have because he winked. “You know it. Thanks, darling.”
    Debbie rolled her eyes toward the technician and closed the register. “Want to switch with me?”
    “In a minute,” Kim snapped.
    The pharmacist sighed and picked up another prescription. “Thomas?”
    Eventually she dispersed the mob of customers—thankfully, not a single survey receipt, her lucky day—and returned to the relative safety of the dispensing area. The technician snorted and tossed a bottle into the topmost of a tower of baskets. “I can’t believe that bastard came back.”
    “Funny. I’ve been waiting for him every day.”
    Kim laughed, a mean sound. “That was awesome. You were so damn nice—I thought you were going to fill it.”
    Debbie shrugged and reached for a basket and tipped the contents onto the counter. This was her assembly line: count, pour, stack. Clickety-swish-thunk. “Grace under pressure. That’s all.”
    “See how convincing he was? Now you know why Tina filled the last one.”
    “Yeah. I probably would have, too. It was printed on security paper. How did he make those blanks?”
    “Doesn’t matter.” Kim stacked two more baskets at the checking computer and reached for the next. “They’ll have him by supper. One more junkie, busted. High five.”
    Debbie grinned and slapped her partner’s upraised hand, feeling every bit like a hero.
    Up until lunchtime earlier that day, her biggest problem was some goofball trying to fill benzos at more than one pharmacy. She’d warned him previously that, despite his oh-so-convincing explanation regarding changing doses and insurance restrictions, should he continue to bounce between stores, she would drop him.
    After a brief consultation with a discount chain pharmacist who worked down the street, she knew he was still at it. Enough was enough.
    Debbie asked the other pharmacist if their store had the same problems.
    “Worse. You won’t believe the people we get. We have a guy who knows what our narc delivery truck looks like. I swear he waits in the parking lot for it to show up.”
    “I’d call the cops.”
    “We can’t,” she grumbled. “It’s policy. We can’t call the cops on anyone. Only store security.”
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Nope. The manager had a gun pulled on him in the next district. It’s not worth it.”
    “But what if it’s a fake—”
    “We pretend we just don’t have the pills and give it back.”
    Debbie’s jaw dropped. “But then it comes here!”
    “But we don’t get shot. Two weeks ago a customer told me someone in line was using their cell phone to take pictures of us. Then last Saturday, someone loosened the lugs on my front wheel when I was at work. I don’t need to get killed. I have kids. I like living.”
    “So he gets the dope somewhere else. He can still swerve across that center line and kill you on the way home.”
    “I’ll take my chances with a car wreck. I have an air bag and a seatbelt. Nothing stops a bullet.”
    That conversation stayed with her all morning, but by the time that fake narcotic script was handed to her, she’d forgotten about it. It was lunchtime. She’d just unwrapped her sandwich when he showed up at the counter.
    Of course. The smell of food always drew the customers.
    Debbie knew what the script was the moment she glanced at it and knew what she had to do next. She offered helpful and friendly advice on a cold product for his most-likely-faked malady and pointed him in the right direction.
    “Be right back. I have to use the bathroom.” She made sure he heard before darting out the back door.
    The store supervisor loaded boxes onto a U-boat in the stockroom and Debbie waved him over. “I need to call the Staties. Can you let me in the office?”
    She made her calls as she flipped through the security camera views. Good pictures, some with his cap on, another of him looking right into the camera. “Keep him there,” the officer at the call center said. “I’m sending over a couple troopers.”
    Debbie watched him through the cameras as he stood in front of the pharmacy, went up to the front check out, left the store. Her stomach grumbled. She should have brought her lunch up to the office with her.
    Ten minutes later, the troopers arrived. They canvassed the store. They questioned everyone in a baseball hat. They viewed the camera footage. They jotted down names, addresses, descriptions.
    Meanwhile, the prescriptions piled up. She juggled the heavy workload, going back and forth between the orders in the pharmacy and the investigation in the office. The calming rhythm of clickety-swish-thunk helped her to focus. She chatted and charmed as if it weren’t yet another worst day of her career. Grace under pressure, every step of the way.
    Then the ceiling cracked.
    Her supervisor finally returned her earlier call. Debbie relayed everything: the call to the doctor, the call to the police, the meticulous copying of security footage (that, technically, was the store supervisor’s duty but he was computer illiterate.) T’s crossed, i’s dotted.
    “Did you call Privacy?” He referred to the privacy office, which dealt with HIPAA regulations.

    Debbie wrinkled her nose. “Why would I?”
    “You can’t release any information without calling Privacy first.” He huffed a breath into his receiver. “Well, call them. They’re gonna yell at you. You’re in trouble and there’s nothing you can do at this point.”
    She was dumbfounded. “You’re kidding. I’m in trouble? How about the criminal? Remember him? The one who brought in the fake script?”
    “You didn’t follow procedure.”
    “And when, exactly, did we start this procedure?”
    “You should have known. He’s a patient and patients have rights.”
    “He is not a patient,” she said. Her voice was getting loud. Someone would overhear. She almost didn’t care. “It wasn’t a valid script.”
    “You gave that trooper a person’s protected health information.”
    “He had none! It was fake!”
    “It doesn’t matter.” The supervisor’s tone ended the discussion. “Make your call.”
    He hung up.
    She slammed the phone, picked it up, and slammed it again.
    Kim barked her sardonic laugh and plucked a magazine from the check-out display rack. “That’s what you get for doing the right thing.”
    “Right.”
    “I guess that’s why the other store won’t call the cops. They don’t want to get sued, either.”
    “Sued. That’s great. Just—great.”
    Just desserts. Debbie guessed there wasn’t a Good Samaritan-type clause to protect someone who cooperated in an investigation. Her satisfaction and her sense of courage began to crumble at the edges. Fighting crime just doesn’t pay.
    It was after seven when a simple point-and-click ripped holes in her career.
    The skinny blond had been reading product packages in the cough-and-cold aisle for several minutes. The night tech noticed her first.
    “She keeps looking back here.” Vikki possessed a personality completely opposite to Kim. She enjoyed providing customer service; then again, most problems didn’t occur on her shift, so customer service was easier to enjoy.
    “Maybe she has a question,” Debbie said. “I’ll go out.”
    She got a good look at the girl as she stepped out of the pharmacy area. Stringy blonde hair under a tight cap, the ends looking twisted and tangled. She glanced up at Debbie’s approach, but ducked her head, rubbing her nose. Her bleary red eyes and frequent sniffling hinted at allergies or a virus.
    Her other hand disappeared deep into her pocket. Never a good thing in retail.
    “Can I help you with something?” Debbie used her helpful pharmacist voice, the tone masking her suspicion.
    “Um, no, just looking.” Head still down, the customer stepped away to look at a different bottle.
    “Okay. But if you need something, just come back and ask.” Debbie paused to straighten a few items on a shelf before walking back to the pharmacy.
    After a moment, the customer followed. “Excuse me.”
    Debbie looked up from the computer as the customer raised her hand.
    Time thickened, stretched like taffy, each motion distinct and significant.
    Debbie saw the black object and heard the click before she could duck. Her heart exploded into a pounding she could feel in her throat and the pressure verged on pain. Sharp pain.
    “Bitch,” the customer said, before she turned and sauntered away.
    Debbie held onto the counter, fighting to pull in her breath, unsure if her legs would support her.
    The tech looked up. “That was random. What was that about?”
    Debbie struggled to swallow down the dryness and the pulse and the scream that threatened to emerge. “She took my picture.”
    A tap of the finger. A simple nudge. The world shifted slightly before resuming its rotation but the police never needed to visit the pharmacy again.

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