Phantom files, p.1
Phantom Files, page 1
AN AJ DOCKER & BANSHEE THRILLER
GARY GERLACHER
©2026 by Gary Gerlacher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The author grants the final approval for this literary material.
First Digital Version
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-68513-721-2 Paperback; 978-1-68513-722-9 Hardcover
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2025945931
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
For everyone who plays a part in delivering emergency care,
thank you for your service.
BAFERDs, keep BAFERDing!
PRAISE FOR
THE AJ DOCKER & BANSHEE THRILLER SERIES
“Buckle up for another Doc and Banshee thriller as they risk everything, including their lives, to foil an international terrorist assassination plot while bringing readers inside the emotional journeys of two families facing unimaginable, life-threatening medical emergencies.”
–Bob Rothman, author of A Terrible Guilt and, coming in 2026, The Shark’s Protégé
“A magnetic medical thriller—Gary Gerlacher nailed it!”
–Cam Torrens, award-winning author of the Tyler Zahn series
“Book 6 of the AJ Docker medical thriller series lives up to its earlier installments and might just be my new favorite!”
–Lucille Guarino, award-winning author of Elizabeth's Mountain and the Lunch Tales series
“Caution: The Phantom Files is a best-selling medical thriller that may cause readers to experience rapid breathing, heart-pounding, spine-tingling, page-turning excitement.”
–Gail Ward Olmsted, author of the Miranda Quinn Legal Twist series
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 6:00 a.m.
Lenny Nielsen began the last day of his life at exactly six o’clock, when his alarm featured the gentle sounds of a waterfall. A creature of habit, he rose at six daily. After thirty-one years of marriage, his wife didn’t even notice, as he slid quietly out of bed and entered the bathroom.
His four-minute shower consisted of three minutes of washing under hot water, followed by a minute of standing under cold water. Thoroughly awake, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and walked into the closet. A long line of shirts, pants, and coats hung precisely in a straight line. He hurriedly dressed in a starched, light blue button-down shirt and dark slacks he had set aside the night before.
He checked his appearance in front of a full length mirror. He brushed away imaginary lint and straightened invisible wrinkles in his shirt before reaching for his badge that hung beside the mirror. He glanced at the badge in his hands, “Dr. Larry Nielsen, Md, PhD, Chief of Service Obstetrics and Gynecology at Tempe Memorial Hospital.” The nine-year-old picture, taken when he was fifty, reflected the remarkable lack of change in his appearance. His hair was grayer but resisted bald spots. His face featured a few deeper wrinkles, and his belt size had increased from thirty-two to thirty-four inches. Overall, he was in great health due to his strict diet, heavy work schedule, and regular workouts. A person meeting him would most likely describe him as distinguished, a term appropriate for his position at the hospital.
He walked into the kitchen, where Kenzie, his border collie, sleepily greeted him. She had been a rescue and remained a bit neurotic, but she was unfailingly loyal and always rested at his feet while he breakfasted. He quickly prepared an omelet loaded with vegetables chopped the day before, ate a bowl of fresh fruit, and downed a glass of milk. Lastly and most importantly, he sipped his coffee, a special Colombian blend he had discovered years ago and for which he paid an obscene price to ship to his house every month. Any doubts he had about the justification of the expense dissipated, as the rich flavor and caffeine further energized him.
He glanced at his phone to see if the world had managed to survive another day without catastrophe. The news was surprisingly dull, always a good thing. He finished breakfast and placed the dishes in the dishwasher before wiping down the table. On her back with her paws stretched in the air, Kenzie patiently waited for her belly rub. It was all she asked in return for her loyalty, and Dr. Nielsen obliged her with some kind words about what a good girl she was.
He silently said goodbye to his wife and two daughters sleeping upstairs. Years ago, he would have walked upstairs to give each daughter a kiss on the forehead before he left, but they were older now, and that tradition had stopped long ago. He settled for a mental goodbye to them, hoping they each had a great day.
The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour, as opposed to the thirty minutes it would take at rush hour. He spent it in comfort in his Mercedes S Class sedan with the powerful engine moving silently through the dark streets. The seat vibrated in massage function, as he listened to sports radio hosts critique local teams.
He parked in his usual spot and climbed out of the car with a weak protest from his right hip, a reminder of his schedule for the day. He entered the hospital at precisely seven o’clock, and for the first time that day, his routine changed. Instead of turning right to take the elevator to his office, he turned left toward the radiology suite, where a receptionist smiled at him.
“Good morning. I’m Karen. How can I help you today?”
“I’m Dr. Nielsen, here for an MRI of my right hip this morning.”
“Of course. All of your paperwork is complete. If you follow me, I’ll take you back to Henry, who will be in charge of your scan today.”
Dr. Nielsen followed her through a maze of hallways and appreciated their efficiency. She introduced him to Henry before returning to her desk. Dr. Nielsen made a mental note to call out her perfect demeanor to her department head later in the day.
“Good morning, Dr. Nielsen. I’ll be in charge of your scan today. If you would please follow me, we will get you started.” Henry was a young man in his twenties with an infectious smile and an unruly mop of dirty blond hair. In his scrubs, he looked ready for a sleepover instead of a workday, but he was friendly and seemed competent. Henry led him to a dressing room and handed him a pair of scrubs.
“Everything in the locker. You can keep your underwear and socks on, but nothing else except the scrubs. I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
Dr. Nielsen changed efficiently, slowing only to make sure there were no wrinkles in his pants or shirt as he hung them, and met Henry outside.
“Have a seat, Dr. Nielsen, and we’ll get this IV in place. Have you ever had an MRI?”
“No. I’ve ordered quite a few, but I’ve never needed one myself.”
“The study should take about fifteen minutes, and then I’ll come in and inject the contrast, and we’ll get the last set of images. Total time should be about twenty minutes. Just to double check, you have no jewelry or piercings or medical devices implanted on you?’
“No, sir.”
Henry expertly slid the IV in place and secured it with tape. The IV and tubing were free of any metal and safe to use in the MRI machine. “Okay, what type of music do you like?’”
“Classic rock.”
“Good choice. I’ve had too many requests for Taylor Swift lately. Classic rock will be refreshing.”
Henry led the way into the room, and Dr. Nielsen positioned himself perfectly centered on the bed. Henry handed him an inflatable ball for his right hand. “I don’t expect you’ll need it, but if for any reason you need me to stop the exam, just squeeze that ball. I’ll stop the scanner and slide the table out of the machine. You’re not claustrophobic are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It can feel pretty tight in there. I recommend you close your eyes and focus on the music. If you keep your eyes closed, you won’t have to experience the small space. Okay, let’s get this done.”
Henry turned on the music and slid the table into the machine until the hip was situated in the correct spot. Dr. Nielsen took Henry’s advice, closed his eyes, and focused on the music. The first song was by Bruce Springsteen, a good omen.
Henry closed the heavy door, sealing the room tightly, and entered the control room overlooking the exam. He double checked that everything was correct, then spoke into the microphone.
“Okay, Dr. Nielsen. We’re gonna get started. The machine will be loud, but just sit still, relax, and focus on the music.”
Henry triggered the controls to start the machine, and the familiar clanging of the MRI machine reverberated through the control room. He heard an unusual high pitched sound, followed immediately by the patient’s alarm from Dr. Nielsen’s squeezing the inflatable ball. He looked through the window to see what the problem was and his mind froze, as he tried to process the sight in front of him. It made no sense. It was impossible.
His hand reflexively reached for the emergency stop button, and the machine silenced, but the high-pitched scream continued. Henry managed to push the “Code Blue” button before he violently regurgitated his breakfast.
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, 6:50 a.m.
“C’mon, Banshee. Time for another day at work.”
Banshee barked softly and swished his tail, showing entirely too much energy for a Monday morning. A former police dog who had been forced to retire after taking a bullet meant for me, my svelte Belgian Malinois was fearless, loyal, and the best traveling companion I could ever imagine.
As an emergency medicine physician, I travelled the country on three to six-month contracts with hospitals. The opportunity to explore new cities and experience different hospital systems throughout the United States provided fresh adventures. My contract was in month two of a four-month stint at Tempe Memorial Hospital in Phoenix, the largest trauma center in the area.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and exited the car with Banshee stepping out after me. Under his service vest, he wore ceramic plates stronger than titanium that had saved his life more than once. They had been custom designed by a Chinese billionaire after Banshee helped him recover some stolen jewels.
“What’s up, Dr. Docker?” a voice called from behind me. Banshee spun to assess the situation, while I leisurely glanced over my shoulder. The speaker was a mountain of a man, approaching rapidly with his hands open.
“Come here, Banshee.”
Banshee, recognizing a friend, leapt into his open arms and rewarded him with vigorous facial kisses.
“Good morning, Dirk. How was your weekend?”
“Great, Dr. Docker. My soccer team won 3-2 and advanced to the league’s finals.”
“Congrats, and please call me Doc. Dr. Docker sounds like a stutter. How the hell did they score two goals on you?”
It was a legitimate question. Dirk was the goalie and a huge human being. I’m six-foot-one and 195 pounds, and Dirk was easily seven inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier. He had excelled on the basketball court until college, when three knee injuries within two years ended his athletic career. He pivoted to become a paramedic. He loved the work in the field, but his bulk made it hard for him to work within the constraints of an ambulance. He decided to work full time in the emergency room, and despite having hands the size of Shrek’s, he could place an IV in even the smallest patient. Loud, boisterous, and gifted with an infectious laugh that brightened everyone’s day, he had an opinion on everything and was unafraid to share it. His kind and gentle nature belied his ability to play the part of an enforcer. One glance at Dirk’s towering presence as he administered behavioral correction was usually enough to compel cooperation. He and Banshee had become fast friends, and I suspected that they shared a distant feral ancestor.
“It was a bit embarrassing to let two goals in. I guessed the wrong way on one penalty kick, and I couldn’t see the other shot until it was too late.” He let Banshee down to the ground. “That dog has some serious jumping ability. How high do you think he can jump?”
“Over you, easily,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fan, but are you saying that Banshee can clear almost seven feet?”
“Let’s see. Come stand over here.”
I positioned Dirk in the grass, then led Banshee forty yards away and had him sit. I returned to stand beside Dirk.
“Do me a favor, take your phone out and hold it next to your head on video. This will be a great shot. Stand still no matter what.”
Dirk straightened his back and started his video. I called out to Banshee, “READY.”
Banshee remained seated, but visibly tensed, like a race car ready to leave the line.
“JUMP OVER,” I said, pointing at Dirk.
Banshee’s two back feet dug into the dirt, and his powerful legs launched him forward. His front legs stretched in midair, reaching for the ground to pull him forward until once again his back legs could dig into the dirt to propel him even faster. Within two strides, he moved at over twenty miles per hour toward Dirk. When he was eight feet away, he launched from his back legs and angled upward, flying over Dirk with his legs stretched out in front and behind, clearing him by a good six inches. To Dirk’s credit, he didn’t flinch. Banshee landed softly on the grass and turned for his next command.
“Relax, good boy.” Banshee came over for his well deserved ear scratch.
“Damn. I’ll never bet against that dog. Is there anything he can’t do?”
“Unfortunately, he can’t fill out my patients’ charts or do laundry, but he’s phenomenally well trained. Come on. Let’s get to work.”
We badged our way into the emergency department, and I set my things down in my work area. Tempe Memorial Hospital had been around for over thirty years, but had undergone a major rebuild about six years before. The spacious, modern design of the emergency room promised high quality care, and the wide hallways, oversized rooms, and fifteen-foot ceilings avoided the claustrophobic feeling of older hospitals. It was one of the nicest hospitals I had ever worked in.
“Good morning, Sue. How was your weekend?” Sue was the charge nurse for the day. With over twenty years of experience in the emergency room, she had seen almost everything, and no problem was too big for her to tackle. Her quiet demeanor disguised an extraordinary mind capable of deftly handling ten problems at once. With her sandy blond hair that became progressively frizzier as her shift passed, large wire frame glasses, and trademark pen over her right ear, she looked more like a librarian than a nurse.
“Not bad, Doc. Finally got around to closing out some projects that had been hanging over my head.”
“Always satisfying to clear up the to-do list. What’s the day looking like?”
“Off to a promising start. No one called in sick, which is a minor miracle for a Monday, and we have no holdovers waiting for a bed. So with a full staff and a relatively empty emergency room, I don’t expect we’ll lose control of everything until at least this afternoon.”
“Sue, I have no idea how you’re such an optimist after all your years in the emergency room.”
“I’m a realist. I know chaos always looms. I just don’t know when it will prevail, but hopefully, not until after lunch.”
“I’ll give you 3-2 odds that it happens before lunch.”
Sue shook her head and left to see to her duties, and I logged onto the computer to see that only eight patients occupied beds, and none looked critical. Banshee curled up at my feet, as I waited for the night doctor to finish and check out her patients to me.
An overhead alarm shattered the peace with a mechanical announcement. “Code blue, main radiology, MRI suite one. Code blue, main radiology, MRI suite one.”
Banshee abruptly stood at the call to action from the overhead alarm, but I commanded him to stay under the desk. Sue hurried around the corner and motioned for me to follow. “You’re up, Doc. We’re responsible for code blue calls in radiology.”
We fell in behind Dirk, who had grabbed the emergency kit. Although each hospital area was supposed to have a code cart, we always brought essential supplies with us to avoid any potential delays in care. The bag weighed twenty-five pounds, and Dirk shouldered it like an empty backpack.
“What do you want to bet it’s an allergic reaction or a fall?” I asked Sue, as we jogged to keep up with Dirk.
“Hopefully, it’s nothing too crazy.”
Dirk made the final turn ahead, and a radiology technician frantically waved to us. Dirk unexpectedly stopped in the doorway, and Sue and I plowed into his back, which felt like running into a steel wall, and we jolted to a stop.
“What the hell is this?” Dirk asked, as he resumed walking into the room, clearing the way for Sue and me to see our patient.
We paused, as we tried to comprehend the sight. An older man lay on the MRI table, covered in blood, with what appeared to be multiple projectiles sticking out of him. Blood dripped onto the floor and spread in widening circles below him.
We rushed to his side and began our assessment with evaluation of airway, breathing, and circulation. He had an airway, but his ineffective breathing consisted of agonal breaths. Closer inspection revealed that the projectiles were three-inch nails, and at least fifty had pierced his head, neck, and shoulders.
I called for the laryngoscope and breathing tube to intubate him, but Sue had frozen and stared at the patient.
