by Robin Cook
“At Amalgamated? The same as before: three. Me, you, and my IT head, Bob Franklin. And Franklin’s a team player, so no worries there.”
“Okay. Besides Clayton, no one else here at Amalgamated should know about this. No one! What about at IPAB?”
“I don’t know for sure. Two, maybe three folks. They’re a secretive bunch and don’t share much because they are not politicos, but rather power brokers who have been appointed without having had to go through congressional confirmation hearings. Their task is to reduce the deficit by reducing Medicare and Medicaid spending. It’s all about power. And power is knowledge that no one else has.”
“Well said. At least there is no worry there. And I assume there should be no trouble at the medical examiner’s office.”
“Right! No problem there, considering the medical histories of the cases.”
“Good. Thank the Lord for small favors.”
Langley stood up. “All right! I’ll get in touch with Clayton and have him make sure there are no problems over at L.A. University. As the premier academic institution in the area, if there is no problem there, it should be smooth sailing elsewhere.”
“I agree. Later, come back here. I want a more complete explanation of what is happening. I presume you know, since the algorithm is your baby.”
“No problem. It will be my pleasure!”
16
EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT
L.A. UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY, JULY 1, 2014, 12:58 P.M.
George was still upset about Sal’s horrific death and was glad he didn’t have a noon radiology conference to sit through, as it had been canceled for the first day of the new academic year. Such conferences always required a certain amount of socializing, which at the moment George didn’t think himself capable of. Passing the time in the ER’s isolated radiology viewing room was much less demanding and considerably less stressful.
As he sat staring into the middle distance, he wondered what on earth could have gotten into Sal to make him act so bizarrely. Sal had been a pretty calm individual. Could it have been the Alzheimer’s?
While George stayed hidden in the viewing room, he let Carlos do the running around that went with the territory of being a radiology resident assigned to the ER. George was happy to remain secluded, because the ER was still as chaotic as he had ever seen it, with construction workers cleaning up the debris and seeing to the broken windows despite the usual onslaught of patients. Some of the ER’s exam rooms could still be used, but the ones close to ground zero were out of commission, so the ER had temporarily taken over a portion of the nearby outpatient clinic building. The trauma rooms had not been damaged, and were still in use. But it wasn’t easy. With all of the construction people around, it was difficult to get the major trauma patients out of the arriving ambulances and into the proper rooms. Nevertheless, to her credit, Debbie Waters was making it happen.
Some time later Carlos breezed into the room, saying, “There’s a bunch of images that have to be read.” He dropped into the chair next to George and booted up the monitor.
“How is the ER shaping up?” George asked.
“They got rid of the wrecked car already. Most of the debris, too. And they have covered the broken windows with plywood. The scuttlebutt in the media is that the driver of the vehicle was trying to commit suicide.”
George looked at Carlos, shocked.
“They’re just speculating,” Carlos said, catching George’s expression. “You know the tabloids. Gotta juice everything up.”
George shook his head.
“One of the ER residents told me that they suspected some of the driver’s abdominal wounds looked self-inflicted,” Carlos added as he entered the first patient’s hospital number into the computer. “They found a utility knife in the car with blood on it. Can you imagine? The guy must have been nuts.”
George shook his head again. He had trouble believing Sal would do such a thing. And how could they tell what was self-inflicted and what wasn’t, considering that Sal’s body had gone through the windshield before smashing into the LED screen? Suddenly George asked, “How do they know the blood didn’t get on the knife as a result of the crash, considering all the gore. The victim had exsanguinated. Blood was over everything.”
“No clue.” Carlos shrugged as he pulled up the first image.
George didn’t like the thought of Sal being remembered as a crazy weirdo on a suicide mission, possibly trying to take innocent people to their graves with him. George decided to check things out for himself once he finished up with Carlos.
• • •
An hour later George emerged from the peacefulness of the reading room. He was impressed that the ER was pretty much back to normal except for all the plywood and the large hole in what had been the wall-size LED screen. After asking around a little with the orderlies he learned that Sal’s body had been sent down to the hospital morgue. With all the questions he had, he decided to pay a visit. It was a place he had never before had the occasion or the inclination to visit.
George rode an elevator down to the sub-basement. The doors opened onto a desolate hallway. It was eerily quiet in contrast to the rest of the hospital. Lines on the concrete floor of various colors gave directions to different destinations: power plant, refuse, recycling, storage for this or that. George followed the black line leading to the morgue. After a couple of twists and turns he found the place. But no one was home. An empty desk sat in the anteroom, where George expected to find one of the attendants.
Opening an inner door, George wandered in to look for someone. It was a lonely place, looking more like a set for a horror movie than a modern medical center. The place smelled weird, too. And quiet. He promised himself he would view Sal’s body as quickly as possible, then get the hell out.
The surroundings also reminded him of Pia’s visit to the morgue back at Columbia Medical School when she was intent on investigating the death of her research mentor. That had been a very unpleasant experience that had almost gotten him kicked out of medical school.
Suddenly a diminutive man dressed in a long, soiled white coat stepped out of a refrigerated room. Both were startled at their near collision. The man took a step back and momentarily raised his arms as if to defend himself. Apparently he didn’t encounter too many live people.
“Can I help you?” The guy’s tone wasn’t all that friendly, either.
“I’m looking for a body. The deceased’s name is Salvatore DeAngelis.”
“You family?” The guy still sounded annoyed. George thought the diener would have been happy to see a living human being.
“No. I’m—we were friends. Neighbors, actually.”
“Then you can’t see him. We don’t allow ‘friend’ visits. Just family members and approved personnel with direct business—”
“I work at the medical center,” George said, pointing to his white coat and name tag. “I’m a radiology resident.”
The man was clearly not impressed. “I have strict orders. No unauthorized visitors view the deceased. HIPAA rules. You should know all this. With all the celebrities in town, we have to be very strict, especially since the debacles over Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. People take photos and sell them to the tabloids.” He looked down at George’s hands as if he might have a camera ready to start snapping away. “If I just let whoever in here to see any body they wanted—”
“I don’t want to see any body,” George interrupted. He couldn’t believe the guy. “Mr. DeAngelis was a close friend, and I’m a doctor on the staff.” George’s voice rose more than he intended. He took a deep breath and spoke in a more even tone. “The patient was involved in the auto accident in the ER upstairs this afternoon. I’m sure you heard about it. Well, I was there when he crashed. I helped identify him.”
�
��Of course I heard of the crash.” He waved as if shooing away a fly. “And that is another reason not to let you see the body. It might be a medical examiner’s case, being an accident and all.”
George threw his hands up in disgust. “Okay. Fine. I’m out of here.” It was a lost cause, and he didn’t want to hear the guy babble anymore. “Thanks anyway,” he added sarcastically.
George made his way back to the elevator and punched the call button. “What a jackass,” he silently voiced. When the elevator arrived he boarded, irritably pressing the first-floor button.
Just as the doors were about to close, he noticed the doors of the elevator across the way opening. He got a fleeting glance at the passenger stepping off.
Was that Clayton?
George hit the OPEN button on his car just in time. The doors retracted back, and George leaned out. It was Clayton! And he was hurrying in the direction of the morgue. What the hell was Clayton doing?
Making a snap decision, George stepped out of the elevator and hurried after the radiology chair. Maybe he was going someplace other than the morgue. But what else was in the sub-basement that might interest him? George had no idea.
George hustled down the hallway and rounded a corner, briefly catching sight of Clayton farther ahead and immediately disappearing as the corridor turned again. He was definitely moving fast, George thought. Was he carrying a package of sterile gloves? That’s what it had seemed like from the brief look George got before the elevator doors had closed.
George rounded the final corner in time to glimpse Clayton arrive at the morgue and enter.
George slowed down. His intuition was telling him to leave. But his curiosity propelled him forward.
He approached the morgue’s double entry doors and peered through one of the small windows. George noticed that the diener seemed much more accommodating with Clayton. George watched him nod as Clayton spoke to him and then lead the way into the morgue proper while Clayton followed, donning his gloves.
What the hell?
George debated what to do. His intuition was still telling him to get the hell out before Clayton reappeared. This time George listened.
17
GEORGE’S APARTMENT
WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY, JULY 1, 2014, 8:37 P.M.
George opened the door to his apartment and slumped in. He was exhausted. His afternoon at the ER had been extremely busy, with multiple major trauma cases pouring in, requiring all sorts of X-rays and CT scans. A few MRIs had been needed as well to diagnose strokes. It had been even more chaotic after three when Debbie Waters’s shift was over. Her replacement was not nearly as adept.
George found some leftover Chinese take-out in his refrigerator and popped it in the microwave. He scoffed it down while standing in the kitchen. To call it a meal would be kind.
Without turning on a light George threw himself onto the couch. With his hands behind his head he eyed the darkening ceiling. The sun had set, and he faced another long, lonely night. Tired as he was, he could not sleep, thinking about Amalgamated. There was no doubt in his mind that the combination of the federal health care reform empowering the insurance industry and Amalgamated introducing iDoc would turn medical care on its head. And what had Clayton been doing down in the morgue? George still thought it was odd.
George was roused from his musings by a knock on the door, a rare occurrence that was fast becoming rarer still with Sal gone.
It was Zee. A pair of sunglasses and a frown covered his still acne-prone face. The fact that there was no sun was apparently immaterial.
“What the hell happened, dude?”
“You mean in the ER?” George knew Zee was one of the few people in the complex who spoke to Sal.
“Yeah.” Zee walked in uninvited and collapsed on George’s couch. “Man, it is wicked dark in here.”
George turned on a lamp and sat down. He considered suggesting to Zee that he remove the sunglasses, but thought better of it.
“That crash was on my Twitter stream all day. Everyone thought he was a suicide bomber at first.” Zee looked around the room, taking in George’s sparse furnishings. “You need a decorator or something. This place is depressing.”
George frowned. He knew Zee was right, of course, but it bugged him being called out on it by someone whose own apartment was also nothing to write home about.
Zee shifted back to Sal. “He totally trashed Westwood on his way to the hospital. It’s like he OD’d on Grand Theft Auto or something.” He gazed up at George’s ceiling and sighed. “I liked Sal. He was always cool with me.” Then he squinted at George. “So . . . you were there, right? You saw it?”
“Yes. I watched them pull him out of the wreckage.”
“No shit.” Zee whistled. He was oddly impressed. “What did he look like? Cut to shit, I bet.”
“It wasn’t pretty,” George agreed. “He exited his vehicle through his windshield. No airbag. Didn’t use his seat belt. I really don’t know much beyond that.” George felt odd talking about it, as if doing so were disrespectful of Sal.
Zee sensed George’s reluctance to talk about the crash. “Sorry, dude. I know you were tight with him. Guess that’s why I stopped by.” Zee paused, looking like he wanted to say something else. After a minute he continued.
“A lot of people are now saying suicide.”
“I heard that, too,” said George. “But I don’t think so, Zee. I think he was having a health emergency and was just trying to get to the ER.”
Zee nodded. “Weird, though. I would have called an ambulance or gotten someone to drive me.”
“Who knows what he was thinking?” George shrugged.
“Does he have any family? Someone to notify?”
“Two sisters. I met them once back when I first moved in three years ago.”
“A suit on the five o’clock news was saying he had no known family.”
Now that George thought about it he was surprised the police hadn’t asked more questions about the sisters when he mentioned them. Zee suddenly launched himself off the couch.
“Gotta roll, dude. It’s a damn shame about Sal.” He headed out the door. “Catch you later, I got an online session scheduled. I’m up eight hundred for the week.”
“Later,” George said as he got up. “Thanks for stopping by.” George knew Zee was referring to his new career as an online gambler. It supposedly subsidized his living expenses. He had to be doing rather well, considering his rent was $1,500 a month and his unemployment insurance couldn’t have been much more.
George sat back down. Someone should make an effort to contact Sal’s sisters. George thought he would do it if he had their phone numbers. But he didn’t even know what state they lived in, or their names. Were they married? Did they use their maiden name? He had no idea.
Since Sal had listed George as the person to contact in case of emergency, he thought there was a good chance no one had spoken to them. Believing it was the least thing he could do for Sal, George went down to see the building superintendent.
George knocked on the super’s door. He could hear the television on inside. It sounded like a baseball game. He knocked again, this time on the narrow window next to the door. The blinds parted and a pair of red eyes peered out.
“Whadda ya want?” The tone wasn’t unfriendly; in fact it was the opposite, it was hopeful. But the man was clearly inebriated.
“I just . . . never mind. Sorry to bother you.” George waved him off and took a step back. From past experience George knew that when the guy was this far gone, he talked endless gibberish. George did not want to subject himself to that. He’d find another way.
The blinds snapped shut and George could hear the guy moving for the door.
“I’ll come back!” George shouted through the closed door. “I gotta run.” The door flew open
before he could get any farther.
“Come on in, buddy,” the super said as he dusted the remnants of what looked like Doritos off his wrinkled T-shirt. “Got some brewskies in the fridge and the Dodgers are playing the Giants.”
“Tempting, thanks. But I’m on call,” George lied. “I have an issue with my sink, but it can wait.”
Those were the magic words to get the super to go back inside. He stumbled back a step. “Yeah, best if I take a look at that kinda thing in the daylight anyway.” Clearly, the last thing he wanted to do was handle a job. “But stop by anytime to shoot the shit, whatever . . .” The guy was weaving on his feet in an effort to keep his balance.
“Okay. I will, for sure. But not now. Thanks. Gotta run.”
George headed back to his apartment but slowed down as he passed Sal’s door. Thinking, Just in case, George walked over and tried the knob. No luck. It was locked. George continued on to his own apartment, fretting. Once, when he’d lost his own keys, he had climbed the fence and jumped the lock on his sliding door. It would be pretty easy to do the same thing for Sal’s apartment. And it would give him something to do rather than sit and stew. It was the least he could do. It wasn’t like the man was going to care if he broke in.
George headed out of his apartment. He looked around to make sure he was alone. The coast was clear. He stepped past the anemic shrubs that ringed the outside of the fence and put his hands on top of the wooden structure. It was a little loose, like everything else around the complex, but it seemed sturdy enough to hold him. He hoisted himself up and swung his legs over. Unfortunately it was dark on the other side, and he landed on a potted plant, tipping it over on its side. In the process he lost his balance and fell, hitting the side of the fence hard, tilting it outward at an odd angle. He scrambled to his feet, shaken by the fall, perspiring in the heat of the night while trying to catch his breath.