Jack took a sip and winced.
“Tim, this is fucking vile. It must have been sitting on a hotplate all night. Are you trying to poison me?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a wuss.” Bonadonna took a sip and grunted. “Sorry, mate. Let me brew a fresh pot.”
“Never mind. Listen, I’ve got to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“I may be leaving New Canterbury.”
“Come again?”
“I have been fired from the ED directorship and invited to resign from the medical staff.”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“Dr. Gavin coded in the ED because the intern didn’t recognize a tension pneumothorax and the emergency physician on duty—that son-of-a-bitch Humphrey Atwood—had left him unsupervised.”
“I heard about the intern, but not the business about Atwood. Why does that put your neck on the chopping block? I don’t understand.”
“It’s a little more complicated.”
Jack explained how he’d blocked the special paging system Witner had authorized for Atwood.
“But you did right, Jack,” Tim protested. “Even I can figure that out.”
Jack looked up at his friend.
“I’m not so sure anymore. The fact is, if I’d installed the paging system, Dr. Gavin would not be upstairs maybe dying right now.”
Tim groaned and shook his head.
“Well, there’s a fine piece of creative self-flagellation, Forester. It’s bullshit. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“It’s true, though, Tim.”
“So, you’re just going to let Witner and company toss your poor little cadaver out the window?”
“You should have seen how tight Witner and Debussy are. I don’t stand a chance here anymore.”
Tim shook his head and sighed.
“Ah, Christ, what a mess. Not to change the subject, but if Dr. Gavin didn’t try to kill himself, what the hell did happen to him?”
“You want to know my honest opinion?”
“I’d prefer that to your lying opinion, yes.”
“Either he was the victim of a hit-and-run, or someone pushed him over the railing.”
“You mean like a mugger?”
“It’s possible someone tried to mug him, and he fought back.”
“The police would have thought of that. There was no mention of his wallet being gone or anything.”
“I don’t know, but one of the reasons I called you this morning was to see if you could help me take a look at his personal belongings. The SICU nurse told me security would have them.”
“Sure, we can do that. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I think he was carrying a letter with him. I ran into him before the faculty meeting, and he mentioned a letter he’d gotten from Dr. Zyman written just before Zyman died.”
“Zyman was the anatomy professor who had the heart attack a couple of weeks ago?”
“Right. An old friend, best man at his wedding, that sort of thing.”
“So, what’s the big deal about the letter?”
“I don’t know. Gavin said it contained some disturbing news, and that the letter was why he decided to rush back.”
“Strange. He didn’t tell you anything else?”
“He wouldn’t go into details. He said he had to do some research. But it was obviously upsetting him. I don’t know if it has any relevance to what happened, but I want to see it, and I’m pretty sure he would have still had it on him. I’ve looked everywhere else, so hopefully it got secured with his things. I even looked around the area where he fell.”
“Wow, you really do think this is important.” Tim looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Jack. “Amigo, I smell a plot.”
“Oh, do you?” Jack said ironically.
“Gavin comes back from the Amazon with a letter and gets thrown off a bridge. Ten-to-one, he discovered a new medication down there. He’d been sharing information with Zyman, and Zyman got whacked.”
“Zyman had a heart attack.”
“Where’s your imagination? This is a no-brainer, man.”
“Think of Occam’s Razor, Tim. The simplest thing is usually the truth. If Gavin were pushed off the bridge, it’s simpler to imagine that a mugger did it than what you’re concocting.”
“You think you’re so smart, Dr. Forester? Catch this: Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitates. William of Occam, thirteenth century.”
Jack laughed and shook his head.
“How in the hell did you know that?”
“I occasionally read more than Robert Ludlum.”
“Why in the hell didn’t you finish college, Tim? You could have been running this place instead of Nelson Debussy. Or you could have been in Hollywood.”
“We’ve had this discussion before. There’s more than one way to lead a happy life, and I am a happy man. In any case, think of it, Jack. Brazil, rain forest, orchid extract, cancer cure. Gavin returns to test the formula, but he knows he’s being followed. He feels safe on the campus, though. He’s lulled. There he is on the bridge, it’s night, and he’s alone. Along comes one of their henchmen. Gavin goes over the edge…bang!
“My first guess would be makers of chemotherapy agents. Within six months, we’ll see some amazing new cancer drug hit the market. That’ll be the smoking gun. Can’t you see it?”
“No, but I’ve seen the movie Medicine Man. The plot’s a tad similar.”
“So, maybe that gave them the idea.”
Jack chuckled and rubbed his eyes.
“Tim, I’ve got to get some sleep. But I want to find that letter.”
“Tell you what, my friend. I will personally track down his belongings and give you a call. You go home and get some rest.”
“Thank you, Tim. I’ll have to tell you about an interesting woman I met the other day, but not this morning.”
“It’s about time.” He paused a moment. “You’re not really thinking of leaving, Jack, are you?”
“I’m supposed to decide by Monday. They told me I could stay and be just a staff ED doctor.”
“What’s wrong with that? Why do you always have to be the boss? You were like that as a kid, too.”
“Naw, you just needed someone to crack the whip, or you’d have sat in front of the tube all day channeling Harrison Ford.”
XIX
Plans And Whispers
Witner barely had time to settle in and start entering his daily notes before someone knocked on his door. Being Saturday, there was no Greta to screen visitors. Who could it be? He put the journal away and locked the drawer.
“Come in, the door is open.”
A familiar face peered in.
“Do you have a moment, sir?”
“I always have a moment for you, Randy. Come in.”
Delancy approached with a strained expression and hesitant steps, as if expecting a trap door to open underneath him. Witner studied him.
“Why the mournful expression, Randy?”
“Sir, there’s something you need to know.”
“Is there, now?”
“It’s about the disaster last night.”
“I’m well aware of it.”
“Have you talked to Dr. Atwood about it yet?”
“Of course. I came in last night, and I’m due to see him in a short while. What’s the issue?”
“You know he was out of the emergency room when Dr. Gavin came in.”
“That fact is well-established.”
“And he told you what he was doing?”
“I’m not sure I see your point. He was working on one of his projects. I don’t know which one, not that it matters. Randy, why won’t you look me in the eyes?”
The young man opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his face coloring.
“Listen, Randy. Let’s not waste time here. If you’ve got something to tell me, out with it, please.”
“I know you and Dr. Atwood are
quite close.”
Witner grunted and began tapping his pen on the desktop.
“If you fancied we were friends, I’ll disabuse you of that idea. He’s one of my junior faculty members who performs some useful roles, nothing more. Please, either share your thoughts or let me get back to work.”
Delancy’s Adam’s apple slid up and down.
“This isn’t easy, sir.”
“Obviously.”
“Dr. Atwood wasn’t working on a project last night.”
“What do you mean?”
Delancy took a deep breath.
“An orderly saw him go into the old fluoroscopy room last night with one of the radiology techs and lock the door. The tech was a woman.”
“For Satan’s sake, Randy, tell me she’s not young and attractive.”
“I wish I could, Dr. Witner.”
“That’s where he was when Dr. Gavin was brought in?”
Delancy nodded.
“I don’t know if it’s an affair, sir, or what. I just know word is starting to spread, and that you needed to be aware.”
* * *
Five minutes after his appointed time, Atwood appeared at the door. He was less tidy than usual, his hair uncombed and circles under his eyes.
“How are you this morning, Bryson?” he said
“Perfectly wonderful.”
“Sorry I’m a little late. I was polishing the draft of a new paper and lost track of time. It’s a literature review of Addison’s disease presentations in the elderly.”
“Is it, now?”
No matter how much Atwood wanted to make a name for himself, his ambition would never outweigh his native stupidity.
“Yes. I’ll be sending it out Monday.” Atwood continued. “It’s so satisfying to get one’s thoughts down. I love it. Just love it. Don’t you, Bryson?”
He was, at best, third rate. No—fifth.
Witner tilted back his head and stared at him. The younger man’s smile slowly evaporated, and he swallowed, tugging at the neck of his shirt with a finger.
“I hope you slept better than I did, Bryson. I understand Dr. Gavin is status quo this morning.”
“That’s correct. Unchanged.”
“If only I had pushed harder for the paging system and not put up with Forester’s BS.”
“You should have let me know he wasn’t complying.”
“And that, yes. I should have let you know. But I wanted to take care of it on my own, and spare you the trouble.”
“Take a seat over there, Humphrey.”
“Over there? By the coffee table?”
“Yes, Humphrey. Over there by the coffee table.”
Witner followed and sat opposite him.
“Shall I light the fire, sir?”
“No, I think not.”
He kept his eyes fixed on Atwood’s forehead.
“Humphrey, you are relieved of your duties as assistant ER director. Nelson Debussy’s suggestion.”
“I hope it will only be temporary, sir.”
“I imagine you do.”
Atwood was looking increasingly worried.
“Bryson, if you’re angry with me, I can understand.”
Witner brought his fingertips together and made a little tent.
“Humphrey, I’m going to ask you a question.”
“Certainly, anything.”
“What were you really doing last night?”
“We already talked about that.”
“Humphrey…”
Atwood took a deep breath and did not seem inclined to release it as Witner leaned toward him.
“You lied to me, Humphrey. You weren’t working on a research project.”
“I absolutely was, sir. You see, I’ve always been interested in using the emergency room as a site for hospital employees to receive routine health care services in order to reduce expenditures and so forth. Let me explain. You’ll remember me telling you about this, I believe last December—yes, about the middle of last December. I remember you were very interested.”
“Poppycock,” Witner growled.
Atwood rushed on.
“I wanted to determine the cost-effectiveness of screening hospital employees for cancer in the emergency room. That’s what I was working on.”
Witner leaned over and picked up Atwood’s family snapshot that was still lying face down on the coffee table from two days before. He looked at it, then stared up at Atwood.
“Humphrey, talking to you is like peeling the bracts off a rotten artichoke.”
“Nice metaphor, Bryson.”
Witner voice suddenly soared.
“Don’t nice metaphor me. I’m waiting to hear you tell me the truth.”
Atwood cleared his throat and began with a stammer.
“The truth, ah, is that undetected breast cancer in young women is a serious problem. Our hospital employees include a large population of younger women, most of whom do not undergo routine screening. My hypothesis is that routine breast exams done in the ER on this captive population will lower the rate of morbidity and mortality. I happened to stumble on the perfect subject, my index case.”
“She is a radiology technician—correct?”
Atwood cocked his head in surprise.
“Well?” Witner spat.
“Well, what, sir?”
“I want the truth, and I want it now.”
“She told me she had a lump in her breast. Her mother had died young of breast cancer, and she didn’t have a family doctor. I’ve been examining her regularly.”
“How regularly?”
“Well, whenever she thinks the lump is changing.”
“Which is how often?”
“Sometimes once a week. But that’s the nature of fibrocystic disease, as you well know, which is what I think it is.”
“You examine her weekly, all by yourself, in the old fluoroscopy room?”
“It makes an ideal setting. Once the study gets rolling, I was hoping to get some funding to set it up as a formal consultation room.”
“How old is she?”
“Ah, I believe she is twenty-two. This is going to be a wonderful study for New Canterbury, and I was hoping you’d be a co-author. Anyway, if Forester had ordered my pager, this wouldn’t have happened. Nothing changes that.”
Witner gazed at the ceiling.
“I am humbled to be in the presence of such a genius—able to justify why he was fondling the breasts of a twenty-two-year-old woman behind locked doors while his intern was flubbing the case of the century.”
“I wasn’t fondling—”
“Shut up,” ordered Witner, rising to his feet. “Stay there.”
He checked the antechamber—it was empty—then firmly closed the door and threw the lock. Returning, he stood beside Atwood’s chair.
“I can see it now, Humphrey. Can’t you? Front pages from The New York Times to the National Enquirer. ‘New Canterbury Doctor With Nymphomaniac While Intern Butchers Former Dean!’” He leaned close and let his voice rise unchecked. “You are a first-caliber moron! Why didn’t you tell me yesterday? I’ll tell you why. Because somewhere in the porridge of your brain, you know exactly what a bumbling ass you are.”
Atwood leaned away from his rage.
“You blithering numbskull! This is going to finish your career and could drag me down as well! I flay myself for any modicum of trust I ever extended you…you bleeding varlet!”
Atwood’s head tilted like a traffic light in a gale. Witner brought his face even closer.
“You are a contaminant! Utterly Infectious! If I didn’t know the depths of your worthlessness, I’d suspect you were an agent sent to destroy me.”
“What are you talking about?” Atwood murmured, his voice trembling.
“That’s none of your business.”
Witner held the photograph in front of the man’s face, tore it into pieces and stuffed them into Atwood’s shirt pocket.
“A study of the value of screening breast
exams on hospital employees—rubbish! You are fit to study nothing but the twisted little worms that pass for neurons inside your skull. Have you even submitted this study idea to the institutional review board?”
“Not completely, no, sir. It’s high on the to-do list.”
“Not completely. How dare you breathe the same air? Do you know what I would like to do right now?”
“Ask me to resign?”
Witner lowered his voice.
“I would like to pop you open like a bug.”
“Bryson, I’m sorry. Please—”
“Shut up!”
The last words showered Atwood’s face with spittle. Witner straightened, inhaled deeply, then paced around Atwood’s chair, twice clockwise, twice counterclockwise. When he sat back down a few moments later, the storm was ebbing, his expression beginning to relax as he considered all the options. Finally, he took another deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had resumed a nearly normal tone.
“You’ll understand, Humphrey, I had to get that out of my system.”
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Atwood gaped at him, speechless.
“However, if you think anyone will believe that cock-and-bull about a study, you’re stupider than I thought. If a dozen people know about this today, two hundred will by tomorrow, and it’s just a matter of time until the media gets wind. Within a week, I think it’s fair to say the entire world will be reading about it. And your friend, Dr. Forester? Just imagine the joy he’ll feel watching you roast.”
Atwood’s mustache worked up and down.
“Nancy,” he said. “I don’t want her to know about this.”
“Well, she’d have to be even less astute than her brilliant husband to miss it. This will be like a big chocolate cake for the press.”
Atwood fumbled for his handkerchief, wiped his face and blew his nose.
Witner looked at his at his watch.
“And to think you were on the threshold of a brilliant career.”
“I’ll resign.”
“How generous of you. You’ll be unemployable, anyway, at least as a physician. The state health department will pull your license, you can be sure of it. I wouldn’t be shocked if they initiate criminal charges against you for patient abandonment. Do you expect your index case to stand up for you? Even McDonald’s will probably turn you away.”
Final Mercy Page 16