[Gina Mazzio RN 01.0 - 03.0] Bone Set

by JJ Lamb

  She'd arrived about thirty minutes before the graveyard shift was due to come on duty, not really that unusual—some of the staff liked to hit the cafeteria to exchange a little gossip, others were more than happy to get away from home and their mates that much earlier.

  She strolled through the front door as if it were her regular shift. The guard paid little attention, barely lifting his head from his magazine.

  Holding her breath until she stepped into the elevator, she hit the “B” button and closed her eyes. Harry was right. This was crazy. Her legs were rubbery as she moved from the elevator into the basement hallway. Was it her imagination or were the lights half as dim as usual?

  The eerie silence was broken only by the soft squeak of her running shoes, echoing in the maze of corridors.

  Winding through the labyrinth, she glanced at each aluminum bubble mirror hanging from the ceiling. At one corner, her eye caught the flash of a dark shadow in the corridor behind her.

  She spun around, clamping her teeth into her lower lip.

  No one there! Her skin tingled with cold sweat. She stood stock-still.

  Stop it! Damn imagination’s going to do me in before I even get started.

  She shook it off and hurried past “The Hole”—the hospital's sub-level auditorium—before looking over her shoulder again.

  Something was wrong. She could almost smell another presence, sense a shift in the coolness of the air on her skin, feel the rush of fear rippling the base of her spine.

  She stared at the exit sign, was tempted to bolt up the stairs: the intuition that had saved her ass many times on New York streets was talking to her, screaming at her.

  No! I’ve got to finish this.

  When she passed the Laboratory, she was power walking; was in a full trot as she arrived at Pathology.

  Pushing through the double swinging doors, she startled a morgue tech sitting behind a desk, checking off completed tissue reports.

  He stood and confronted her: “Sorry, no visitors without an authorization slip.”

  Gina gave him her brightest smile and showed her hospital identification card. “I'm Gina Mazzio from Oncology, upstairs. I wondered if I could see the Post report on Carl Chapman?”

  He looked carefully at her photograph then back at her. His whole demeanor changed as he returned her ID card and eased back down into his swivel chair.

  “Hey, you know I can't do that without some kind of authorization.”

  Gina studied him: twenty-five; lank, fair hair; the kind of pallor that comes from spending a lot of time indoors. He was furtively eyeing her breasts, trying to see them through the sweatshirt she had thrown on.

  “Are you always alone at night? Must be pretty tough.”

  “It's not too bad.” He ran his hands self-consciously through his hair, leaned back in the squeaking chair. “It's usually a lot busier than this.”

  She read his ID. “Listen Joey, I'd really be grateful if you'd let me see the Chapman file.”

  He started to shake his head.

  “Please don't say no. It's very important.” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “How could it hurt anything?”

  He stared at her for a few moments before standing again. “Look, I can't let you do that. That's all there is to it.” Walking toward the door, he smiled at her and said: “Anyway, it's time for my break. You'd better be gone by the time I get back or I'll have to call security.”

  He turned, leaving only the scuffing of the swinging doors to break the silence. She wished she could have asked him where the files were kept, but she didn't dare push it.

  She hurried down the hallway, darting from one room to another, peeking through the glass panels, entering only when she couldn't see the full expanse of the room. Pushing through one of the doorways, she paused for a moment and held her breath.

  “Ugh!”

  She'd stumbled into the dissection area. The place was spotless, but she could still smell the sickly sweet odor of blood, laced with a tinge of formalin. Even in the diminished light, her eyes were drawn to the stainless steel tables where bodies were placed, splayed open, and probed in search of answers that often never came. Here, there would never be any of the frantic activity she'd just witnessed outside emergency—no desperate lifesaving measures, only the cold, calculated assessments of death.

  She eyed the scales where organs were weighed, then reached out toward the clean rubber aprons that were carefully placed on each table, ready for use. She fingered the pliant rubber, then pulled back her hand as though burned.

  Wrinkling her nose, she moved on toward another doorway at the back of the room. When she pushed through, she found herself in the Morgue. The walls were lined with latched, squared doors. She knew the corpses were neatly slotted in each of the shiny metal compartments.

  Her stomach turned queasy as she backed out of the room, the rubber door seals swooshing against the floor. She stood still for a moment, leaning against the wall. Her throat was raw, as though it had been scratched by sandpaper.

  Gina hurried down the corridor and found a large room filled with gunmetal gray filing cabinets. She yanked out the closest drawer: Detailed biopsy reports and other tissue studies—not what she was looking to find. She moved to another section and tried again: Histological slides. She mentally kicked herself for even bothering with the diminutive slide drawers. When she looked up, she saw a sign directly across the room, mounted above a row of file cabinets.

  AUTOPSIES

  It took only a moment to find the right cabinet. She yanked open the drawer marked A-C, flipped through the files until she finally found what she was looking for.

  —Preliminary Report—

  Subject Name Submitted by Account Case Number

  Carl Chapman Ridgewood M. Kessler 7776654

  Although it was a preliminary report, the study of the organs, extremities, and systems of the human physiology was extensive.

  As she studied the Pathology protocol that delineated the gross or visual descriptions of the body organs, it became apparent that Carl's vessels had been damaged, then destroyed by massive multiples of various enteric endotoxins.

  The words jumped out at her. In her hand was a roadmap of Carl Chapman's destruction, his respiratory system reduced to bare essentials: trachea, bronchi, pulmonary arterial tree, multiple lobes. Kidneys divided into capsules, tubules, cortical medulary, renal pyramids, conical masses.

  The report went on and on, covering all of Chapman’s dissected systems.

  Carl Chapman had become a non-person, a cadaver.

  A sudden rush of tears washed across her cheeks. Then she was sobbing, totally out of control. Every time she tried to stop, she cried even harder.

  Finally, disgusted with herself, she yanked a tissue from her pocket, blew her nose, and turned her attention back to the report.

  —Preliminary Diagnosis—

  1. Pulmonary failure.

  2. Cardiac failure.

  3. Distributive shock secondary to gram-negative bacteremia. Specimens retained for microscopic examination.: Blood, urine, fixed tissue .

  A yellow Post-It note was affixed at the bottom:

  For Christ’s sake, Mark, you should see the microbes in this guy. Someone must have covered his insides with shit!

  Chapter 22

  Gina skimmed through the autopsy report one more time, then stuffed the papers back into the filing cabinet.

  The pathologist's cryptic note to Kessler made it very clear why Tracy Bernstein's engraftment had been cancelled—massive fecal contaminants had invaded Chapman's bloodstream. She shook her head. Where had it come from? Certainly not Chapman's marrow; he never received it. The same question must have crossed Kessler's mind, which meant he wouldn't risk exposing his other patients to the same contaminants.

  She quickly exited the file room; Joey would be returning at any moment. She needed to get out of Pathology—he'd done her a favor, no sense screwing up that along with everything else.


  She'd taken no more than a couple of steps when she heard the distinctive brush of a door seal on the polished tile floor. She froze, one hand braced against the wall.

  “Joey?” she whispered, taking a couple of small steps forward.

  “Joey?” she repeated, this time a little louder, trying to keep her voice from trembling. Fear held her immobile.

  Finally, sniffing at the sour air permeating the hallway, she forced herself to place one foot in front of the other. She slid along the wall, listening, moving forward only a few inches at a time.

  She heard the scuff of a shoe and picked up her pace. At the first doorway, she slipped through, holding onto the door, wincing as she tried to close it soundlessly.

  “Damn!” She was back in the autopsy area where anyone could easily spot her. She rushed to the back of the room, entered the Morgue, and stood in front of the wall of stainless steel doors. She tried not to think of the cadavers resting inside.

  Tentatively, she unlatched a door, pulled timidly on the handle. When it wouldn't budge, she had to tug with both hands. Suddenly it sprung open—a rush of chill, stale air slapped at her face. She peered into the black hole. Seeing nothing, she pulled the roller tray toward her. A stony blue-white face appeared, its protective sheet pushed to one side.

  She slammed the drawer home, stood there, shivering, not sure what she should do. Then she heard the brushing sound of the autopsy room door being pushed open.

  She pulled on the handle of the next cooler drawer. Lifting one shaking leg, she stretched it out on the tray—the chill penetrated her jeans. Flattening the rest of her body out horizontally, she reached forward and began to roll herself into the waiting box.

  She reached out for the door, stopped. There had to be a way to jam the latch, keep her from being locked in.

  Patting the pockets of her jeans, she found a couple of wadded up tissues. She quickly stuffed one into the latch opening, ripped off the leftover tissue, and pulled the door closed. She was blind and deaf to everything except her own panicky gasps. She pushed at the narrow confines of the chamber; shoved a hand to her mouth as the iciness of the cooler spread through her.

  Stay! Stay! You have to stay.

  She was suffocating, in the blackness; she knew that at any moment she would scream. Pushing frantically at the sides of the chamber, she banged the door open with her head.

  As the tray raced outward, she scrambled off the pallet, a low hum of terror vibrating in her throat.

  Gulping in the fresh air, she staggered around for a moment before she was able to press an ear to the door and listen.

  She cracked open the door and peered into the autopsy room. Empty.

  Sidling along the white tile wall, she edged around a row of sinks. One of the faucets dripped into the tub, the soft splashes boomed in her ears. Her stomach cramped from the smell of the formalin that permeated the air; but it was the smell of her own fear that forced burning bile up into her throat.

  At the double doors, she looked through one of the glass panes, snapped back with a swallowed gasp. Someone was standing on the other side, and she'd seen enough to know it wasn't Joey.

  Trapped.

  She lowered a shoulder and rammed herself bodily against the occupied door. As she burst through the entry, half stumbling, half running, she caught only a fleeting glance of a figure sprawled on the floor.

  She dashed away from Pathology and zigzagged her way through the corridors. But even before she reached “The Hole”, she heard footsteps pounding behind her. She glanced quickly at the stairwell opposite the auditorium, but turned away, having no idea where it went.

  Instead, she slipped into the auditorium. A single light on the stage created eerie shadows throughout the cavernous room. She hurried along one wall until she came to the first side exit. She jammed both hands down hard against the release bar; the door remained fixed, locked. She tried two more with the same result.

  Spinning around, she surveyed the room, from the back row of its bolted down wooden seats, to the small, curtain-less stage; nothing offered any hope of concealment.

  Gina ran down the aisle and stepped onto the stage. This is where he would find her, corner her, unless she came up with something damn soon.

  She moved center stage and circled the lectern, a box-like structure with a high-intensity reading lamp affixed to its slanted top. She crouched down, compressed herself into a ball, and squeezed into the narrow back opening of the structure. Her chin smashed against her knees, her calves immediately began to cramp. She swallowed down the pain as she heard the door to the auditorium swing open.

  She clamped her eyes shut, tried to quiet her panting. The footsteps came closer and closer, up the steps, onto the stage.

  Gina screamed as a hand reached in, grabbed her, and pulled her to her feet. She tried to twist away, struck out blindly with both fists.

  “Hey! Hey! Gina! Cool it! It's okay. It's me!”

  Her eyes snapped open. Harry!

  “It's okay, doll. It's me.”

  Her legs gave way and she collapsed in his arms. When she could finally speak, she asked: “Was that you in Pathology just now?”

  “No. I was on my way there when I thought I saw you sneak in here like a scared rabbit.” He rubbed his stomach and grimaced. “Next thing I knew, some guy punched me in the gut and took off up the stairs. I'd sure as hell like to get my hands on him.”

  “What'd he look like?” she asked, straightening.

  “Can’t say. It happened too fast. All I know is that he’s a strong son-of-a-bitch— “

  Gina threw her arms around him. “Harry, I was so scared. I don't remember ever being that frightened. I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't showed up when you did.”

  He hugged her tightly. “You're the most stubborn person I've ever known.”

  “I know, I know. Thank God you love me.”

  “Yeah, but it ain't easy.”

  Chapter 23

  Frank Nellis' stomach cramped, waves of nausea swept through him. He clutched at his gut, rubbed it, tried to snuff out the searing pain. Nothing helped.

  It wasn't fair: He'd kept himself together, solved every goddam new problem instead of losing his temper and messing up things like he'd done so many times in the past. He'd stayed control, stashed the money, and was finally finding a way to escape. Then he'd screwed up by not nailing that goddam nurse.

  Pulling the covers over his head, he slid down toward the foot of the bed and cursed Faye for the noise she was making getting ready for work.

  Hardly slept; tossing and turning, finally curling up, hugging himself smaller and smaller until he was no more than a tight little knot. Still, he couldn't hide from the images that plagued him: his mother's final haunting stare as she closed the door and left him behind forever; his grandpa crushing him to the floor with his heavy work boot so he couldn't run after her.

  He'd tried to forget, to bury the visions, only to have them pulled out of the depths by some devilish force that refused to stop replaying his past. Today, it was the blurry, black-and-white film—the version that no longer brought despair, only anger.

  “Frankie?” He felt her tug at the bed covers. “I have to leave soon. I need to talk to you.”

  He held perfectly still, trying to make her believe he was still asleep. He wasn’t finished trying to drive away the demons.

  “Frankie?”

  He flipped the covers away and jumped from the bed, all in one huge, dramatic motion. Faye tried to get out of his way, but only managed to trip over her own feet and tumble to the floor.

  Planting a foot on either side of her hips, he stared down at her. Breathing heavily, he smelled the rankness of his own body—he ran his palms over bunched muscles and tried to wipe away the sheen of sour sweat. Beneath him, Faye attempted to push herself away, but he forced her back down, pressing his foot harshly against her belly.

  “Frankie, let me up,” she said in that whiny voice he hated. “Pl
ease!”

  He bent over, gave her a resounding slap across one cheek. “It's all your fault ... YOUR FAULT!”

  “What did I do?” she pleaded, holding a hand tightly against her reddened face.

  “You brought that Mazzio bitch here. Started her nosing into our business.”

  “No, Frankie! She doesn't know anything. I swear.”Faye tried to rise again, but he stomped harder into her gut. “Frankie, please. You're hurting me.”

  “I knew that bitch was nothing but trouble. Didn't I tell you that? Now she's up to something, wish to hell I knew what it is.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I followed her to the hospital last night; almost nailed her ass, sneaking around Pathology.”

  “Pathology?”

  “Don't be so god dammed stupid, Faye. She's checking on that dead guy, Chapman.”

  Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “But why?”

  “Never mind why. I want her out of the picture. Get it?”

  “Frankie, leave her alone. She can't hurt us.”

  He grabbed her by an arm and jerked her up from the floor, threw her across the bed. “You big cow! Don't you ever tell me what to do!”

  “Please, Frankie, listen to me,” she said, lifting up on her elbows. “Let's get out of this mess now before we get caught.”

  She was like all the dumb bitches he'd ever known. Just looking at her face made him want to bash her. He took a deep breath, tried to swallow the anger; he knew he had to stop it right now. But he could feel it all blowing up, getting away from him again.

  She grabbed for his hand, rubbed it against her cheek, kissed it several times. “We can put back the Capello marrow, take the money we have and go ... go before it's too late.”

  “God, you're pathetic,” he sneered, yanking his hand away. “You're not touching that stuff; it stays right here with me in the freezer. And we're not pulling out of this until we get the rest of the money, first Capello's, then the Oldham girl's. That was the deal, remember? Six of them! Three-hundred big ones!” He held up a fist, pushed it under her chin. Oh, how he wanted to hit her; oh, how he wanted to smash a fist into her pouty, puffy face. Instead, he tapped her chin roughly with his knuckles.