The Killing Harvest

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The Killing Harvest Page 11

by Don Donaldson


  “I want to.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll work the stores nearby and come back when you’re finished.”

  It was only a minute or two before the carousel stopped to take on new passengers. Riding it was a thing Sarchi wouldn’t normally have done, but something about the innocence of the whole picture had drawn her to it. She followed a mother and her little girl onto the ride and then had to choose between a conservative adult seat or one of the decorated circus horses. Deciding to go all the way, she climbed onto a white stallion with a red saddle and blue and red reins. The music started, and the carousel began to turn.

  She’d hoped for a few minutes respite from events of the past few days, but even here, where her heart seemed to be pumping out circus music instead of blood, she felt a palpable premonition that this Latham difficulty was pulling her into something deep and dark, and the faster the carousel whirled, the closer it seemed to bring her to the brink of that pit.

  IT WAS ONE of the worst ear infections Sarchi had seen in the last six months, on a baby with possibly the best set of lungs in the state. So as she withdrew to the nurses’ station to write up her physical exam, her head was ringing from the child’s cries.

  Kate McDaniels was waiting at the station. “Hard to believe all that can come from such a small body,” she said.

  “He’s got an ear infection. Finally, something I can cure for a change, unless of course there’s a residual hearing loss.”

  Kate had hoped to find Sarchi in a better frame of mind. She briefly thought about holding back the news she had, but then, realizing there would probably never be a good time for this, said, “Koesler has made his decision.”

  From the look on Kate’s face, Sarchi knew the rest. “Rachel’s the next chief resident.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Though she’d tried not to admit it even to herself, Sarchi had wanted that job far too much. And now that it wasn’t to be, she realized she’d also been counting on it. “You heard this from Koesler himself?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “I thought I was the front-runner.”

  “So did I.”

  “Did he say why he chose Rachel?”

  “Some hokum about her having the edge in organizational skills.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “Nobody in this hospital is better organized than you.”

  “This isn’t making me feel any better.”

  “I’m sorry. If it had been me making the decision . . .”

  “I know. Thanks anyway for telling me.”

  “It’s actually not that great a job. You’d be spending more time in front of a computer than on rounds. A doctor needs to be with patients. You going to be all right?”

  “This was always a possibility. I knew that. Guess I’ll have to start checking the journals for jobs.”

  “There’s a pediatric group in West Memphis looking for someone. If you like, I’ll make a call.”

  West Memphis, Arkansas, the land of truck stops and flooded farmers’ fields. “Thanks, but let me do a little hunting first.”

  For the next two hours, until her shift ended, Sarchi carried her disappointment on her back, her steps slowed by its weight. Later, soaking in the tub at home, she began to bounce back. Okay, plan one is out; proceed to plan two.

  As she was drying off, the phone rang. Linda couldn’t get it because she was out. Wrapping herself in a towel, Sarchi went into the bedroom and picked up.

  “Doctor Seminoux?” A man’s voice—vaguely familiar and with the sound of anger in it.

  “Yes, this is Doctor Seminoux.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the voice said.

  Sarchi stiffened in shock. It was Latham.

  13

  “I DON’T KNOW how you got to the Stanhills,” Latham said, “but I’m warning you, stay away from my patients and their families, or you’ll lose more than a chief residency.” The line went dead.

  In a daze, Sarchi hung up and stood there in disbelief. Latham was responsible for her losing out to Rachel Moore. And he had threatened her.

  Suddenly, she began to tremble. Irritated at this, she took a deep breath and forced herself to stop. This was ridiculous. For years, she’d regularly risked her life in underground passages that could flood if there was a sudden rain. And here she was becoming unglued over a phone call? Dammit. She shouldn’t have visited the Stanhills. But by God, Latham had no business interfering in her promotion, either. Could she take this without giving any kind of response? After several hours of debate with herself, she reached a shaky decision.

  The next day, with her first spare moment, she tracked down Pierce.

  “I heard about the chief residency slot,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t get it.”

  “It was Latham. He pulled some kind of strings so I’d be passed over.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He called me last night and said so.”

  “Why would he want to interfere? He called you?”

  “He knew I’d talked to the Stanhills. My guess is because of my visit to them, Stephanie’s father, Raymond, called Latham to press him for more information on Stephanie’s condition. Raymond must have mentioned my name during that call. Latham warned me to stay away from his patients.”

  “This is just the kind of situation I was afraid of.”

  “He shouldn’t have called me, and he shouldn’t have blocked my promotion.”

  “No argument there.”

  “His actions prove he’s got a lot to hide.”

  “That may be overstating things a bit.”

  “I’ve tried, but I simply can’t look the other way on this.”

  Pierce winced. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t have the time or the resources to gather any more information on his other patients, so I’m going to schedule a meeting with the administration of the hospital where his clinic is housed and lay everything I know on the table. To do that, I’ll need copies of Drew’s video and all his scans.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

  “Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it myself. But I’m convinced what we’ve learned about him is only a fraction of the harm he’s done.”

  “Sarchi, I like you, and I hope you won’t take what I’m about to say personally, but I can’t allow you to use my name in conjunction with any of this when you go to New Orleans.”

  “Fair enough. But will you at least help by providing copies of the materials I’ll need?”

  Pierce hesitated.

  “Surely you’re not going to deny me even that, when I’m willing to take the heat.”

  “I don’t want to encourage you.”

  “Latham’s phone call was encouragement enough. All I’m asking for are copies. It’s a reasonable request, and you know it’s the right thing to do.”

  Pierce groaned in resignation. “Okay, they’re yours.”

  “When?”

  He looked at his watch. “Come by my office between three and three thirty. I’ll have them then.”

  With that settled, Sarchi turned to her next task: setting up a meeting with the chief administrator of Westbank Medical. Not wanting to proceed without having a name to ask for and knowing something about the person, she called Sharon McKinney’s pager at University Hospital.

  Sharon returned the page promptly.

  “I need a favor,” Sarchi said. “Could you check with those people at your place who worked at Westbank Medical and ask them the name of the chief administrator over there? If you could, also get me a thumbnail personality sketch.”

  “I’ll try. What’s up, if I’m not being too nosy?”

  “Long story, but I may be coming back t
o New Orleans in the next day or two. I’ll fill you in then.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Like last time, probably just for the day. I can’t afford to take any more time than that.”

  “I’ll check and get back to you.”

  “I’m at the hospital. You’ve got my pager number?”

  “I have it.”

  They connected again twenty minutes later, and Sharon relayed the information that the man Sarchi wanted was Harold Pelligrino.

  “They also said he was a pain in the ass,” Sharon added.

  “Maybe he’s just misunderstood.”

  “I’m sure. Let me know when you’re coming. I’m dying to hear what you want with this guy.”

  After getting the number of Westbank Medical from the Internet, Sarchi’s next call was to Pelligrino’s office via the medical center’s switchboard. A woman answered.

  “This is Doctor Sarchi Seminoux in Memphis. May I speak with Doctor Pelligrino?”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting.” From her tone, she seemed to think Sarchi should have known this.

  “Would you ask him to please call me at his earliest convenience? I’m afraid I’ll have to give you my pager number.”

  “May I tell Doctor Pelligrino what this is about?”

  Sarchi paused. This wasn’t something she wanted brought to Pelligrino’s attention by a secretary. “I’d prefer to talk to him directly.”

  “Very well.” The woman’s displeasure at being cut out of the loop was obvious in her voice.

  Pelligrino returned her call a few minutes before she was to pick up the copies of Drew’s data from Pierce. Fighting the temptation to forget the whole thing, she responded to the page and soon had him on the phone. She introduced herself, then got to the point. “Recently, a patient of mine was treated in your hospital by Doctor George Latham.”

  “Yes, one of our shining stars.”

  “I’m afraid that might not be altogether true.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pelligrino replied, his voice frosting over.

  “It’s not something that can be discussed over the phone. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you so that we can talk about this face to face, and I can show you some illustrative material.”

  “What kind of material?”

  “Some videos and brain scans.”

  “Then this would be in the nature of some sort of criticism of Doctor Latham?”

  “I’d prefer we not get any deeper into that until we meet.”

  “My schedule is quite full, but I suppose I could make room for you tomorrow. I assume you’d like to do this as soon as possible.”

  “I would.”

  “Tomorrow then. Two o’clock, in my office.”

  “I’m sure you understand the need for confidentiality regarding my visit.”

  “The concept is not unknown to me.”

  Several minutes after the call, Sarchi’s nerves were still sizzling. It didn’t help any to realize that the worst was yet to come.

  Her luck with last-minute travel plans finally ran out along with her cache of frequent flyer tickets, for there was not a seat to be had on any flight to New Orleans the next day. Having made the first step in getting the Latham issue settled, she had no desire to prolong things by rescheduling her meeting. This left her with only one alternative. Distasteful as it was, she’d just have to drive.

  SARCHI LOOKED AT the swamp bordering the elevated roadway. Only thirty miles to go. She’d covered the previous three hundred and seventy in a sort of trance, trying to ignore the monotony of the ride. But now, with her meeting less than an hour away, she became alert and more than a little nervous. She glanced at the seat next to her, which held the tote bag containing her arsenal of evidence against Latham. Then, eyes back on the endless strip of pavement through the black, cypress-dotted wilds around her, she went over what she was going to say to Pelligrino.

  She arrived at Westbank Medical with no time to spare. She’d cut it close on purpose to avoid the jitters that would accompany waiting around. Even so, she found herself on edge, partly because she was afraid she might run into Latham in the hospital corridors. To avoid that, she checked everyone coming her way long before they passed. Afraid Latham might get on the elevator with her, she took the stairs to the fourth floor, arriving at Pelligrino’s office with her heart beating hard against her chest.

  Pelligrino’s outer office was opulent, with dark paneled walls, huge gilded mirrors, and muted Oriental carpets. The receptionist sat at a French desk with a lot of intricate wood inlay. Considering it had all been paid for by the misfortunes of the sick, Sarchi found this open display of affluence in poor taste. Suddenly, she no longer felt nervous. People like this were to be pitied, not feared.

  The woman at the desk, a silver-haired, houndstooth-bedecked veteran of the receptionist wars, looked unfriendly.

  “I’m Doctor Seminoux. I have a two o’clock appointment with Doctor Pelligrino.”

  The woman glanced at her watch, then looked at Sarchi. “It’s two minutes after two,” she said. “Punctuality is a virtue you should cultivate.”

  Not wanting to get into a row with her, Sarchi let the impertinent comment pass. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The woman lifted the phone and punched a button. “Doctor Pelligrino, Doctor Seminoux has finally arrived.” She looked at Sarchi. “You may go in.”

  Sarchi took a deep breath and opened the office door.

  Inside, across a vast expanse of more Oriental carpet, Pelligrino sat behind a desk big enough to land a plane on. He stood and beckoned. “Doctor Seminoux, did you have a good trip?”

  Sarchi crossed the room, her feet sinking into the carpet. “It was your basic uneventful car ride.” Pelligrino was tall and slim with a face that reminded her of an apple drying in the sun.

  “That’s a long drive. You must have wanted to see me very badly.”

  “I did.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Sarchi sat in one of the two upholstered armchairs in front of his desk and put the tote bag in her lap. He returned to his own chair and leaned forward with his forearms on the desk and stared at her, his lips pursed. “How is your final year of residency going?”

  The question set off an alarm in Sarchi’s head. “How did you know I’m a resident?”

  “You mentioned it during our brief conversation on the phone.”

  “Did I?”

  “I’m sure you said so.”

  Sarchi was just as positive she hadn’t. Her memory on the point was particularly clear because it was something she’d specifically decided to omit, fearing that if he knew she was still in a residency, he might not take her seriously. Obviously, he’d done some checking around—nothing wrong with that, but why didn’t he simply admit it? “Doctor Pelligrino, much of what I have to say will require that we look at the material I mentioned. I’ve brought a . . .”

  Pelligrino stopped her with a raised hand. “I’ve asked someone else to be here for this. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to wait until he arrives.”

  This was actually something Sarchi had expected. In fact, she anticipated he might want a neurologist present or maybe their legal counsel. She wondered if the receptionist would give the new arrival a lecture on punctuality.

  It soon became apparent that Pelligrino had no intention of making small talk while they waited. Searching for some alternative to staring at him, Sarchi focused instead on the flames flickering over a realistic set of gas logs in a fireplace to her left. About the time her neck began to hurt from being turned so long in that direction, Pelligrino’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Send him in.” He looked at Sarchi. “We can proceed in just a moment.”

  Hearing the door behind her open, Sarchi turn
ed in her chair, but the back was too high to see over. She heard the soft rustle of footsteps on the carpet.

  “I believe you two know each other,” Pelligrino said.

  Sarchi looked up into the grim countenance of George Latham.

  14

  SARCHI FELT HER face flush as she glanced at Pelligrino. “I thought my visit was to be confidential.”

  “I made no such agreement. In any event, having Doctor Latham here is the best arrangement. That way, he can respond directly to your concerns rather than have me relay them to him with the distortions that inevitably occur in serial verbal discourse.” He looked at Latham. “How are you, George?”

  “Busy,” Latham said harshly. “And in no mood for this.”

  “I can understand that. But I think we owe Doctor Seminoux the right to be heard.” He looked at Sarchi. “So, Doctor, how would you like to proceed?”

  “The data I’ve brought are on two laptops. Where would be a good place to put them?”

  Pelligrino stood and gestured to the wall on Sarchi’s right. “That credenza should suffice.”

  Sarchi went to the tall credenza and began setting up. She had brought two laptops so that pre-op scans could be put on one and post-op on the other, facilitating easy side-by-side comparison. Not wanting to fool around with cords and plugs, she’d made sure both computers were fully charged.

  While she worked, Pelligrino came from behind his desk and whispered something to Latham. Then the two men pulled chairs in front of the credenza, sat, and waited for her to begin.

  Sarchi’s hands were cold, and her face was hot. In the past, the old trick of imagining her audience in their underwear usually calmed her. But even when she mentally defrocked them, Pelligrino and Latham were still intimidating. Hoping her voice wouldn’t quiver, she started talking.

  “I first met Doctor Latham when I accompanied the mother of one of my patients, a paralyzed little boy named Drew, to this hospital to consult with him about the boy’s condition.” Sensing that her voice was a little thin, she pushed harder. “After examining Drew, Doctor Latham expressed his belief that he could cure the boy.”

 

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