Code Blues

by Melissa Yi

  I pointed at the phone. "If you know who did it, you should tell the police. They'll take care of it."

  She laughed and propped her behind up on the desk, watching me. Her French accent had grown more pronounced. "I have no doubt they would figure it out eventually. But after all, what is one doctor to them when they have biker wars and gangs to fight? This is my work. My revenge."

  I shook my head. "You're being a vigilante. If you have evidence, you should turn it over to the police."

  Her laugh was like shards of glass. "I don't have concrete evidence. When I do, the police will be the next to know." She waved her hands in dismissal. "I'm sure you have something more important to do. Alex, perhaps?"

  A low blow, but I shook it off. "Mireille, I know why you're doing this."

  Her lips drew back in a snarl. "Because I loved him."

  I nodded. "And because you couldn't have him in life."

  She slammed her hand on the desk, rattling a cafeteria tray and upending a plastic tumbler. "Spare me your amateur—"

  I kept talking. "I understand that. I really do. But don't risk your own life, Mireille. Just turn the guy in. That's what I would do."

  She raised her chin. "I. Am. Not. A coward."

  In a way, she was right. I have almost always played it safe. And in the end, I didn't have as much invested in Kurt's death. "Insulting me won't bring him back."

  Her mouth worked.

  I said, "At least tell someone else what you're thinking. It doesn't have to be me. Just tell someone, okay?" Her mouth opened, but I knew it would just be more slagging. I twisted the doorknob and let myself out.

  Chapter 23

  So now it was morning and Mireille preyed on my mind even more than Alex. I called Tori and left a message on her machine about Mireille's intended one-woman show. "Maybe she'll listen to you." There was no love lost between me and Mireille, but I didn't want her dead, either.

  My head ached. I tried to think. Who was the murderer? Who was she referring to? Intelligent. Cunning. It didn't sound like Bob Clarkson, but he could play the fool for us and mastermind behind the scenes. Alex? I had sex goggles on when it came to him. I didn't have confidence in my own judgment on Alex.

  I could call the police myself and tell them Mireille thought she had solved the case. But it sounded ludicrous. I'm sure a lot of grieving partners fancy themselves detectives after a murder. She wasn't necessarily in danger.

  I rubbed my forehead. I understood Mireille better, anyway. She was single-minded and loved the spotlight. No wonder she hosted a party right after Kurt's death. She wasn't just holding a wake, she was questioning people. At Grand Rounds, she had publicly announced her intentions. And now she wanted to shove it in my face: I know, you don't.

  She certainly had the advantage of knowing all the players. Hell, she'd slept with at least two of them.

  I turned on the radio as I brushed my teeth. No news on Kurt. My evening shift was from 5 p.m. until midnight. The empty day stretched ahead of me.

  I wandered back to my living room. It looked even more disastrous in the clear light of day. At least the bookshelf was up and ready to go, so I started shelving more medical textbooks. When I had the extra-heavy, red and white Tintanelli ER tome in hand, I paused. I knelt on the floor and flipped to the section on domestic violence. I didn't see a lot of new information, although I liked the headings "Why does she stay?" "Why doesn't she tell?" Under "Men Who Batter," it said the men didn't fit any neat profile. Any economic, racial, religious, or educational background. They were more likely to have personality disorders, but no one such disorder in particular. They were controlling. They used denial. They minimized the damage they'd done. They blamed others for their actions.

  I wondered why Kurt had chosen this topic for Grand Rounds, besides its relevance to family medicine. Now we'd never know.

  I decided to take a single leaf from Alex and stop thinking. I turned up the volume on my stereo. When I got tired of Katy Perry, the Black Eyed Peas and Sean Kingston burning up the dance floor, I turned to good, old-fashioned CBC Radio. I hung up my clothes, cheered to see my outfits again, even if they severely needed ironing. I couldn't compete with the French girls yet, but now I had more ammunition.

  Making order out of chaos was more satisfying than I'd expected. I assembled two more bookshelves and threw volumes at them. I unpacked my pots and pans and arranged my spices in the sticky white shelf above the stove.

  By the time I sailed out the garage on my bike at quarter to five, I was in a fine mood. I was even going to be on time. Life was good.

  Except my brain started clicking again. Just riding my bike made me think of Alex and our foreplay by the bike rack.

  No. I pedaled faster, dodging a double-parked car, four-ways flashing, while a car roared around me and an oncoming car in the opposite lane slammed on its brakes and its horn.

  Even a near-death experience couldn't stop my thoughts. Who had paged Kurt the night of his death? The police must know it was a vital clue. Had they recovered the pager, or at least the numeric messages? What about his cell phone? Had Mireille used the numbers to track the murderer?

  I rode up the exit side of the parking circle. Instead of dismounting and walking my bike up the sidewalk curb, I jerked my steering wheel upward. I hit the curb and bumped over it. All the saliva had dried out of my mouth. My heart pumped hard.

  If Mireille could solve this, so I could I. I just needed to ponder it more. I locked the bike and tossed the keys in my backpack.

  When I got on, Dr. Dupuis was working the acute side. Double bonus. I smiled and headed straight toward him, barely registering the ambulatory side until a man raised his voice. "No. It would be ridiculous to start in the emergency room, without any follow-up. The man needs a family doctor. Have him follow up with the FMC."

  I paused and turned. Sitting behind the long, white counter, yelling at a medical student, was my man, Dr. Morris Callendar. My heart sank. I'd have to forgo Dr. Dupuis. Dr. Callendar was one of the main players. If I wanted to talk about Dr. Kurt's final night, now was a good time and here was a good place.

  Dr. Dupuis had come outside the nursing station to see a patient in a gurney lying between the ambu and acute side. He waved at me.

  I crossed to his side and gestured at the walk-in area. "I'll work here for a bit, and then I'll join you, if that's all right with you."

  "Sure." He gave me a strange look. He knew I'd never chosen the ambu side before and had been previously allergic to Dr. Callendar. "It's up to you. I'll pull you over if there are any interesting cases."

  "Thanks." If my luck held, I'd get to pump Dr. C. and join Dr. Dupuis immediately after.

  "Sure." He strode off to take care of another mini-crisis. He seemed unflappable. Then I remembered his red face when we found Kurt's body. No, he was flappable.

  Dr. Callendar grunted when he saw me, and gestured at the charts. In addition to the ones who were already in rooms, the clipboards hung on the walls with blue numbers affixed in order of priority. There was also a long trail of charts snaking its way down the counter between triage and the patient rooms. He ducked around the other side to check an X-ray.

  I nodded hello at the medical student. "I'm Hope, an R1. Who are you?"

  He mumbled, "William York." He was a skinny white guy who'd buttoned his white coat all the way up to his neck, with just the knot of his brown tie showing.

  Poor guy. He reminded me of Robin—must have been the tie—with no articles to back him up. I wanted to tell him he'd get used to Dr. C., but then the man in question sailed back around the corner. "Hope, William, we're not paid by the hour. Let's get a move-on!"

  Grr. I wished he was the murderer, but I couldn't see how he'd manage to sneak out of a busy ER, kill his buddy, and make it back down undetected. Even if he just let the charts molder on the counter.

  I picked up the first chart. Someone had scrawled a Post-it note that said "Computer flashed 'drug.'" The case was a 31-year-ol
d woman with dental pain.

  When I emerged from the room, Dr. Callendar and the medical student were occupying the only two chairs, so I leaned against the counter and waited my turn. Dr. C glared at me throughout my entire presentation, then snapped, "Does she have a fever? Is there any evidence of an abscess?"

  At least leaning on the counter, I got to literally look down at him. I shook my head. "I don't see anything. But she says the only thing that helps is Demerol."

  He stood up. "I don't put up with this kind of nonsense. Come with me." He turned and gestured at the medical student. "You too!" William sent me a wide-eyed look and followed us. Dr. C. threw open the door of room 3 without knocking. "Hello, I'm Dr. Callendar, how are you?"

  "Oh," the woman moaned, "My tooth is killing me. I had a cavity here—"

  "Open up." He grabbed a flashlight and tongue depressor from his pocket and tapped on her tooth. "I don't see anything."

  "But it hurts. It's killing me. You gotta—"

  "If there's no infection, there's nothing to treat. See your dentist tomorrow."

  "I did. He—"

  "Good-bye, ma'am. Come back if you have any fever, swelling, redness, or difficulty opening your mouth." He was already halfway out the door, William hot on his heels. I shrugged helplessly at the patient.

  She slid off the examining table, her hands bunched on her considerable hips. Her face was bright red. "That's it?"

  "Uh, I guess so. Sorry."

  "What about my Demerol?"

  "Uh—" I glanced at the door again. No cavalry. "I guess you don't need any. Goodbye." I slipped out.

  She yelled at my back, "I'm not leaving until I get my Demerol!"

  When I reached the desk, Dr. Callendar was writing up another chart and talking to William, unperturbed. "She's a drug-seeker." He pointed at the Post-it note. "We keep a record on the computer. It came up when she registered at the front desk."

  "Oh. That's what it means." Of course, I knew that people came to emerg for drugs, but no one in London had ever asked me for them. I thought the note was something about the computer!

  More shouting from room 3. The nurse tapped Dr. C. on the shoulder. "Morris, you'd better come talk to her. She won't leave."

  "She will." He stood up and tucked the chart under his arm. "Both of you. See more patients."

  It was machine-gun medicine, seeing and reviewing patients rapid-fire. Asthma exacerbation, sore knee, sore throat, urinary tract infection, atypical chest pain. I despaired of getting a chance to ask Dr. Callendar about Kurt's last night.

  The med student took an age to see each patient. He was only in second year, so this was a trial by fire for him. Strangely, Dr. Callendar seemed more mellow with him. "What do you think this is?"

  "Uh," William said, "I think she has a cold."

  "Do you have a differential?"

  William shook his head. His fear and subservience seemed to endear him to Dr. Callendar. Meanwhile, the same doctor would snap at me, "Is that all? Don't you have a plan? You should know what to use for strep throat on pen-allergic patients. Is it a real pen allergy? You didn't ask what his reaction was? Well, what good are you, then?"

  He sure knew how to charm the ladies. I started tuning him out. There was something I was missing about Kurt. Something Mireille had noticed. Her e-mail to him in May—the "Don't call me" message—could have been evidence of harassment, but I didn't think so. She wrote, "I can't be friends with you." Kurt, as usual, trying to be all things to all people, must have been trying to maintain friendship with his ex. Still, sometimes the line blurred. He might have been persistent to the point of harassment. Maybe that's why he chose the topic for Grand Rounds. Physician, heal thyself.

  I pictured his body again in the lounge. Mottled face, staring eyes. No pager. No cell phone. The last two still seemed significant. The killer must have contacted him and asked him to meet him in the middle of the night.

  While Dr. Callendar battered me with words, it clicked. I knew what had bothered me about Kurt's desk. There were no articles on abuse. There were articles on vaccination, but nothing on abuse at all, even though Tori said he'd printed out a stack of references. And the computer didn't work. Not just because it was a St. Joe's special, but maybe because someone had already reformatted the hard drive.

  Maybe the killer had not just confiscated the pager and cell phone, but cleared the office of any articles or references on abuse.

  My mind made the leap.

  The killer was an abuser.

  How had Mireille figured it out? And how was she going to obtain hard evidence for the police? I closed my eyes, remembered every time I had seen Mireille and what she had said. The party. Coming to my house. Hanging around with her former surgery comrade. I figured she was the one calling me and pretending she was Vicki. Every time, she had been on a mission. Collecting evidence. Intent on revenge.

  Until last night, when she had told me to stay away.

  My mind made another leap. She was going to confront the killer.

  And I finally knew who he was.

  I said, "Dr. Callendar. I'm sorry. I have to go to the bathroom."

  He halted mid-diatribe and glared at me. "Well, go on, then!"

  I escaped to the back hall, pausing to grab the yellow stick with the key to the emergency resident's room. Forget the toilet. I had a phone call to make.

  I popped into the resident's room and called Agent Rivera. It rang and rang, and finally an irritated Frenchwoman answered and told me he wasn't there, could I leave a message.

  I did, stumbling over the French, explaining my theory on Kurt's murder.

  "Bon," she said tersely. "I will pass on the message. Au revoir." She hung up.

  I stared at the black plastic receiver. When would she pass on the message? Tomorrow morning? It might be too late.

  Chapter 24

  I punched zero to page Mireille through St. Joe's locating. "Who?" said the operator.

  "Dr. Laroque! She's on family medicine."

  "She's not on call."

  "I know! I need to speak to her. It's urgent."

  "The resident on call for family medicine is Dr. Fabien. Would you like to speak to him?"

  "No! I need to speak to Dr. Mireille Laroque!" If only I'd downloaded the entire list of residents' pagers.

  She heaved an enormous sigh. "Well, okay..."

  "Thank you."

  Three minutes ticked by while I tried to log into my email from the break room's ancient computer. Some bright light had turned off the machine, so I had to boot it up and wait for Windows to load, before I could log in, click on the Explorer icon, and slowly, painfully, bring up my webmail and view Shielagh's messages.

  Dr. Callendar must be frothing at the mouth by now. I couldn't wait any longer. I called locating back. "This is Dr. Sze. When Dr. Laroque calls back, could you ask her to call me through the emergency room? I'm on the walk-in side."

  "The emergency room?"

  "Yes! On the walk-in side. Please!" It was a miracle anyone managed to get a hold of any individual through St. Joe's locating.

  I called Tori, but there was no answer. I left a message explaining who I thought the killer was and my fears Mireille might confront him. I needed to scatter my eggs in as many baskets as possible.

  When I returned to the walk-in side, the med student was slaving over a note. Dr. Callendar was nowhere in sight. I grabbed the chart for a sore shoulder and sent him off to X-ray.

  Dr. Callendar reappeared and opened his mouth, but I struck first. "You know, I met you here on the morning of July first. You had worked overnight."

  He kept his black head bent over his chart. "Yeah. So?"

  "Was there anything unusual about that night?"

  He looked at me then, his brow furrowing. "You mean, clues that my colleague was being murdered upstairs?"

  I nodded, holding my breath.

  "No."

  Damn. "Did you see him that night?"

  "No. I was working. It
was busy. There was a code pink—" He exhaled impatiently at my blank face—"a neonatal code on the floor."

  I asked if he'd seen the man I now thought was the murderer.

  "No. I understand he was at a party, not that it's any of your concern."

  A party. Interesting, especially considering the GHB.

  He pulled the clipboard right out of my hand. "Back to business. Tell me about your patient."

  For the rest of the night, I was unable to escape Dr. Callendar; Dr. Dupuis didn't signal me for any interesting cases. I kept an ear out for Mireille's call back, wincing every time someone used the phone to answer or place pages. Come on, Laroque. I paged her twice more directly to the phone line at the walk-in desk.

  I ended up spending seven hours with the Big C. Cancer patients sometimes call their disease the Big C. Although it was petty of me, it seemed fitting. My shift was supposed to end at 11 p.m., but the Big C. said there were still patients to C.

  Clearly, I was losing my mind.

  When he finally muttered, "You can go now," it was almost midnight. Damn Mireille. Should I page her from home?

  The black phone burbled. I lunged, but the Big C. was closer. "Yeah," he barked. "What? Hang on."

  I grabbed it. The receiver was still warm from his hand. "Hello?"

  Thank goodness, it was Mireille. "Quit paging me."

  I turned away from Dr. Callendar, stretching the cord as long as it would go. "Mireille, I know who it is. I told the police."

  She didn't speak. I heard the faint, tinny sound of Much Music in the background. Then her breath whooshed out. "Tabernac. Fuck off!" She slammed the phone down.

  Dr. C. stared at me, his lips twisted in amusement. He'd obviously overheard at least the last part. "Making new friends?"

  I hardly paid attention. She didn't want me paging her. She hadn't answered me, but she finally did because she didn't want me to disturb her.