Lethal Practice

by Peter Clement

  Soon she’d be out prowling the back lane, trying to engineer a chance meeting with anyone who might have a tidbit of gossip for her. Two steps behind would follow her thin, stooped husband, the curve of his back and nose giving him an odd pecking look, like a heron foraging in grass. In the prewinter light the old couple might be cave dwellers, except millennia of marital training had finally got the man where he belonged.

  After I replaced the phone receiver, I hesitated about the next call I had to make. Even thinking about it made my throat go dry again.

  I needed to confront Kradic. If he was the monster behind this, I wanted to flush him out now. But I had nothing specific to do it with. I knew he was mad at me, but he was mad at a lot of people. I didn’t even have an inkling of what might motivate the man. And I certainly had no evidence that he was the maniac behind the hit-and-run attack this morning. I had to have something if I was going to voice any suspicions to Bufort.

  I decided I’d call Kradic about the break-in and ask him if he had seen anything. Or I’d ask him to speak with me before our meeting tonight about practicing with cardiac needles on DOAs. Either way, I’d look for some giveaway, some shred of the hatred behind the attacks on me. If it was him, I figured I might at least sense it.

  I called the hospital, got his number, and had them connect me to his home. Busy. I tried again but got the same annoying sound.

  I wasn’t going to be put off, so I called the city operator.

  “This is Dr. Earl Garnet, chief of emergency at St. Paul’s. I’ve been trying to reach Dr. Albert Kradic, but his line’s busy. Could you please interrupt the conversation and advise him I have to talk to him?”

  “Of course,” she replied. I gave her Kradic’s number and waited. My hands were getting sweaty as I psyched myself to sound official while being shrewd as hell.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that phone seems to be off the hook.”

  Shit! He was probably sleeping. I’d have to psych myself all over again tonight.

  I cleaned up, found some fresh clothes, and got ready to go. When I went to lock up before leaving by the back way, I found a cop car parked in front of the house. Already? I marveled at the effect Janet had on people like Bufort. I went out and walked over to the driver’s side, where a very bored cop was reading a magazine. He barely looked up as I introduced myself. My protection. I advised him about Doug arriving later.

  “How will I know him?” he asked without much interest.

  “Big, very big.” Thank God.

  * * * *

  The only sign that my usual predawn excursion to the hospital was now occurring at high noon was a lighter shade of gray and a hundred times more traffic. Buffalo drivers are an ornery lot after three weeks of rotten weather. Ten minutes of the snarl-up in the streets and I was giving the finger and lipping off with the rest of them. By the time I pulled into the sodden parking lot, I felt warmer than I’d been in weeks. The weary attendant signaled me to the special spot he kept for a few of us when we were late and otherwise out of luck. It was the emergency fire lane outside the staff entry to the outpatient department, where we held all our clinics. Since I was also chairman of the Safety and Emergency Measures Committee, it was a slick move. Who was I going to report myself to?

  I parked, got out of the car, and opened the trunk to retrieve the computer printouts and disks I’d been working on at the cabin. Then I paused. I hadn’t put them there for any specific reason. I was in the habit of lugging a small office around with me, and rather than cart it inside each time I parked, I just locked my briefcase and any other stacks of paperwork in the trunk as a matter of routine.

  Could the quality assurance data be why I was suddenly a target? Was that what the night visitor had been after at the cabin? And this morning in my office and at my home? The thought seemed absurd. Yeah, most of the physicians were nervous about their visibility in the study, but that was tempered, I thought, by their curiosity to have their competence measured. The sniff of competition had been irresistible when we’d voted on whether we would enter the QA program. It was the implicit challenge of a rivalry among old friends and colleagues whose job every day meant putting their skills on the line. The vote had been nearly unanimous; only one of the secret ballots had been left blank.

  But for any of the reservations expressed then to bubble into the insane fury of the last few hours was beyond understanding. I had to find out more about Kradic, but also, almost in spite of myself, I felt my instincts start to probe what some other members of my department might be capable of as well. Dark possibilities, unthinkable a few days ago, now appeared frighteningly plausible. Had Jones been snooping through the study out of the same nervous curiosity that afflicted most of the department, or was she after something specific? Did the data hide a secret so terrible, someone who had seen me leaving with the printouts felt they had to kill me before I stumbled onto it?

  Or did these records somehow connect with Kingsly’s killing, or possibly the wino’s, and threaten a killer not even in my department? I still didn’t know of any relationship between Kingsly and members of my staff that could possibly be a motive for one of them killing him. But this was far less reassuring now, if the attack on me today, as well as the destruction of my house and the office break-in, had been set off by something hidden in the ER statistics. That suggested a motive limited only to the physicians identified by code in that report.

  I was still standing at the back of my car with one hand on the open trunk, and I couldn’t help giving a quick look around. The lot was filled with cars and mist. An old man struggled out of a nearby taxi, then walked with a cane slowly toward the hospital. I could see other figures moving farther off in the fog, but no one was near me. I looked back down at the pile of printouts and computer disks. I had to keep them safe. If they were the cause of the attempts at theft and the hit-and-run try, then it made sense that the perpetrator wanted to keep me from unlocking their meaning. I frowned. The records themselves had been sent out from the state health department and were accessible to a lot of authorized people. But what was in those numbers and symbols that only I was likely to pull out, cross-reference, and look at in such a way that I fingered a criminal? If these statistics could tell me something, maybe they could give me what I needed to find my way out of danger instead of getting me killed.

  No one had found them in the car so far. For the time being, that seemed the safest place to keep them, so I slammed the trunk closed and checked the lock.

  I was just setting my antitheft alarm when I saw Gil Fernandez. Coatless, he was crossing the hundred yards between the psych building and the main hospital. Now that the daylight was at least equal to the street lamps, he looked even whiter. His forehead had the sheen usually seen in fevers or the sweats of withdrawal. Gone was his jaunty scarlet handkerchief. In addition his suit and his shirt were equally wrinkled—and he wasn’t even wearing a tie. Instead of the flamboyant cavalier he had so often mimicked, he slouched by, like a condemned man headed for the gallows.

  “Gil, are you all right?” There was no answer. “Gil!”

  His head jerked up. The blank gaze I got was far from recognition. I stepped over to him. If possible, he looked a lot worse up close. The man probably hadn’t been home, certainly hadn’t changed or showered since yesterday. Being caught overnight wasn’t unusual for a physician, but by noon the next day most doctors could at least find time for a shower. Even Fernandez’s usually crisp beard needed a trim.

  “Gil, are you all right?”

  He looked at me, tried to smile a greeting, but instead his eyes brimmed over with tears. He couldn’t stop himself; his chin kept trembling, and the tears continued to flow.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, turned, and raced to his car before I could grab him.

  “Gil!” I yelled after him, and started to walk quickly over to where he fumbled with his keys.

  He saw me coming, whirled, and shouted, “Back off!”

  I was so startled, I
froze in midstep.

  “You can’t help me!” he said in a more normal tone.

  Before I could protest, he got the car door open, jumped inside, raced the motor on starting, and like a replay from the other night, jerkily sped from the parking lot.

  He had seemed afraid then; now I was afraid for him, despite the familiar words. Back off! Coincidence? Maybe. I’d nearly lost my life passing off some recent events as coincidence. But it was a pretty common expression, and I certainly had no idea why I’d be a threat to him. And what the hell had driven him to this state? I didn’t know what to do. Doctors who were sick, whether mentally or physically, had two problems— whatever afflicted them and being assholes who refused help.

  Fernandez, at the very least, needed a friend. But I had no idea whom to call. Again, with that peculiar formality of colleagues, we had worked together for years in carefully defended isolation. I presumed he was married, but didn’t know for sure. I certainly didn’t know who his friends were, or even if he had any. He probably had none in the hospital. Chiefs rarely did.

  As I turned back toward the hospital, I had a funny thought. I’d spent the last twenty-four hours becoming afraid of people. But I wasn’t afraid of Fernandez.

  * * * *

  In emergency the clerks and nurses all greeted me with smiles and told me they were delighted I was okay.

  Popovitch and Sylvia Green walked over and started feeling my bones.

  “Should we shoot him?”

  “Nah, who would we blame this mess on then?”

  “Pity, I kinda wanted his car.”

  “Back to work, schleps,” I said, and made my way to my office, feeling slightly restored.

  It didn’t last. Carole had locked the door as I’d requested. I opened it and found everything as usual except that she wasn’t inside. The only evidence of a break-in was a plywood sheet nailed over the window. What bothered me, however, were the notes on my desk. The first was from Bufort. Since he’d dropped me as his number one suspect, he hadn’t wasted any time. Now he was going after the rest of my department.

  “In-depth interviewing of all emergency room doctors will start tomorrow; we need only a small room near the ER for this purpose; my clerk will coordinate on scheduling with your secretary.”

  No “if convenient,” or “at a suitable time,” just “will start tomorrow.” Terrific! From court orders to being interrogated as possible murder suspects. What the hell else could be done to disrupt us?

  I found my answer in the second note. It was from Jones’s reputed bed partner, James Todd. It was handwritten, hastily scrawled across the back of a history and physical sheet.

  Dear Dr. Garnet,

  I had a problem with Dr. Kradic this morning when I asked him to call you. His outburst was really embarrassing because it was in front of so many other residents and staff. Please call me immediately when you arrive. I won’t be able to sleep now anyway. I don’t know if I can work anymore with Dr. Kradic.

  Jim Todd

  I’d forgotten. The beginning of this day was like a distant time unconnected to the present. Obviously Todd had given Kradic the message to call me and been handed his head for his trouble. I wondered if the unfortunate resident had innocently added that I’d asked about cardiac needles and practicing on the DOA. He may have been a fool for getting involved with Jones, but he didn’t deserve this. And the last thing I needed right now was a coverage problem with a resident, even one sleeping with his supervisor.

  I quickly punched in the number Todd had left, cursing Kradic as I hit each digit.

  He answered on the first ring. “Dr. Todd here.”

  “It’s Dr. Garnet. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, but I just now got into my office. What happened with Dr. Kradic this morning?”

  “It was pretty unpleasant. Dr. Garnet, and it took me by surprise.”

  “What happened?” I asked again gently. Even over the phone I could hear the strain as he was speaking half an octave higher than usual. A resident making a complaint about his staff man was serious business.

  “Well, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad if Dr. Jones hadn’t made such a big deal about it.” His voice had just gone up the rest of the octave.

  “Dr. Jones?” I said, trying to keep my own voice steady.

  “Yeah,” he answered, sounding a little less nervous and a whole lot more angry. “Right at the start of sign-out rounds she turned to me and said, ‘Dr. Garnet wanted me to remind you to give his message to Dr. Kradic here.’ Well, we all know those two can’t stand each other, however good they are individually, but it was the way she said it that got Dr. Kradic’s bristles up, even before I told him to call you.” He was practically spitting out his words now. Whatever inexcusable behavior had been leveled at him by Kradic, Todd seemed more bitter and hurt talking about how Jones had set him up.

  Damn that woman. She had the highest “fight quotient” on staff, but around Kradic she was at her very worst, always taking shots to put him on the defensive. It was part of her ongoing war to discredit him, but this time she’d used a resident to do it. Not even knowing what I’d called Kradic about, she probably hadn’t been able to resist another try at getting him riled just for the hell of it. Not that Kradic was any better. They were like two feuding cats. Even if I separated them, they went looking for each other to fight some more. But for her to drag Todd into it, especially if she was sleeping with him, was too damn much.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Todd, but I assure you I’ll speak to both Kradic and Jones about their behavior.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all, Dr. Garnet.”

  What now?

  “Go on,” I said, getting ready to control my own temper.

  “Well, when I told Dr. Kradic to call you, he immediately asked why. When I mentioned the cardiac needles and the DOA, he went ballistic. Shouted that you were trying to pin Kingsly’s death on him and stalked out.”

  “How did he know about the needle in Kingsly’s heart?” I interrupted. Until yesterday, Bufort had successfully suppressed that detail. It hadn’t been part of the general gossip since, as far as I knew, only the chiefs and a few others had known. I’d told Carole and Mrs. O’Hara, but I didn’t think those two had blabbed.

  Todd seemed surprised at my question. “It was in the papers this morning. You didn’t see it?”

  Shit! The reporters swarming over the hospital yesterday had obviously gotten someone to tell all. I’d expected the press would find out all the sordid bits one way or another, but I’d somehow hoped Bufort and Hurst might succeed in keeping the lid on things for a while longer. Then I remembered I’d also told Zak. And who knew who the other chiefs had told?

  I answered wearily. “My wife and I don’t have time for the morning papers.”

  “In any case,” he went on, obviously relieved to be spilling out all the garbage that had happened to him earlier, “Dr. Popovitch was really upset and ran after Dr. Kradic but couldn’t catch him. Dr. Popovitch did speak rather sharply to Dr. Jones, right in front of all us residents, and told her to keep her problems with Kradic out of the emergency department. Strangely enough, I think the whole thing made Dr. Jones sick to her stomach. I know she likes to bug Dr. Kradic, but I guess even she felt it had gotten out of hand this time. She started looking really pale and disappeared for a while. I think she was in the can, barfing. When she came back, she asked Dr. Popovitch to excuse her so she could lie down in the doctors’ room. It was almost an hour before she could come back.”

  As he talked about Jones, his voice grew softer, and deeper. I wondered if he was trying to find an excuse for her treatment of him, slough it off as a thoughtless mistake that went too far and that he might forgive, for the sake of still getting sex. It suddenly occurred to me that ordering Jones to keep her hands off him might do him the favor he couldn’t do for himself.

  Quickly smothering my impulse to protect this not-so-innocent lamb, I said, “I’ll take care of this crap and they
won’t bother you again. Sorry, Todd.”

  He stayed quiet a few seconds, then sounding resigned, he said, “Well, okay.”

  “Get some sleep,” I told him, “and we’ll see you tonight. By then I’ll have taken care of Jones and Kradic.”

  After hanging up, I again considered dumping both of them. Before this morning I had always weighed their affinity for trouble against their competence and willingness to do the nights and weekends no one else wanted. Reluctantly I’d admitted life in the ER would be more miserable without their skills and flexibility about shifts. As a result, when I wasn’t dreading their fights, I was marveling at their saves in the ER and thanking them for filling the hard- to impossible-to-fill holes in the roster. I had a grudging appreciation of them for the many times they’d kept me from having to work these last-minute shifts personally, most often at night, on holidays, or both. And I was certainly aware no one else wanted their regular load of nights. So, in exchange, I had always forced myself to endure the additional aggravation of smoothing over their perpetual flare-ups. But were they still worth it?

  I crumpled James Todd’s note and shot it angrily at my basket.

  Any other week, sorting all this out would have been my worst problem. This week I was left sitting in my office wondering if Kradic had a secret so dreadful that after his fight with Jones he’d gone out and tried to run me over.

  * * * *

  “She’s going to arrest,” our new junior resident yelled. He was panicky. When I’d come out of my office about an hour before, I’d started seeing patients in the ER to avoid thinking any more about who was after me. Because of the wet, cold blanket of air hovering over Buffalo, we were overwhelmed with respiratory emergencies, and I was using the occasion to teach.