Bad Doctor

by John Locke

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want me to go to jail.”

  “No.”

  “Because you want me to help you.”

  “It would be nice if you helped me. But I would’ve given this to you either way.”

  “Because you know I didn’t kill Kathy.”

  “And because I’m not a vindictive person.”

  “Except you humiliated me just now.”

  “Except for that. And that was for your benefit, not mine.”

  “My benefit?”

  “You didn’t just humiliate me and Cameron that night, you scared the shit out of us. And I could tell it gave you a rush.”

  “You and Cameron snort cocaine for a rush.”

  “Yeah, but we never broke into anyone’s house or stole things.”

  She catches my look and adds, “Until we met you, anyway.”

  She sighs. “Look, I’m sure you do good things at the hospital. But you do some really shitty things in the real world.”

  “You wanted me to see what it feels like to be on the receiving end.”

  She nods.

  “It worked. I felt humiliated and shamed.”

  “Good.”

  “But if I’m being completely honest, what you did to me won’t change my behavior. If you had done this a few weeks from now, I would’ve felt exhilarated instead of shamed. Assuming I thought you might kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “Like we said, I have issues. These kids I work on? They’re rag dolls that have to be brought back to life. I…have to bring them back to life. And if I manage to do it, the orderlies quickly wheel in another one. After a few months of that, a bomb goes off inside me. I have to find new ways to keep myself from going insane.”

  “I think you’re overlooking the real problem here, Gideon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re already insane.”

  “I know. But I’m still saving lives.”

  “Are you, Gideon? Because on my scorecard, you’re oh and two.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not fair. I’ll take full responsibility for Bobby’s death. But I’ve never even met Kathy Fowler.”

  “I’m not talking about Kathy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Cameron died.”

  35.

  WILLOW PAUSES, THEN hands me her gun, then starts to cry.

  “Cameron’s dead?” I say. “Shit! What happened?”

  Willow’s crying escalates. She tries to speak, but can’t. I use the time to remove the bullets from her gun and drop them in my pocket. She falls to the couch and buries her face in one of my designer pillows. I feel terrible for Cameron but I’m also wondering if Willow’s getting tears and snot all over my pillow.

  I might be crazy, but I trust Willow. She could have killed me just now, or had Bobby kill me at the park, or when we arrived at Maggie’s farm. She probably saved my life when Bobby tried to shoot me the second time, by taking his knees out from under him.

  Willow had plenty of reasons to kill me, and plenty of opportunities, and chose not to.

  When she finishes crying herself out she says, “You should’ve stayed at the hospital. You would’ve protected her.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her eyes are closed and she’s swaying slightly from side to side, but not at all similar to the way she’d strip for a man. As she grieves quietly in my living room, it all comes down to this in my mind: her best friend is dead because of me.

  I choose this moment to offer her my guest room for the night and she accepts. Perhaps she’ll kill me in my sleep. Do I care?

  Not really.

  Am I afraid she’ll rob me?

  No.

  Like Willow said, everything in my penthouse, other than the wooden stool, was put here by decorators. People who don’t know me, who expected me to accept their vision of what belongs here, instead of mine. If she somehow manages to steal my stuff I’ll simply replace it with something I like. It might not be proper, or elegant, but it’ll reflect who I am.

  Of course, it would help if I knew who I am.

  Willow explains what motivated her to come to New York City.

  After I dropped her off at the park, after I tried to hug her and she slapped me, she drove to her place to pick up some of her things. The police were there, searching the place, treating it like a crime scene. They wouldn’t allow her to touch or remove anything. The landlord was there as well, madder than a hornet. They got into a shouting match, and he evicted her. She drove back to Dayton, entered Cameron’s hospital room, and found an empty bed, freshly made. At first she thought they’d taken her friend somewhere to run tests, so she sat in the big chair in Cameron’s room. After an hour, she went to the nurse’s station and learned Cameron had been moved to intensive care. They said she caught a serious infection. Hours later, to Willow’s horror, Cameron was dead.

  Two hours pass and we’re still talking about Cameron.

  We order Chinese and eat it.

  She says, “Is that possible? Can someone go into the hospital for one thing and die from something else within hours?”

  “Hospitals are the eighth leading cause of death.”

  “Hospitals? How?”

  “They’re a breeding ground for bacteria-resistant germs and viruses we call superbugs. It’s a catch-22.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’re so smart I sometimes forget how young you are. Catch-22 is an old expression that means you’re screwed either way. Hospitals are one of the most sterile places on earth. Housekeepers constantly clean and scrub and wipe down surfaces with chemicals and cleaning agents. But the strongest, most-deadly viruses develop a resistance to the chemicals. They become invincible.”

  “The super bugs?”

  I nod.

  “They told Cameron she was healthy enough to leave the next day. How could she die a few hours later?”

  “Lots of ways.”

  “Name one.”

  “Maybe there’s a colony of super bugs on the door knob of the bathroom across the hall from Cameron’s room, and a colony of different super bugs on her bedrail. If a lazy housekeeper wipes the restroom doorknob with an antibacterial wipe and fails to throw the towel away, then uses the same towel to wipe down Cameron’s bedrails, he’s combined the two. Within minutes they mutate into something so deadly, when Cameron touches the bedrail, then her nose or eyes, the bug gets into her bloodstream.”

  “What are the chances of that?”

  “Higher than you might think. Or maybe a nurse or orderly forgot to wash their hands as they went from one room to the next, and transferred MRSA to Cameron through direct contact.”

  “What’s MRSA?”

  “Methicillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus.”

  She frowns. “That sounds like something you just made up.”

  “That’s why we use initials.”

  “Is it common?”

  “It’s in the noses or on the skin of one percent of all Americans.”

  “Are you saying one percent of all people can kill the rest of us?”

  “No. MRSA isn’t deadly unless you’re very young, old, ill, or in a hospital, recovering from a surgery. In that case, anything you touch—a toilet seat, a door handle, a tray—can kill you.”

  “You think that’s what killed Cameron?”

  “It’s one possibility. VRE’s another.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, eyeing me carefully to see if I might make up another series of incomprehensible words.

  “Vancomycin-Resistant Enterococcus.”

  She frowns.

  “Vancomycin is our antibiotic of last resort. It’s used to fight bacteria that are already resistant to penicillin and other antibiotics. VRE is a mutant strain, one that can transmit the resistance genes to other, more dangerous bacteria, like staph and strep. It’s been found on hospital equipment, doorknobs, bedrails, and even on the hands of hospital personnel who wa
sh their hands for less than five full seconds.”

  “That’s why you told Cameron not to eat anything at the hospital.”

  “That’s right. Did she?”

  “The nurse said if she didn’t eat they wouldn’t release her.”

  “Typical!” I say, trying to control my anger. “Did you happen to get this nurse’s name?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “But I’d recognize her if I saw her again.”

  “Good.”

  “Why’s that good?”

  “Maybe someday we’ll see her again.”

  “I doubt that. She’s in Dayton.”

  “You never know,” I say.

  36.

  “YOU TRUST ME to be alone in your house?” Willow asks, incredulously.

  Reacting to my comment about having to attend a meeting this morning.

  “Yes. I trust you.”

  “I pulled a gun on you yesterday,” she says.

  I shrug. “You didn’t shoot me in my sleep.”

  “I couldn’t. You took my bullets.”

  “You probably have extras in your bag.”

  “I did happen to notice you left the gun on the coffee table.”

  “Speaking of guns,” I say, “where did you get one so quickly?”

  “I’m from the south.”

  “So?”

  “Everyone’s got a gun for sale.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nods.

  “Does it work?” I say.

  “How should I know? I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”

  “I’m surprised you got that thing through the airport.”

  “They don’t always x-ray the bags you check.”

  “They do here,” I say.

  “Lots of things are different here,” she says. “Like your car.”

  “I don’t own a car.”

  “That’s what I mean. You’ve got all this money, a multi-million dollar house, and your hospital’s a long drive, right?”

  “So?”

  “You don’t have a car. In Cincy, everyone has a car. Even I have one!”

  “I don’t need a car. And parking’s a bitch in the city.”

  “Anyway, it’s nice of you to trust me to stay here by myself. Who are you meeting?”

  “One of my nurses.”

  “For a little…” she smiles.

  “I wish.”

  “What is she, married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “Seriously?”

  She nods.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Be persistent.”

  “Persistent? That’s it?”

  “Relentless,” she says. “Maybe you’ll wear her down.”

  I frown. “Wear her down? Can you wear someone down into loving you?”

  She shows me a half smile and shakes her head.

  “What?” I say.

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-two. Why?”

  “And you still believe in love?”

  37.

  IN THE CAB on the way to the hospital, I call my secretary, Lola.

  “I’ve got a meeting with one of my new nurses at ten,” I say.

  “Mr. Luce would like to visit with you at nine-thirty.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux would like you to stop by the ICU and check on Lilly.”

  “That’s a no. Anything else?”

  “The rest can wait till later.”

  “Good. I need you to do something for me.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Funny. I need you to find a private investigator in Nashville, Tennessee.”

  “No problem. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t have one yet. I need you to call around. Get me someone really good.”

  “Are you delusional?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a medical secretary. What do I know about finding a private detective?”

  “Lola?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t start with me.”

  I hang up. Ten minutes later she calls back.

  “I’ve got a name,” she says, “but it’s a woman. Is that okay?”

  “Is she any good?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Who recommended her?”

  “The Nashville police department.”

  “I thought the police hated private eyes.”

  “I thought so too, but Detective Polomo said I’ve been watching too much TV. Then he asked me out on a date.”

  “And did you happen to mention you’re married?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What did you say, exactly?”

  “I asked him to send me a photo.”

  My secretary’s a bimbo.

  “Who’s the detective?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but…are you sitting down? Dani Ripper!”

  “You say that like I’m supposed to know who that is.”

  “Dani Ripper? The little girl who got away?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re one of a kind, Gideon.”

  “Thanks. You got a phone number for me?”

  “You’re planning to call her from your cab?”

  “Might as well, I’m stuck in traffic.”

  38.

  MS. RIPPER TAKES down my name, phone numbers, home and work addresses. She gets my address and three phone numbers. When that’s done she says, “Please. Call me Dani. How can I help you, Dr. Box?”

  “I need a quick background check.”

  “How quick?”

  “Immediately.”

  “You’re in luck.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “All my associates are swamped with cases. But miraculously, I myself happen to be available, having just wrapped up a major case last night. What’s her name?

  “Excuse me?

  “The woman I’m doing the background check on,” Dani says.

  “How do you know it’s a woman?” I say.

  “A New York City doctor wants a background check in Nashville, Tennessee? You’ve either slept with one of our local women or you’re thinking about it, and want to know how many miles she’s got under the hood, Am I right?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but as it happens, it’s a woman.”

  “Name?”

  “Willow Breeland.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Dani sighs. “Of course she is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you happen to know her date of birth?”

  “April sixteenth, eighteen years ago.”

  “You can’t do the math?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Does Willow have a middle name?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You’re certain about the date of birth?”

  “Yes.”

  I am certain. Not only did I read it on her driver’s license last Thursday, she also happens to have the same birthday as my mother.

  “Has she broken any laws?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “If this is a criminal investigation I need to coordinate with law enforcement.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Normally I only accept cases from people I’ve met face to face. Since you want this rushed, you need to tell me why you’re interested in this young lady.”

  “She’s my house guest.”

  “Your house guest,” she repeats.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why don’t you just ask about her past?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Feel free. I’m just sitting here, drinking coffee, surfing the internet.”

  “I get that. But I’d rather you were making some calls, getting me some answers.”

  She doesn’t respond
, so I say, “I met her in Nashville last week. I told her I might be able to help her get cancer treatment. She said no, then showed up on my doorstep yesterday.”

  “In New York City?”

  “Yes. And since she’s in my home as we speak, and I’m riding to work in a cab, I’d like to make sure there are no outstanding warrants on her, or anything like that.”

  “You’re sure she’s eighteen?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You slept with her.”

  “What?”

  “What if she’s underage?”

  “What if she is?”

  “You’re forty-two.”

  “I never told you that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’ve been reading about you since the moment you told me your name.”

  “What difference does it make how old I am?”

  “I don’t approve of forty-two year old men sleeping with eighteen-year-old strippers.”

  “That’s not your concern. Wait. How did you know she’s a stripper?”

  “She’s in an ad on a website for the Firefly Lounge, Cincinnati, Ohio. As in, “Meet the Firefly Girls!”

  “That’s her,” I say.

  “She’s cute.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure. Put her in pigtails she could be selling Girl Scout cookies.”

  I decide not to respond.

  She says, “Does it bother you the ad says girls instead of ladies?”

  “No. Why should I care what it says?”

  “Seriously, Dr. Box?”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes if I slept with an eighteen-year-old stripper,” I say, noticing the cab driver staring at me in the mirror.

  Dani says, “I don’t think I like you very much, Dr. Box.”

  “If you want to join that parade you’ll have to take a number.”

  “That I believe,” she says. “So what am I looking for, specifically?”

  “Her birth certificate, parents’ death certificates, proof her father served time in prison, and any information you have on her uncle, her father’s brother.”

  “You have his name? Or the parents?”

  “Just their last name. Breeland. And the uncle’s wife is May.”

  “Also from Nashville?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She moved to Cincinnati three years ago. Lived with a lowlife named Bobby Mitchell, recently deceased.”

  “Lowlife? Recently deceased? Be yourself, Doc. No need to talk like a TV cop.”