The Judas Virus

by Don Donaldson

“If I could go back to that day I left, I wouldn’t make the same decision.”

  “Regret is a cheap commodity. Believe me, I know, because I’m loaded with it. I regret that I didn’t make sure those new filters were on hand when they were needed. But my regrets change nothing. I think I better get to work.”

  “Will you let me know if there’s more trouble?”

  “Sure.”

  After she left, Wayne reflected on what Chris had expressed about him not being at fault for the five deaths. And he began to feel less culpable, because what she’d said couldn’t have been motivated by a daughter’s love for her father. She didn’t even like him, so maybe there was some truth in her view of what happened.

  Out on the highway, Chris, too, was thinking about their conversation. It was true that if the supply clerk had promptly brought the new filters instead of letting an entire day pass, things would have been different. And when the new ones didn’t arrive, the nurse on the day shift should have followed up before going home. And if Mary Beth had taken more responsibility for understanding the operation of her respirator, or had called someone and asked about the yellow filters, everyone might still be alive. Ginny Barroso, too, could have been more careful about the kind of filters she put in her mask.

  But then Chris remembered whose views she was drawing on to defend herself.

  Yes, I’m really not at fault here. The blame actually resides in everyone else involved. I’m sure that’s true because my advisor in these matters, the eminent runaway husband and father, Wayne Collins, has told me so.

  Seeing now just how self-serving and despicable it was to even consider that Mary Beth and Ginny Barroso might be responsible for their own deaths, Chris once more assumed the entire burden.

  Chapter 20

  “WELL, IT’S JUST like I predicted,” Carter Dewitt said as he came into John Scott’s office. “Every one of the drug companies we were negotiating with for rights to the transplant virus have withdrawn their offer.”

  Scott threw his pen down. “How’d they find out so soon that it turned lethal?”

  “The Atlanta paper put it on their wire service. Apparently, it’s front-page news in every city in the country.”

  “Any of them make a revised offer?”

  “They all wanted out completely.”

  “This has turned so ugly I can’t believe it. In just a few days, we go from the likelihood of a hundred million dollar payday to being smeared in the media as a dangerous, sloppy operation. I’m sorry we ever got involved in xenotransplantation. Is there any way we can shift all the heat to Michael Boyer or Chris Collins? Set them up in the media, then take away their hospital privileges?”

  “Not a good idea. Right now, we need to be the model of decency and a caring institution. I called the ME’s office this morning, and there haven’t been any new cases. Nor has the ER turned up anyone who appears to be in danger. The worst could be over. If that’s the case, this will soon all go away. In a few weeks or a month, the public won’t remember much about it. I do have some good news . . . sort of.

  “This morning, after taking the fifth call from drug companies pulling out of negotiations, I got a call from Iliad Pharmaceuticals, a small firm in New Jersey that we hadn’t heard from. They made us an offer, nothing like what we were considering, but at least it’s money on the table.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred thousand for all rights.”

  “A hundred thou . . . That insults my intelligence.”

  “I know it’s poor, but I think we should accept. At least we’ll get something for all the trouble this situation has caused us. And I don’t think we’ll be getting any other offers. Let’s just wash our hands of this thing.”

  “What’s the hurry? If we wait, maybe someone else will come in.”

  “Or there’ll be more deaths, and Iliad will reconsider. When there was no downside to the viral therapeutic effects, the projected R and D costs for getting a product on the market were reasonable. Now, whoever takes it on, has to figure out how to separate the therapeutic effects from the lethal ones. That could prove to be impossible. At the least, it’ll require a huge financial commitment.”

  “Where’s Iliad going to get that if they’re small?”

  “Not our problem. I say take their money and run.”

  Scott thought a moment, then batted the air with his hand. “All right. Tell them they’ve got a deal.”

  CHRIS TOUCHED THE hand of the last patient on her morning rounds, a fifty-seven-year-old woman who had developed peritonitis after her appendix burst.

  “I’m sorry you’re still feeling so badly,” Chris said. “You have a very stubborn bug in you that just doesn’t want to give up. But we’re going to take care of that and get you out of here.”

  She gave her patient’s hand a final pat and left the room to write orders for increasing the dose of the antibiotic she was using to treat the woman. A few minutes later, Chris was surprised to find Jerry Kennedy, the senior partner in her practice, waiting for her at the nurses’ station. He was wearing a solemn expression.

  “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  He glanced at the nurses behind the counter. “Not here.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Chris wrote her orders in the woman’s chart, set the order flag on the spine to red, and put the chart back in the carousel where they were kept. Then she walked over to where Jerry was waiting. “What’s up?”

  He guided her to a corner away from the bustle. “That article in the paper this morning . . . It’s stirred people up.”

  “What people?”

  “The physicians who hire us. They’re afraid of you, worried that you’ll pass that transplant virus to their patients.”

  “There’s no basis for their concern. I’m not carrying the virus. It didn’t get into me.”

  “Right now, in the heat of this epidemic, telling them that isn’t going to make them relax. You need to take some time off. Just until this situation plays out.”

  “What does Dale think?”

  “He agrees. We’ve already lined up someone to fill in for you. It’s just temporary.”

  “I don’t like this. There’s no reason for it.”

  “The success of our practice depends on our clients having faith in us. If that goes, we go.”

  “And do I get paid while I’m on this forced leave?”

  “We couldn’t do that. We have to use the funds generated by your replacement to pay her. We need you to do this for the team. And believe me, we appreciate it.”

  “How long?”

  “Let’s say, three weeks. Then we’ll see where we are.”

  “You’re all heart, Jerry”

  “I don’t feel good about this. It’s just sound practice management. Now I’ve got to get going. Thanks again for being so understanding.”

  CHRIS ARRIVED AT the Monteagle cafeteria for her lunch date with Michael thirty-five minutes after talking with Jerry, still brooding about how easily people you think are your friends will sacrifice you to the mob. She got in the salad bar line behind a woman who chose each item from the bowl of mixed greens as carefully as if she were picking a justice for the supreme court. With each decision, the chosen item was carefully arranged in her Styrofoam take-out container, rearranged, and patted in place while Chris’s patience grew ever shorter, and the line behind them grew longer.

  When the woman had finally finished her masterwork and moved on, a voice behind Chris whispered, “Obviously a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  Chris turned to see Robin Victor, the psychiatrist member of the transplant team, also in line.

  “Hi, Robin. Didn’t know you were there.” Chris plunged the salad tongs
into the bowl and grabbed at the contents even more indiscriminately than usual, showing Victor she had no trace of salad-related OCD. She quickly finished with that and moved down, letting Victor take her place.

  “How are you doing?” he said. “I spoke to Michael a few minutes ago, and he said you were taking the problems we’re having with the transplant virus very personally.”

  “I am,” Chris replied, adding two carrot sticks to her salad. As she moved down, she was thinking this was no place to get into that. She added a dollop of ranch dressing to her salad and crossed to the other side of the bar for a couple of cheddar cubes, hoping to get away before Victor could move close enough to reopen what should be a private conversation.

  But he caught her as she turned to go. “If you’d like to discuss all this, I’m at your disposal. I’ll rearrange my calendar to fit you in right away.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  Chris went to the drink dispenser, put some ice in a cup, and filled the cup with unsweetened tea, absolutely sure that she wouldn’t be calling Victor. She didn’t need psychiatric help. And even if she did want to talk to someone, which she didn’t, it wouldn’t be a man she worked with.

  She took her tray to the nearest cashier’s line and queued up behind four other folks.

  “I know how these things are,” Victor whispered again to her back. “The same thoughts just keep looping through your head. And you can’t get rid of them. If you don’t feel like talking about it, and I certainly understand that, I’ll give you some advice right now.”

  Chris turned. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “Do something to blow out the cobwebs, something you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Just one evening. Get out of the rut. I promise it’ll help.”

  Thankfully, he stood quietly for the rest of the time it took for her to reach the cashier. She paid and carried her tray into the seating area, hoping Michael was already there and that Victor wouldn’t sit with them.

  She spotted Michael at a table near the far wall, under a row of big circular openings that allowed people on the floor above to look down on the unusually light crowd.

  “Is Victor right behind me?” she asked, arriving at the table.

  “He’s heading a different way.”

  “Good.” She put her tray down and sat to Michael’s right. “The whole time we were getting our food, he tried to coax me into coming to see him professionally because I’m upset over this virus debacle. And I don’t want to talk to him about that. How’d your case go this morning?”

  “About as expected. But since that article in the paper appeared, I’ve had three surgical cases cancel. They all cited some schedule conflicts, but I’m sure they’re afraid to come here, worried that I’ll infect them with the transplant virus.” He gestured to the small crowd. “Some of the staff are even so afraid of the hospital they’re staying home. Oh, and the FDA has suspended permission to do any more pig transplants pending an investigation. Big surprise there.”

  “I’m sorry about your cancellations. I’m having the same problem. I’ve been forced to take a temporary unpaid leave from my practice until our clients are convinced I’m not Typhoid Mary.”

  “What about your infection control duties? Do you still have those?”

  “So far, but that doesn’t take much effort.”

  “I’ve got a couple of research papers I never seem to have the time to write. Guess I can get to them now.”

  Apparently seeing someone he knew, Michael’s head turned forward, and he lifted his chin to acknowledge them. Chris looked, too, and saw Carter Dewitt coming their way with a tray.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said when he reached them, “but I wanted to give you some information.” He put his tray on the table, leaned close, and lowered his voice. “I was with John Scott less than an hour ago, and he was very upset at the beating the hospital’s reputation is taking over these deaths. It’s also caused a huge reversal in some business negotiations we’ve been in. You didn’t hear it from me, but Scott is thinking about publicly blaming you two and then suspending your privileges here. I think I convinced him not to do that, but you can never tell about him once he gets an idea.”

  “We appreciate you speaking up for us,” Michael said.

  “I’m not telling you this to be a hero. I just thought a little heads-up might be useful. You know, forewarned is . . . something, I forget. But you get the idea.”

  “We do. Thanks.”

  He winked and nodded and picked up his tray, then headed for a table that had just cleared.

  “What are we going to do about all this?” Chris said.

  “I don’t see that it’s in our power to do anything. This is one we just have to wait out.”

  “At least there aren’t any new cases at the ME’s office, and no one has been admitted through the ER. A couple people with minor hair loss showed up in the ER, but they were inflammation negative.”

  “I hope things stay that way. Did you know that Wayne left the hospital last night?”

  “My fault, I’m afraid. I went up to see him after we finished making our calls and said some things that made him leave. He’s okay, though. I just came from his apartment. Which reminds me, you should be careful when you leave the hospital. Jeffrey Latoria is in town looking for interviews.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A reporter from CBS.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Spoke to him very briefly outside my apartment this morning.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I couldn’t talk.”

  “I’ll bet we’ll be on the national news tonight.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Made any progress in figuring out how that virus got into those other people?”

  “Haven’t had time to work on it yet today. But after we finish here, I’m going to check on the phlebotomist angle . . . see if one of them could have carried it to the other wards. And I’m not doing it for Scott. I’m doing it for myself.”

  They finished lunch without much additional conversation. While taking their trays to the collection area, they ran into Eric Ash coming from the food line.

  “You’re eating a little late today,” Michael said.

  “I wanted to finish up with the samples from those two cases yesterday. Didn’t find virus in the blood of either one, but the vessel samples were loaded. Of course, considering how they died, none of that is surprising. How we doing so far today?”

  “No new cases,” Chris said.

  “I feel like a held breath over this. And my appetite isn’t what it used to be.”

  Michael looked at the food on Ash’s tray. “At least you’re trying.”

  They left Ash to his lunch and went into the hall, where Michael said, “I’d be glad to help you work on that viral transmission problem.”

  “Thanks. If I get into a situation where I need assistance, I’ll let you know.”

  “Do you want to get together tonight . . . dinner, a movie maybe?”

  “It’s tempting, but I’ve got too much on my mind to be good company.”

  “I understand. Another time. Give me a call later today or tomorrow, and we’ll compare notes and see where we are.”

  From the cafeteria, Chris took the elevator to the fourth floor and followed the tiled corridor to the hematology lab. At the counter where outpatients who needed blood work initiated it, a young man with a goatee and mustache and his hair a storm-tossed oil slick offered assistance.

  “I’m Dr. Collins.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Collins,” he said, buttering his words with sexual innuendo.

  “I’d like some information.”

  “For you, anything.”

  “Good. Fi
rst, you can cut the crap. I’m not amused, excited, or interested by it, so put your libido back in your pants. Do we understand each other?”

  His slouching posture improved dramatically. “Yes, ma’am. What did you want to know?”

  “Do you keep a record of the patients each of your phlebotomists sees?”

  “It’s in the computer.”

  When Chris first realized the two nurses had become infected with the transplant virus, she’d been particularly concerned that Karen Casoli, the phlebotomist who’d drawn Wayne’s blood the night he developed the cough, might have also been colonized. But as with every other living member of the staff who had contact with him, her blood had tested negative, so Chris had stopped thinking about her. But with the new cases, she had to be investigated as a possible link.

  “Are the records kept by phlebotomist or patient names?”

  “I can do it either way.”

  “Did Karen Casoli ever draw blood from a patient named Dan Gaynor?”

  The young man moved down the counter to the computer on his left and worked the keyboard. In a couple of minutes he said, “Once.”

  “When?”

  “The night of April tenth.”

  That was the night before her father received his transplant. “Any other time?”

  “No. That was her only visit.”

  “How about a patient named Lucy Cowles?”

  It took another couple of minutes to get that data. “She didn’t see her at all.”

  “Did anyone other than Karen Casoli draw blood from Wayne Collins while he was here?”

  “Why do I know that name? Oh yeah, he’s the guy who got the pig liver.” His eyes widened. “And you’re . . .”

  “Never mind. Just check the records.”

  “Without looking, I can tell you that he probably did have someone other than Casoli. Whenever possible, we always assign the same person to draw a patient’s blood the whole time they’re here. So they see a familiar face. But most draws are done during the day, and Casoli works at night. So . . .”

  “Could you just look, please.”

  He soon had another name. “His usual vamp was Pearl Ritchie.”