by Allen Wyler
“’Tis me, ’tis me. Where the hell are you? Had a devil of a time trying to get hold of you. What’s this about leaving the clinic?”
Alex glanced at the endless cornfields flashing past, Lisa driving this segment. They alternated hours at the wheel. “Just passed through Omaha, so I guess that puts us somewhere in Nebraska. Why?”
“Omaha? What the hell you doing there?”
“Heading to Seattle.” The back of the car contained their clothes and a few personal items, pretty much the same drill as years ago when they drove to the last job. The furniture and household items were somewhere behind them in a Mayflower truck working its way to the Northwest.
“What the hell for?”
“Long story. What’s on your mind? Don’t know how long this connection’s going to hold out here in the middle of nowhere. You’re getting scratchy.”
“Thought you’d want to hear the news.”
Typical Baxter, dangling something enticing out there, forcing him to ask. “What news?”
“The FBI arrested your old pal Dick Weiner.”
Alex frantically motioned Lisa to pull to the side of the road and flick on the emergency blinkers. This was just too damn good to drop the call now. “You shitting me?”
“Nope. One hundred percent true.”
“For Medicare fraud?”
Baxter laughed. “Better than that. Story is they got wind he was billing cases the residents were doing without him, but they couldn’t get enough solid evidence to prove it. Not conclusively, that is. Not unless they followed him around the hospital with a camera.”
“What about the nurses and residents? Everybody knew what he was doing. Couldn’t they testify?”
“Nope. None of them would risk it. So the feds did the next best thing. They monitored his phone. Caught him threatening witnesses. Word has it, on one call he threatened a resident with firing him before graduation, said he’d make sure he never got into another program. And get this: the dumb shit placed those calls from his office. That’s how sure he was of not getting caught. Can you believe that?”
Actually, he did. “How’d the feds find out about the billing issues to begin with?”
Baxter chuckled. “Someone called their tip line.”
“No kidding. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
“Moi? Course not! Did you?”
Alex laughed.
“Gone full circle now,” Baxter said, “and we’re back to where we were when you moved. We’re looking for a new chairman. Geoff and I, of course, have our hats in the ring. But that’s not why I called. We’re down a couple people now that Weiner’s gone. We need help. You wouldn’t be interested in your old job, would you? Your office’s still vacant.”
“Thanks, Baxter, but I’m out of the game now.”
Five years later
The telephone ring jarred Alex from the Michael Connelly novel he was reading. 8:30 p.m. For five years, it had been rare for him to get an evening call from anyone but pain-in-the-ass telephone solicitors.
“Hey Alex, Steve Stein. How’s it going?” Stein, now practicing in San Francisco, occasionally called to chitchat, still motivated, Alex suspected, by Stein’s gratitude for being given a residency slot.
“Good. What’s up?”
“Just got back from the AANS. Ran into several of the old gang. Heard some pretty interesting gossip involving your old pal, The Rev.”
Ah yes, Clarence Hill. Hard to remember the last time he thought of him. “And?”
“You remember, don’t you, that shortly after you left, Garrison divorced Anne to marry his nurse Linda?”
He’d heard about it, probably during an earlier installment from Stein, but in truth he really didn’t care to keep track of Garrison or any of the other partners except Martin. Neither he nor Lisa was surprised; you’d have to have been a flaming idiot to not see that one coming. “I do remember.”
“Well, here’s the kicker. The clinic has a mandatory retirement age for the CEO position. Soon as Garrison hit sixty-five, he was forced to retire but could stay on as a surgeon. There was some discussion about changing the by-laws, but guess who led the charge against it?”
Alex laughed at the irony. “Clarence?”
“Bingo. But here’s the really good part. The moment Clarence assumed the throne, he fired Garrison. Claimed it was because of the divorce from Anne, that divorce is against God’s will as stated in the Bible. Perfect irony, isn’t it.” Not making it a question.
A tinge of sorrow tapped Alex’s heart. Garrison, after all, had championed Clarence, grooming him as his successor. “Ironic, yes. Perfect, no. Still, I believe in the old saw—what goes around comes around.” The random thought of Garrison flying his Pitts in aerobatics competitions flashed through his mind.
“Still content to not do surgery?”
Alex weighed his answer. What should he say to a friend who still practiced? How could he describe how different and relaxed life was now in contrast to the pressures of neurosurgery? He was still haunted some nights by the ghost of his mistakes. Steve—his assistant on the AVM case—would never understand the impact the patient’s death dealt him, because he didn’t shoulder the full weight of responsibility. Then again, perhaps Steve had learned from both the air embolism and AVM cases and would never make such mistakes. If so, Alex had taught the younger man something worthwhile.
“I still miss teaching you clowns, but I don’t regret the decision to quit.”
Acknowlegements
Thanks to the following friends who read the initial draft of the manuscript and provided feedback:
William Dietrich
Simone Bruyere Fraser
Astor+Blue Editions editorial staff
Mary Osterbrock