looks tired all the time-but that's not the reason. I think the real reason is that this isn't an ordinary case. Most murders don't happen on an operating room table, in full view of the whole damn hospital, for Christ's sake! So it's not your run-of-the-mill killing and isn't about to be cracked overnight. Next, what happens is they slowly begin to lose interest and allow themselves to get bogged down in their other garbage. They know all this. And now they have me.'
'For sure,' she said softly.
'Picture it, Belle: a gumshoe on the inside who can devote all his time to this one case. Knows the medical ropes. Is practically Kathy's husband. It's perfect for them and perfect for me.'
'For you?'
'Yeah, I have their backups, all their forensic support. All I have to do is call. Plus, I'm in the big leagues now.'
'Just don't strike out.'
'Hey, very good.'
David played with a small scar near the cleft in his chin. He called it his decision scar. 'Okay,' he said, 'I've decided to cut into my schedule-maybe by half. Not yours, of course. You still run this … this hole. Take messages, explain my temporary… yeah, that's it… my temporary unavailability.'
'I figured.'
'Think the other docs will be upset?'
Belle snickered. 'They-they hate making housecalls. So there'll just be less made for a while and more patients will wind up in the E.R. Even you sent them I, remember?'
'No, I didn't.'
'I know; I was there.'
'Well, that was only if my office was a zoo.'
There offices aren't like zoos?'
'Well…'
'David, let's put it this way. They'll take whatever they can get whenever they can get it, so yes, they'll be mad at first but then they'll welcome you back with open arms.'
'Good,' he said, brightening. 'Now, how many house calls for today?'
'Four, starting at one-thirty.'
'Only four. How come?'
'I told you I wasn't sure about booking. So I got selective. Are you complaining?'
'No, not at all.' He fingered his scar again.
'Now I think we'd better check on Ted Tanarkle's alibi. If I'm going to do this at all, I'm going to do it right. Give Boston Childrens' a call and make up some cockamamie story but find out if he was their speaker at Medical Grand Rounds yesterday. If so, ask from when to when.'
'Done.'
'And then, starting today, I'll keep making the house calls alone. You'll have enough to do fending off the angry jackals.' He got up fast and reached over to kiss her forehead. 'Thanks, doll, I'm off to see the boss. Incidentally, I'll be looking in on Bugles' autopsy at one.'
'Don't forget your first call at one-thirty.'
At the door, David heard the rush of laundry carts. He turned and said, 'You're a pain in the ass.'
The administrator of Hollings General for fifteen years, Alton Foster had protruding thin lips, a sallow complexion and a waddling gait. He reminded David of a bespectacled duck. A six-foot tall bespectacled duck. And the fact Foster liked yellow shirts-no matter the suit did little to erase the similarity. But he was no duck. More like a hyperactive rooster-the Road Runner-scooting around the hospital each day, observing and offering advice. Meddling, according to some department heads. Not at all the wimp Victor Spritz had labeled him. He had been enticed to come to Hollings by the then new Board Chairman and now brutally divested Charles Bugles. Although Foster's bottom-line wizardry had turned steadily increasing profits for Hollings, most observers considered his capstone achievement to be the fledgling organ transplant program. It took four years of hearings, lobbying and connivance to obtain a medical Certificate of Need, the state's validation of the program. And four years of exploiting Bugles' political connections.
'I still can't get over it, David,' Foster said. He sat at his desk surrounded by rolls of architectural plans, opening a brown paper bag. The room-expansive, sterile and uninviting-appeared as though its complement of furnishings had never arrived. It contained a basic contemporary desk, swivel chair and blue pastel filing cabinet. Ten paces away was an arrangement of two black leather chairs astride a coffee table sporting the latest editions of
'Why in hell Nora packed two tunas, I have no idea. You want a sandwich?'
'No thanks,' David replied. 'I'll eat later but you go ahead. I'll get right to the point. I'm helping out the police in their investigation.' He was instituting a different approach, one he was more comfortable with in dealing with friends, one that carried with it the stamp of legal authority.
Foster acted as if the words hadn't been processed.
'It's bad enough to lose a friend,' he said, 'but what a setback for us. For the whole hospital family. For the whole community. And for them.' He pointed at photographs of major benefactors that paraded on the countertops encircling the room. 'Did you catch the papers? They crucified us. And on top of that, the accreditation people have already phoned me. They're calling yesterday's surgery a `Sentinel Event,' and are threatening to close the hospital. They want us to reexamine all our protocols and procedures and to start emergency educational classes for everyone who works here. That was no Sentinel Event, for heaven's sake. That's not malpractice; that's murder by an imposter.'
Offhand, David didn't know how to interpret the comments-he was never certain about most of Foster's comments-but, instinctively, he rolled his eyes, glad that Foster was busy peeling away a plastic wrap and hadn't noticed. His right hand was in command, David observed. He also observed an exit door off the rear wall.
'I didn't know that Cortez fellow,' Foster said. 'Sad. But, I've been insisting for years that our privileges for visiting professors should be tightened.' He sighed and added, derisively, 'But, oh no, the medical staff says that would be insulting. Too demeaning. As it is, these prima donnas can zip in, zip out, no one has to talk with them, check them out. Shit, it's a miracle a Good Humor man hasn't wandered in and treated a patient.'
'Alton, listen.' David flipped open his notepad and sat on a black leather sofa facing Foster. 'Can you think of anyone wanting to do Charlie in like that?'
Foster bit into a sandwich. 'Charlie was a fine man. His heart and soul were in this institution. Whoever was responsible really didn't know him.' David didn't write anything down or bother to rephrase the question. He knew Foster was pulling a Sarah Bernhardt for it was common knowledge that, despite his brassiness, he had been Bugles' patsy, and Foster resented it. An hour earlier, Tanarkle had no hesitancy in saying as much.
'Now, just for the record,' David said, 'but, besides, I know they'll want me to ask-can you tell me where you were during the-ah-surgery?'
'Right here.'
David cast a furtive glance toward the back door and made an entry in his notepad.
He continued: 'One thing I've never been able to figure out. Coughlin across town-did it make any difference to him that EMS ran from here? I would have expected him to want it there at Bowie.'
Foster placed the sandwich on its wrapper and met David's stare. 'It's a loser, David. Not all cities do it like us. In some places, EMS ambulances are dispatched from a municipal building. But long ago, our hospitals together agreed to help out. Oh, we're reimbursed by the state but not nearly the full amount. And, in a spirit of cooperation-for public consumption, of course-the agreement calls for EMS cases to be taken to alternating hospitals unless the patient has a definite preference or time is of the essence. You know, like a car accident a block away from here-they wouldn't run a patient clear over to Bowie. So, both hospitals pretty much break even on the cases but we have to pay Spritz ourselves. Clever, that Coughlin.'
