The Society

“We ran a urine, too. Straight from your catheter. Chain-of-custody handling. No breaks in the chain. It was positive, too. Strongly positive, I might add, and you know how rapidly fentanyl is cleared from the body. Will, with all that’s involved, this is way beyond me. I’ve reported everything to Sid Silverman, and he’s called the police. They’ll be here shortly if they’re not here already.”

“Jesus,” Will said. Silverman, the president of the hospital, was in bed with several managed-care companies and had been openly critical of the Hippocrates Society and Will in particular. “I’m in no shape to deal with fucking Silverman or the police. Let me out of here, dammit! I’ll sign out AMA! Bring me the form.”

He leaned forward, then just as quickly fell back as a spear of pain thrust itself through one eye and out the back of his skull.

“Easy, Will.”

“No! I’m out of here!”

Mindless of the IV lines and catheter, Will battled through the headache, grabbed the side rails, and pulled himself forward again, scrambling toward the foot of the bed.

“Hands!” Millstein cried out, restraining him with surprising strength.

In seconds, the room was full of uniformed bodies, each trying to hold him down. A hand clutching a filled syringe moved into Will’s sight. Helplessly, he watched as the needle was slipped into a port of his IV and the syringe emptied.

Moments later, a gentle, pleasant wave washed over him and he sank back into a dark, welcoming sea.

CHAPTER 13

“You’ve got to be kidding, Sergeant.”

Benois Beane, seated in a well-worn leather easy chair in his office, stared across at Patty, shaking his head in utter disbelief.

“It’s the truth. His body was loaded with a very powerful narcotic-one that doctors, but not most other people, would have easy access to.”

From the moment they first shook hands, Patty liked the Open Hearth director. There was an engaging openness to him and an appealing wisdom in his face that she guessed was born of hard times. She had phoned him and driven over to the soup kitchen after a stop in the ICU at Fredrickston General.

Shortly after she had been raked over the coals by Wayne Brasco and Jack Court for withholding the information about Will Grant from them, a call from her father alerted her to the latest bizarre twist in the managed-care case-the drug overdose of their only suspect. Sitting in on the tense meeting with Court and Brasco had been Sean Digby, a young, eager detective who had come on board about six months after Patty and been immediately accepted by the guys. This was the first time Digby had attended one of their skull sessions on this case, and Patty had no trouble figuring out why. He was clearly being groomed to take her place should she falter any more, and calling him in like this was a strident warning that she was skating on thin ice.

Unwilling to make any moves without clearing them with both Brasco and Court, she called the two men together and asked permission to go out and check on the situation at Fredrickston General. Their response was predictable.

“So, what is this?” Brasco exclaimed. “You called us in to tell us you want to go out and check on a guy in a coma? What’s next? You’ll call a meeting if you want to blow your nose?”

“You know, Patty,” Court added, “you’ve got to show more independence in this thing. You don’t have to check with us for everything you learn or do-just the important things.”

No surprise. She was damned if she involved the two of them and utterly damned if she didn’t. Was it that she was a woman? That she was her father’s daughter? That she had a master’s degree in criminal justice? That she had an independent streak? Probably all of the above and none of the above. And there was nothing she could do about it, absolutely nothing, except put one foot in front of the other and take the path that felt right. Quitting was not an option.

Will was still sedated when Patty arrived at the ICU. The nurses she spoke with seemed shocked about what had happened in the OR and what had subsequently been discovered in his blood and urine, but they were also disappointed and angry. Will Grant certainly wasn’t the first physician they had grown to love and respect who turned out to have a hidden problem with alcohol or drugs, but he was the first one to have unveiled his shortcoming in such a spectacular way.

“Must have just gone for a little more of a thrill and overshot,” Anne Hajjar said with a matter-of-factness that seemed blatantly forced.

Patty did learn that absolutely none of the staff saw this one coming. If Will Grant had any faults as a doc, they were that he cared too much, often hurt too deeply when things didn’t go well, and spent way too much time in the hospital. Otherwise, as a physician and as a man, he was the total package.

“Before this happened,” Hajjar said, “we all thought Dr. Grant was the catch of the year, even though it seemed he never left the hospital long enough to date.”

“I expect he’ll have a good bit of free time now,” Donna Lee added. “I just hope he uses it to get some help.”

More confused about Will Grant than ever, Patty had left the hospital and driven over to keep her appointment with Benois Beane, whom she tracked down after discovering Will had won an unsung hero award from the Boston Celtics for the work he did at the Open Hearth. Following her session with Will in his office, it was easy for her to believe he had no involvement in the managed-care slayings. Now, however, there could be no way around the fact that he had taken a potent narcotic and then attempted to perform surgery.

Would the real Will Grant please stand up?

“Sergeant Moriarity,” Benois Beane was saying, “we have twenty-eight people who work here and a couple of hundred who volunteer regularly and probably know Will Grant. I’d wager not one of them would believe he knowingly took drugs and went into the OR.”

Let alone killed three people, Patty almost added, but didn’t.

“I just don’t get it, then,” she said. “The drug was in his blood. That’s a given.”

“I don’t care. If it was in his body, someone put it there.”

“Tell me how.”

“I can’t, but I can sort of prove he doesn’t take narcotics.”

“Go on.”

“A few months ago, maybe three, one of our regulars, Sophie Rennet, died after a long battle with cancer. Will was her surgeon and did his best, but the cancer had gone too far from the start. It just so happened that one night when Will was working here, Sophie’s family called to say that she had passed on. Will and I both went over to her place to pay our respects and for Will to pronounce her dead so the mortuary could come and get her. As we were leaving, her son handed us a box containing her medications, saying he hoped maybe someone else could use them. Inside were bottles and bottles and vials and vials of narcotics-all kinds of narcotics. Once we got back here, Will took a hammer to each of the vials and flushed the pills down the toilet. I saw him do it.”

“But he could have just as easily told you he was taking the medicine back to his office.”

“Exactly. I have known a lot of addicts in my day, a lot of addicts, and not one of them would have thrown away such a stash. I would think that’s got to prove something.”

Patty thought of several rebuttals to Beane’s logic, but she knew in her heart that none of them carried much clout.

“Are you sure he’s awake?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s got to wake up sometime.”

Hospital president Sid Silverman’s distinctive tenor worked its way into the darkness. The other voice, irritated and sardonic, was Donna Lee’s. The veteran nurse and Silverman, once an endocrinologist on the staff of FGH, had known each other for years. Now they had something else in common-a clear distaste for one Will Grant. Will tested his arms and legs and found that the wrist restraints were back in place. Shit.

“I just came from the recovery room,” Silverman was saying. “The guy looks bad, real bad. His blood pressure