Susan watched Stark’s face, intently preparing herself for an untoward response like that she had experienced with Nelson and then more dramatically with Harris. In contrast, Stark maintained an even expression, obviously in thought over Susan’s suggestions. It was apparent that he had an open, innovative mind. Finally he spoke.
“Shotgun-style antibody screening is not very productive; it is time-consuming and it is horribly expensive.”
“Counter-immunoelectrophoresis techniques have relieved some of these disadvantages,” offered Susan, encouraged by Stark’s response.
“Perhaps, but it still would represent an enormous outlay of capital with a very low probability of positive results. I’d have to have some specific evidence before I could justify that type of resource commitment. But maybe you should suggest this to Dr. Nelson, down in Medicine.
Immunology is his special field.”
“I don’t think Dr. Nelson would be interested,” said Susan.
“Why is that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. To tell the truth, I already spoke with Dr.
Nelson. So I already know he’s not interested. And he wasn’t the only one. I mentioned my ideas to another department head and I thought I was going to get swatted like some naughty child that needed chastising.
Trying to incorporate that episode into the whole picture, I get a feeling that something else could be operating here.”
“And what is that?” asked Stark, glancing over the figures Susan had provided.
“Well, I don’t know what word to use ... foul play ... or something sinister.”
Susan stopped talking quite suddenly, expecting either laughter or anger. But Stark merely rotated in his chair, looking out over the city again.
“Foul play. You do have an imagination, Dr. Wheeler, no doubt about that.”
Stark turned back toward the room, rising up and walking around his desk.
“Foul play,” he repeated. “I must admit I’d never even considered that.”
Stark had been briefed only that morning about Cowley’s discovery of the drugs in locker 338; that information had disturbed him. He leaned against his desk and looked down at Susan.
“If you think about foul play, motive becomes of paramount importance.
And there just isn’t any motive for such a series of heartbreaking episodes. They are too dissimilar. And coma? You’d have to implicate some very clever psychopath operating on a premise that’s beyond rationality. But the biggest problem with the idea of foul play is that it would be impossible in the OR. There are too many people involved who are watching the patient too closely.
“Certainly investigative activities should be carried out with an open mind, but I don’t think foul play is possible in this instance. But, I must admit, I had not thought of it.”
“Actually,” said Susan, “I hadn’t planned on suggesting foul play to you, but I’m glad that I did so that I can forget it. But back to the problem itself. If antibody screening is too expensive, the chart review and interviews would, be comparatively cheap. I could take that on myself, except I’d need a little help from you.”
“What kind of help?”
“First of all, I’d need to have authorization to use the computer. That’s number one. Secondly, I’d need authorization to get the charts. Thirdly, I may have run into a problem downstairs.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“Dr. Harris. He’s the one who blew his cool. I think he intends to have my surgical rotation here at the Memorial cut short. It seems that he is not fond of women in medicine, and perhaps I have served to underline that prejudice.”
“Dr. Harris can be difficult to get along with. He’s an emotional type.
But at the same time he’s probably the best mind in anesthesiology in the country. So don’t damn him until you see his other side. I believe he has specific personal reasons for his attitude toward women in medicine. It’s not admirable, perhaps, but it is potentially understandable. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do for you. At the same time I must tell you that you have picked a very touchy subject to become involved in. You have undoubtedly considered the malpractice implication, the potential bad publicity for the hospital and even the Boston medical community. Tread lightly, young lady, if you choose to tread at all. You’ll make no friends on the course you are embarking on, and it’s my opinion you should drop the whole affair. If you choose to go on, I’ll try to help you, although I can guarantee nothing. If you do turn up any information, I will be happy to offer an opinion. Obviously the more information you have, the easier it will be for me to get you what you need.”
Stark moved toward the door from his office, opening it.
“Give me a call later this afternoon and I’ll let you know if I’ve had any luck with your requests.”
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Stark.” Susan hesitated in the doorway, looking at Stark. “It is reassuring that you have not lived up to your reputation of being a man-, or should I say, woman-eater.”
“Perhaps you will agree with the others when you find time to come on teaching rounds,” said Stark, with a laugh.
Susan said goodbye and left. Stark returned to his desk and spoke into his intercom, talking to his secretary.
“Call Dr. Chandler and see if he has talked with Dr. Bellows yet. Tell him that I want to get to the bottom of those drugs in the locker room as soon as possible.”
Stark turned and looked out over the complex of buildings that made up the Memorial. His life was so closely linked to the hospital that at certain points they merged. As Bellows had told Susan, Stark had personally raised an enormous amount’ of the money it had taken to revitalize the hospital and build its seven new buildings. It was partly due to his fund-raising abilities that he was Chief of Surgery at the Memorial.
The more he thought about the drugs in 338 and their possible implications, the angrier he got. It was just another glaring example of how people in general could not be trusted to think in terms of the long-run effects.
“Christ,” he said out loud, his eyes mesmerized by the swirling snow clouds. Fools could undermine all his efforts at insuring the Memorial’s position as the number one hospital in the country. Years of work could go down the drain. It underscored his belief that he had to attend to everything if he wanted it done right.
Tuesday, February 24, 7:20 P.M.
The gloom of the winter Boston night had long since invaded the city when Susan alighted from the Harvard line train at the open-air Charles Street MBTA station. The wind, still blowing in from the Arctic, whistled in the river end of the station and traversed the length of the platform in short turbulent gusts. Susan bent over as she headed toward the stairs. The train lunged and slid out of the station, passing her on her right, its wheels screeching as it turned into the tunnel.
Susan used the pedestrian overpass to cross the intersection of Charles Street and Cambridge Street. Underneath, the traffic had dissipated to a minor dribble of cars, but the noxious odor of exhaust gases still fouled the night air. Susan descended to Charles Street. In front of the all-night drugstore there was the usual collection of wayward individuals, either drunk or stoned. Several of them reached toward Susan, asking for spare change. She responded by quickening her step. Then she collided with a seedy, bearded fellow who had deliberately stepped into her way.
“Real Paper or Phoenix, beautiful?” asked the bearded fellow with seborrheic eyelids. He held several newspapers in his right hand.
Susan recoiled, then pressed on, ignoring the lurid jibes and laughter of the night people. She passed down Charles Street and presently the surroundings changed. A few antique shop windows beckoned for her to dally, but the cold night wind urged her on. At Mount Vernon Street she turned up to the left and began to ascend Beacon Hill. From the numbers on the doors she knew she had a way to go. She passed Louisburg Square.
The orange glow from the mullioned windows cast warm rays in the cold night. The houses gave a sense of peace and security behind their solid brick facades.
Bellows’s apartment was in a building on the left, about a hundred yards beyond Louisburg Square. The buildings along here sat back behind small lawns and towering elms. Susan pushed open a squeaking metal gate
