the freezer, she was now definitely in trouble legally. Could she have been the anonymous phone caller?
Bellows examined the dressing on the patient. It was still in place and not blood-soaked. The I.V. was running well.
Then he thought about Susan again and decided that the nut in the freezer must have been the man who chased her. And if he was, then it would be important for her to know that he was hospitalized and in critical condition.
Bellows dialed the medical school and asked to be connected to the dorm. He let Susan’s phone ring twelve times before giving up. Then he called back the dorm switchboard and left a message for her to call when she came back to her room.
After that, Bellows went to lunch.
Thursday, February 26, 4:23 P.M.
Thirty-six dollars plus tax seemed to Susan an awfully high price for the tasteless room at the Boston Motor Lodge. But at the same time it was worth it. Susan felt refreshed and rested—and safe. She had spent the time during the day rereading her notebook. All the information she had about the OR cases fit the idea of carbon monoxide poisoning. The information about the medical cases fit with the idea of succinylcholine poisoning. But still she had no motive, no rhyme or reason. The cases were too disparate.
Susan made a number of calls to the Memorial to try to learn Walters’s home address, but she was unsuccessful. At one point she had called the Memorial and had Bellows paged, but she hung up before he could answer.
Slowly but inexorably, Susan began to comprehend that she was at a dead end. She thought that it was probably time to go to the authorities, tell what she had learned, then take a vacation. She had a month’s vacation coming to her as part of her third year and she was sure that she would be able to get permission to take the time immediately. She’d leave, get away, for get. She thought about Martinique. She liked things French, and she longed for the sun.
The doorman of the motel whistled a cab for her and she got in. She told the driver the address: 1800 South Weymouth Street, South Boston. Then she settled back.
It was stop and go down Cambridge Street, a little better on Storrow Drive, but worse on Berkeley. The cab driver took her through the nicer sections of the South End to avoid traffic. At Mass. Ave. he turned left and the surroundings deteriorated. Once into South Boston, Susan knew she was lost. The housing became monotonous, the streets badly littered.
Soon the cab entered an area of warehouses, deserted factories, and dark streets. Nearly every streetlamp had a broken bulb.
When Susan alighted from the cab she found herself in an area that seemed isolated from life. Straight ahead, the only streetlight she could see emitted a beam of light from a modern hooded fixture which illuminated the door of a building, a sign, and the walk leading up to the door. The sign was fabricated in block letters of a deep azure. The sign read: “The Jefferson Institute.” Below the blue letters was a brass plaque. It said: “Constructed with the Support of the Department of Health, Education and Welfare, US Government, 1974.”
The Jefferson Institute was surrounded by an eight-foot-high hurricane fence. The building was set back about fifteen feet from the street. It was a strikingly modern structure surfaced with a white terrazzo conglomerate polished to a high gloss. The walls slanted inward at an angle of eighty degrees, rising in a first story of some twenty-five feet. Then there was a narrow horizontal ledge before the wall soared another twenty-five feet at the same angle. Except for the front entrance, there were no windows or doors along the entire length of the facade on the ground floor. The second story had windows but they were recessed and could not be seen from the street. Only the sharply geometric embrasures were visible and the glow of lights from within.
The building occupied a city block. In a strange way, Susan found it beautiful, though she realized that its effect was enhanced by the surrounding squalor. Susan guessed that it was the centerpiece of some urban renewal scheme. It gave the impression of a two-storey ancient Egyptian mastaba, or the base of an Aztec pyramid.
Susan walked up to the front door. Made of bronzed steel, it had no knobs, no openings of any kind. To the right of the door was a recessed microphone. As Susan stepped onto the Astroturf immediately before the door, she activated a recording which told her to give her name and the purpose of her visit. The voice was deep, reassuring, and measured.
Susan complied, although she hesitated about the purpose of the visit.
She was tempted to say tourism, but she changed her mind. She wasn’t feeling very jokey. So, finally, she said, “Academic purposes.”
There was no answer. A rectangular red light beneath the microphone came on. Printed on the glass was the word wait. The light flashed green and the word changed to proceed. Without a sound the bronzed door glided to the right, and Susan stepped over the threshold.
Susan found herself in a stark white hall. There were no windows, no pictures, no decorations at all. The only illumination seemed to be from the floor, which was made of a milky opaque plastic material. Susan found the effect curious and futuristic; she walked ahead.
At the end of the hall, a second silent door glided into the wall, and Susan entered what appeared to be a large, ultramodern waiting room.
Its far and near walls were mirrored from floor to ceiling. The two side walls were spotlessly white and totally devoid of any interruptions or decoration. The sameness was somewhat disorienting. As Susan looked at the walls, her eyes began to focus on her own vitreous floaters. She had to blink and make an effort to focus at a distance. Looking into the mirror at the end of the room had the opposite effect Because of the opposing mirrors Susan saw the image of herself reflected to infinity.
The room was furnished with rows of molded white plastic chairs. The floor was the same as in the hall, the light from it casting strange shadows on the ceiling. Susan was about to sit down when another door slid open in the farthest mirrored wall. A tall woman entered and walked directly up to Susan. She had very short, medium brown hair. Her eyes were deeply set and the line of her nose merged imperceptibly with her forehead. Susan was reminded of the classic features of a cameo. The woman wore a white pants suit as devoid of decoration as the walls. A pocket dosimeter peeped from her jacket. Her expression was neutral.
“Welcome to the Jefferson Institute. My name is Michelle. I will show you our facilities.” Her voice was as noncommittal as her expression.
“Thank you,” said Susan, trying to see through the woman’s facade. “My name is Susan Wheeler. I believe you are expecting me.” Susan let her eyes sweep around the room once more. “It certainly is modern. I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“We have been expecting you. But before we begin I’d like to warn you that it is very warm inside. I suggest that you leave your coat here. And please leave your bag as well.”
Susan took off her coat, a bit embarrassed by the wrinkled and soiled nurse’s uniform she still had on. She took her notebook from her bag.
“Now then ... I suppose that you know that the Jefferson Institute is an intensive-care hospital. In other words, we only take care of chronic intensive-care patients. Most of our patients are in some level of coma.
This particular hospital was built as a pilot project with HEW funds, although the actual running of it has been delegated to the private sector. It has been very successful in freeing up beds in the acute intensive care units of the city’s hospitals. In fact, since the project has been so successful, an equivalent hospital is either being built or is in the planning stages in most of the large cities of the country. Research has shown that any city or population center with a population of a million or more can economically support a hospital of this sort. ... Excuse me, but why don’t we sit down?” Michelle indicated two of the chairs.
“Thank you,” said Susan, taking one of the chairs.
“Visiting the Jefferson Institute is strictly regulated because of the methodology we use to care for the patients. We have developed very new techniques here, and if people are not prepared, some may react on an emotional level. Only immediate family may visit, and only once every two weeks on a preplanned basis.”
Michelle paused in her monologue, then she managed a half-smile. “I must say that your visit here is highly unusual. Normally we have a group of medical people on the second Tuesday of each month, and there is a planned
