revealed, had shocked him inexpressibly. Dornberger knew also that O’Donnell would not have called this meeting unless he had been seriously concerned, and he respected the chief of surgery’s judgment.
At the same time Charles Dornberger wanted to help Joe Pearson if he could, and at this moment he found himself resenting the tide of events which seemed to be engulfing the elderly pathologist. And yet O’Donnell had appeared to be sincere when he said there was no intention of booting Pearson out, and the others seemed to share this feeling. He decided that perhaps he could be the intermediary. Possibly this way he could help Joe best.
Dornberger looked around at the others. He asked, “Is this unanimous?”
Lucy Grainger said thoughtfully, “I’m very fond of Joe. I think we all are. But I do believe some changes in Pathology are necessary.” It was the first time Lucy had spoken. She too had wondered about this meeting with Kent O’Donnell. What had passed between them in her apartment last night had left her strangely disturbed in a way she had not remembered for years. Afterward she had wondered if she were in love with O’Donnell, then told herself—only half believing—that those kind of phrases were all very well for the young and ardent, but at her age —with maturity, independence, and a professional practice—one reasoned and rationalized, eschewing hastily conceived emotions. At this moment, though, she found herself able to separate personal and professional feelings and to think about the problem in Pathology. In medicine you learned to do that—to push things out of your mind when immediate concerns were more important.
O’Donnell looked at Rufus. “Bill?”
The surgeon nodded. “All right—if Charlie will approach Pearson, I agree.”
Harvey Chandler was next. The chief of medicine told Dornberger ponderously, “In my opinion this is the best way to handle the situation, Charlie. You will be doing all of us, as well as the hospital, a very real service.”
“Very well,” Dornberger said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
There was a momentary silence, and O’Donnell sensed a feeling of relief. He knew the problem had been understood and now, at least, something would be done. Then, if this approach failed, he would have to resort to more direct methods. Sometimes, he reflected, it might be simpler if medical protocol were less complicated. In industry, if a man was not doing his job adequately, you fired him. If you wanted him to take an assistant, you told him to do so and usually that was that. But in medicine and in a hospital it was less straightforward. The lines of authority were seldom clear-cut, and a medical-department head, once appointed, was pretty well master in his own domain. What was even more important—you hesitated to do really drastic things because you were dealing with more than just a job. You were questioning the ability of a man who, like yourself, was dependent on his professional reputation. It was a delicate issue in which a single decision could affect the entire future and livelihood of a fellow practitioner. That was why you proceeded warily, keeping things like this under wraps and carefully guarded from outside scrutiny.
Harry Tomaselli said softly, “I take it, then, we’re going to look for an available pathologist.”
“I think we should begin to look around.” O’Donnell answered the administrator, then glanced at the others. “I imagine most of us have contacts where we might pass the word along. If you hear of anyone—a good man who’s just finishing his residency perhaps—I’d like you to let me know.”
“Pathologists can be pretty choosy nowadays,” Bill Rufus said.
“I know. This may not be easy.” O’Donnell added, “It’s all the more reason for handling Joe carefully.”
Harry Tomaselli had reached into one of his desk drawers and removed a file folder. He said, “Something here may interest you.”
Harvey Chandler asked him, “What is it you have?”
“I’ve been receiving the ‘open list’ on pathologists lately,” Tomaselli answered. “Frankly, I anticipated something like this and asked for it. This name came in a week or two ago.”
“May I see?” O’Donnell reached for the paper Tomaselli had produced. He knew the so-called “open list” was circulated periodically to hospitals on request. It contained information on pathologists available for appointments, and the men concerned had given permission for their names to be used. There was also a “closed list,” but this was retained in confidence by the pathologists’ professional society. Mostly the “closed list” comprised men dissatisfied with their present appointments who were seeking discreetly to make a change. In this case a hospital would advise the society of its need for a pathologist and those on the “closed list” had this information passed along to them. If he chose, an individual could then approach a hospital direct. Yet with all this machinery in existence, O’Donnell knew that most pathology appointments were still made on the basis of personal contacts and recommendation.
He glanced over the sheet the administrator had given him. The listing was for a Dr. David Coleman, his age thirty-one. O’Donnell’s eyebrows went up as he noted Coleman’s record and experience. An N.Y.U. honors graduate. Intern at Bellevue. Two years in the Army, mostly in pathology. A five-year pathology residence spread over three good hospitals. Here was a man who plainly shopped for the best in education.
He passed the paper to Rufus. “I doubt very much if he’d look at us,” he told Tomaselli. “Not with those qualifications and what we could pay to begin with.” O’Donnell knew, from an earlier talk with the administrator, that salary level would have to be around ten thousand dollars a year.
Rufus glanced up. “I agree. This man can take his pick of the big city hospitals.” He passed the sheet to Harvey Chandler.
“Well, as a matter of fact . . .” Tomaselli paused; he sounded unusually diffident, as if weighing his words carefully.
O’Donnell asked curiously, “What is it, Harry?”
“Well, the fact is, Dr. Coleman is interested in this hospital.” Tomaselli paused. “I gather he’s heard something of our recent changes and plans for the future.”
O’Donnell broke the sudden stillness. “How do you know?”
“I know because we’ve had some correspondence.”
Rufus said, “Isn’t that a little unusual, Harry?”
“Perhaps I was being premature, but after this came”—Tomaselli indicated the paper which had now passed to Lucy—“I wrote to Dr. Coleman. I said nothing definite, of course. It was just a tentative approach, sounding him out.” He turned to O’Donnell. “It was after our conversation a couple of weeks ago. You may remember, Kent.”
“Yes, I do.” O’Donnell was wishing that Harry had briefed him about this beforehand. Of course, as administrator Tomaselli had a right to correspond with anyone he chose. He hadn’t committed the hospital in any way. The correspondence was presumably confidential. Possibly it might prove to have been a good move. He said to Tomaselli, “You say he’s interested?”
“Yes. He’d like to come and see us. If this had not come up today, I’d intended to speak to you about it.”
Dornberger had the paper now. He tapped it with a forefinger. “What do you want me to do about this?”
O’Donnell glanced at the others, seeking confirmation. “I think you should take it with you, Charlie,” he said. “And I suggest you show it to Joe Pearson.”
Seven
In an annex to the autopsy room Roger McNeil, the pathology resident, was almost ready for gross conference. All that was necessary to begin was the presence of Dr. Joseph Pearson.
At Three Counties, as at many hospitals, a gross conference was the second stage after autopsy. Half an hour ago George Rinne, diener of the morgue, had brought in the organs removed at three autopsies earlier in the week. Two sets of organs now stood neatly arrayed in white enameled pails, and alongside them, in glass jars, were three brains. Centerpiece of the gross-conference room was a stone table with a large sink let into it and with a water tap above. At present the tap was turned on and beneath it was the third pail of organs, the water washing out the formalin in which the organs had been preserved, as well as some of the more objectionable odor.
McNeil looked around, making a final check. Pearson was always irascible if everything was not ready at hand. McNeil reflected that the room in which they did their work was appropriately macabre—particularly when the organs were laid out, as they would be in a few minutes, making the place look somewhat like a butcher’s shop. He had been in hospital dissecting rooms where everything was gleaming stainless steel; but that was the modern way which had not touched Three Counties’ pathology department yet. Now he heard the familiar, half-shuffling footsteps, and Pearson came in, the inevitable cloud of cigar smoke with him.
