“No.”
“Now, this isn’t meant to embarrass you, but have you noticed anything unusual when you empty your bowels?”
“Doctor?”
“Mrs. B, any pain, any odd colors, or odors, especially blood, can indicate a problem. And if you ever do notice anything irregular, you come see me or Dr. Elsner immediately.”
“I see. No. None.”
Doc proceeded, finally attending to her actual complaint by relieving her pelvic congestion.
As she was dressing, she asked, “You are a puzzle, Dr. Hancock. No other physician has ever asked me so many questions, or poked or prodded so. They say you are the best, is that really necessary?”
Doc smiled at her over the screen, having retreated to his now cold coffee. “Mrs. B, I was trained in a forward-thinking institution that treated medicine as a science. Bodies are systems. If I can detect some malady early, I might be able to treat it before it gets bad. We’re going to see remarkable changes in medicine in the next few years. Even out here, cut off from the world, I’ve heard about miraculous surgeries taking place back East as a result of things we learned during the war.”
“Indeed?”
Doc studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. “For example, Mrs. B, have you ever thought of treating your congestion yourself?”
“You mean, touching myself?” Her eyes widened. “Down there? But to … I mean, a proper lady…”
“Yes, yes, you’ve been told all of your life that women who relieve themselves will become sexually obsessed and crazed creatures who slip out into the night in search of the first man to cross their paths. The kindest word I can use in reply is hogwash. Several of my most respected patients who were suffering severely have begun to treat themselves. I’ve monitored them closely, and they all report that if anything, they find their lives significantly less stressful and their home life more settled.”
“Then why has no one mentioned this?”
Doc told her dryly, “Why should the men in my profession publicize self-relief when they’re making two to five dollars with each office call?”
She studied him thoughtfully as she dressed. “I almost believe you, Dr. Hancock.”
He walked to his cabinet, took down a bottle of sugar pills, and handed them to her as she stepped out from behind the screen. “Should you decide to try it yourself, recline under your covers and think about your husband, about how much he loves you, and massage yourself as I have. If, afterward, you have any discomforting thoughts about strange men, you take one of those pills and come see me immediately.”
Mrs. B studied the pills. “You’re sure this will work?”
“I want to see you in a month. Let’s see if this new therapy works. And, I want you to bring the pills back to me unopened if you don’t need them.”
“Return the pills?”
“I’m betting I get my bottle back, and I’ll refund you the cost of the medicine.”
She continued to study him through skeptical eyes. “You really are such a puzzle, Dr. Hancock.” She opened her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Five dollars, Mrs. B. Two for the visit and treatment, three for the pills.”
“They are expensive pills.”
“Potent and effective medicine—unlike the flavored alcohol and sweetened opiates sold by the street vendors. But I’m betting that next month, you’ll bring them back unopened for a full refund.”
“You’ve always had these returned?”
“All but once. And in that case the young woman’s problem wasn’t hysteria brought on by congestion. Quite the opposite. She just has … well, appetites.”
“Good day, Dr. Hancock.”
“My best, ma’am. And please give your husband my regards. I appreciated his last editorial on cleaning up the city.” Doc watched her slip out the back door.
Yes, indeed, what a twist on the profession. Had he built his surgery in Memphis, he would no doubt have refused to treat the demimonde and the destitute. But on the odd chance that he had, he would have built a back-alley passage to obscure their arrival and departure from public view.
Here, in Denver, the city’s prominent and socially upright slipped in the back while the riffraff entered and left brazenly through the front door.
“You are indeed a puzzle.” Doc toasted himself and drained the last of his coffee.
He unlocked the door and stepped out into the office where Butler stood in a cluster of men. They crowded solicitously around someone seated on his waiting-room bench.
“Butler? What’s wrong?” he asked as he poured another cup of coffee from the pot on the tin stove. The men turned, Butler moving out of the way. A woman sagged on the bench, her face swathed in bloody bandages.
A burly fellow, a miner from his thick wool clothing, straightened. “We was tolt t’ bring her here, Doc.” The man had his hat in his hands, wringing it as if it were a wet washcloth. “Been on the road all night, we have, sir. We was told that her kind might not be well received at the new hospital, but that she’d be treated here.”
Doc pursed his lips. “Who’s financially responsible?”
“Sir?” The miner tilted his head as if he didn’t understand.
“Who is paying?”
“Oh, why, that be Mr. O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly?”
“Up to Central City, sir.”
“Ah, that O’Reilly.” Curiouser and curiouser? So, was she his mistress?
“Bring her in.”
Doc led the way as they steadied the wounded woman, and she slowly walked into the surgery. As Butler saw to seating her, Doc stopped the miner, asking in a low voice, “What happened?”
“Ah, an’ ’twas bad, sir. A murder … an’ two women raped. An’ this one”—he crossed himself—“the fiend slashed her face fer good measure.”
“In one of the houses?”
“Nay, ’twas in a man’s home. Kilt he was. An’ his wife and this one raped.”
“O’Reilly did this?”
“Oh, God no, sir! The fam’ly, they’s friends o’ Mr. O’Reilly’s. He’s the one as found ’em, he did.”
“I see.” Doc stepped forward. “All right, all of you, outside, please. Let me see to my work.”
“Sergeant Kershaw,” Butler’s voice rang out. “I need an escort detail. Baker, Mathews,
