V.I. Warshawski 04 - Bitter Medicine (37 page)

I was almost too nervous to speak. “Wait a few minutes.”

I looked at the program. “Welcome,” by Alan Humphries, MHA, Executive Director of Friendship V. “Introduction,” by Dr. Peter Burgoyne, Chairman of Obstetrics at Friendship. Then a series of six talks on how to treat the embolism patient by various eminent specialists, some from Chicago, two from the east coast “Lunch,” followed by case histories and group discussion. “Breakup” at three in time to beat the rush-hour home.

I noticed that the registration fee was two hundred dollars. Max must have paid that. I leaned across Lotty to tap his arm and point to the spot in the program; he smiled and shook his head emphatically.

At nine-twenty, the auditorium was two-thirds full. Most of the guests had taken their seats. The bulk were men, I noted automatically, and Rawlings was the only black present. We children of the sixties do affirmative action head counts without thinking whenever we’re in a public place.

With a last smile and gesture at the group he was talking to, Humphries got them to sit down and climbed up on the stage. Peter took a place in the front row close to the stage stairs.

“Hi. I’m Alan Humphries, Executive Director of Friendship Hospital. I’d like to welcome all of you here on such a beautiful day, when I know you’d rather be on the golf course-that is, treating your patients” (loud laughter). A quick joke about an obstetrics resident, a few serious words on the difficulty of treating the amniotic-fluid embolism, a skillful PR plug for Friendship’s commitment to the whole patient, and Humphries introduced Peter.

“I’m sure most of you know him-his skill and dedication in the obstetrics field are not often found today. We at Friendship feel very fortunate to have him on our staff, heading up our team approach to full-service obstetrics care.”

Polite applause as Peter got to his feet and started up the stairs to the podium. Humphries sat in the place Peter vacated. The houselights were turned down and the projector flashed the first slide up on the screen: the Friendship logo laid over a long shot of the starfish hospital. The knot in my stomach was so tight I was wishing I had skipped breakfast.

Using a hand control to move the slides forward, Peter quickly moved into the main theme of his talk. He started with a table of morbidity statistics in obstetrics for

1980-1985. The next slide, he said, broke down ail deaths by known cause.

As he was talking, going through fetal hypoxia, rupture of the fetal membranes, and other technical material, the audience grew at first unnaturally quiet. Then a buzz swept through them, like a flock of birds spreading through a cornfield. Peter’s fluent voice faltered. He turned to look at the screen and saw his own cramped handwriting, greatly magnified.

“Saw patient at 1458… In the absence of Dr. Aber-crombie, the decision was made to treat with 4 gms of mg. sulf. intravenously STAT and 4 gms/hour. At 1530 returned to patient, who was still comatose; no reflexes, no urinary output, dilated to 7 cm. Mg. sulf. continues intravenously.”

Peter stood momentarily dumbstruck, then he pushed the forward button on the projector control. His own merciless exposition of the failure to treat Consuelo continued on the next slide.

I saw a shape get up from the front row and move hurriedly up the aisle. The projector-room door opened behind us. The screen went blank and the houselights came up. Alan Humphries’s voice wafted through an intercom from the projection room.

“Excuse us just a minute, gentlemen. One of the secretaries apparently got the slides confused with those from an in-house mortality conference. Dr. Burgoyne, if you’ll just join me back here for a second, we’ll get these slides sorted out.”

Peter didn’t seem to hear him. Under the harsh glare of the stage lights his strained face looked faintly yellow. He paid no attention to the rising hum from the audience. He dropped the projector control and walked up the aisle. Past the projection booth. Out the double doors.

It took Humphries a moment or two to realize Peter wasn’t coming into the booth. He recovered himself smoothly to suggest that the audience take a quick break. He gave them instructions on how to find the cafeteria, where coffee and rolls would be on the house.

As soon as Humphries left the theater, I nudged Rawlings. He was on his feet at once and the two of us beat the rush out the door. I could hear Murray calling to me querulously over the din, but I didn’t stop. Rawlings kept pace with me as I jogged down the corridors to the obstetrics wing.

I’d forgotten the double doors barring entry to anyone who wasn’t gowned and masked. I hesitated an instant, decided not to waste time going down the stairs and back up again on the other side, and pushed through. Rawlings was on my heels. An angry nurse tried to stop us, but we ignored her, ignored two women sweating in labor, paid no attention to the doctor who popped out of one of the side rooms to yell sharply at us.

We went on through the doors at the far end. The hallway, which had been deserted at two in the morning, was filled now with bustling figures. We shoved past them into Peter’s office.

Peter’s secretary was one of the fresh-faced women who’d handled registration. Her automatic smile of greeting changed to panic when we charged past her desk to her boss’s door.

“He’s not in there. He’s in a meeting. He won’t be in all day.”

I opened his office door anyway and looked in. It was empty. The secretary bleated in the background, but she wasn’t used to throwing people out and didn’t know how to start.

“Now what,” Rawlings demanded sharply.

I thought for a minute. “His house, I guess.” I turned to the secretary. “Alan Humphries hasn’t been in here, has he?

No? I guess he’s quicker on his feet than I am. Or knows Burgoyne better.“

We left. I took Rawlings down the near staircase.

“You know this place pretty well,” he said suspiciously. “You know where this Dr. Burgoyne lives?” When I nodded he added ironically, “You and the doc were kind of good pals, huh? So you’re sure he ain’t going to mind you barging in on him.”

“I’m not sure of anything,” I snapped, my nerves stretched to their tautest. “If this turns into a wild-goose chase, then I’ve cost the city of Chicago your salary for an entire morning and you can bill me.

“Hey, relax, Ms. W. If that’s all that’s worrying you, that’s such a tiny sum it isn’t worth thinking about. I’m having a good time.” We had reached the front exit and were heading to the parking lot. “My car or yours?”

“Yours, of course. If one of the local boys stops you for speeding you can plead professional courtesy or something.”

He laughed and moved over to his Monte Carlo at a pace that seemed smooth and relaxed but had me jogging slightly to keep step. He unlocked the doors and started the engine. The car was rolling before I had my door shut.

“Okay, Ms. W. I’m putty in your beautiful hands. Point me.”

I gave him directions to Route 72. Rawlings drove rapidly but skillfully; I relaxed a bit During the short ride I gave him a summary of my analysis of the cover-up in obstetrics and Malcolm’s death.

He was quiet for a minute, thinking, then said cheerfully, “Okay, I forgive you. If you’d told me all that Wednesday I would have said you were blowing smoke. I ain’t totally convinced yet, but those two guys hightailing it did have a suspicious aura to it. You know anyone drives a Pontiac Fiero? It’s been trailing us at least since we hit the highway.“

I twisted to look at the road behind us. “Oh, that’s Murray-I guess he saw us leave and didn’t want to lose the end of his story.”

Rawlings turned onto the side street leading to Peter’s house and pulled into the driveway. Peter’s Maxima was there and behind it a dark-gray late-model Mercedes. Burning a little rubber, Murray pulled in behind us.

“What the hell you mean, Warshawski, leaving me there when all hell broke loose?” he shouted angrily, slamming the car door.

I shook my head. It was too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less.

Rawlings was already at the door. “Can it, Ryerson. Your hurt feelings don’t count right now.”

As we ran from the car to the house, Peppy came bounding up to us, her golden-feathered tail waving like a pennant in the summer sun. She recognized me and gave a short bark of delight, turning to race back to the yard where she picked up a tennis ball. She reached me again as we were opening the back door. Her pure joy in me and the day brought an involuntary catch to my throat. I blinked my eyes hard, petted her gently, and told her to stay. Rawlings and Murray followed me silently into the house.

We were in the kitchen, an electronic showroom that silently gleamed stainless steel in the summer sun. We moved quietly across the Italian tile floor into the hushed dining room, past rich dark chairs and modem statuary to the hall leading to Peter’s study. The door was shut.

Rawlings jerked his head toward the wall on the blind side of the door. I took up position there. He swung the door open and rolled dear of the entrance. I had my Smith & Wesson in hand and followed him rapidly into the room. As well choreographed as if we’d practiced it for three years. When no shots sounded, Murray followed us in.

Peter was sitting behind his desk, a gun in his right hand, a replica of my semi-automatic. Alan Humphries sat in an armchair facing him. Peter’s gun was pointed at Humphries; although Peter looked up when we crashed in, he didn’t move the gun. His face was pinched and the whites of his eyes showed dangerously. Our surprise entrance didn’t seem to startle him-he was in a state beyond shock or surprise.

“Oh, Vic, it’s you.”

“Yes, Peter. It’s me. This is Detective Rawlings from the Chicago Police Department. Murray Ryerson from the Herald-Star. We want to talk to you about Malcolm Tregiere.”

He smiled a little. “Do you, Vic? That’s nice. I’d like to tell you about him. He was a good doctor. He was going to be the kind of doctor I should have been-Lotty Herschel’s prize student in perinatology, healer of the sick, protector of the poor and innocent.”

“Shut up, Peter,” Humphries said sharply. “You’re out of your head.”

“If I am, it’s a good place to be, Alan. You know, money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Or maybe you don’t know that. When Tregiere showed up at the hospital, I knew the game was over. He took in everything we’d done-and hadn’t done. He was too polite to say anything, just pitched in, did his best with the baby and the girl. But it was too late, of course.”

He was speaking in a dreamy voice. I glanced at Rawlings, but he was far too shrewd a cop to interrupt the flow of a confession.

“I knew he’d be reporting back to Dr. Herschel, so I went to Alan to tell him we’d better get ready to face the music.

But Alan didn’t want to do that, did you, old boy? Oh, no, not to interrupt the future flow of capital, or whatever the shit the financial garbage says. So he stayed late at the hos-pital, trying to figure it out. That was before we lost the girl, Consuelo, of course, but she had gone under once because of the magnesium sulfate and her condition was pretty shaky. Critical, we say in the medical-industrial business.“

He held the gun level at Humphries the whole time he spoke. At first the administrator tried to interrupt him, tried to signal to us to disarm Peter, but when he saw we weren’t responding, he lapsed into silence.