When they left the office, Kat said, "This is a big hospital. We're going to need Sherlock Holmes."
"No, we won't," Paige said unhappily. "I know who it is."
Mitch Campbell was one of Paige's favorite doctors. Dr. Campbell was a likable gray-haired man in his fifties, always good-humored, and one of the hospital's best surgeons. Paige had noticed lately that he was always a few minutes late for an operation, and that he had developed a noticeable tremor. He used Paige to assist him as often as possible, and he usually let her do a major part of the surgery. In the middle of an operation, his hands would begin to shake and he would hand the scalpel to Paige.
"I'm not feeling well," he would mumble. "Would you take over?"
And he would leave the operating room.
Paige had been concerned about what could be wrong with him. Now she knew. She debated what to do. She was aware that if she brought her information to Wallace, Dr. Campbell would be fired, or worse, his career would be destroyed. On the other hand, if she did nothing, she would be putting patients' lives in danger. Perhaps I could talk to him, Paige thought. Tell him what I know, and insist that he get treatment. She discussed it with Kat.
"It's a problem," Kat agreed. "He's a nice guy, and a good doctor. If you blow the whistle, he's finished, but if you don't, you have to think about the harm he might do. What do you think will happen if you confront him?"
"He'll probably deny it, Kat. That's the usual pattern."
"Yeah. It's a tough call."
The following day, Paige had an operation scheduled with Dr. Campbell. I hope I'm wrong, Paige prayed. Don't let him be late, and don't let him leave during the operation.
Campbell was fifteen minutes late, and in the middle of the operation, he said, "Take over, will you, Paige? I'll be right back."
I must talk to him, Paige decided. I can't destroy his career.
The following morning, as Paige and Honey drove into the doctors' parking lot, Harry Bowman pulled up next to them in the red Ferrari.
"That's a beautiful car," Honey said. "How much does one of those cost?"
Bowman laughed. "If you have to ask, you can't afford it."
But Paige wasn't listening. She was staring at the car, and thinking about the penthouse, the lavish parties, and the boat. I was smart enough to have a clever father. He left all his money to me. And yet Bowman worked at a county hospital. Why?
Ten minutes later, Paige was in the personnel office, talking to Karen, the secretary in charge of records.
"Do me a favor, will you, Karen? Just between us, Harry Bowman has asked me to go out with him and I have a feeling he's married. Would you let me have a peek at his personnel file?"
"Sure. Those horny bastards. They never get enough, do they? You're darn right I'll let you look at his file." She went over to a cabinet and found what she was looking for. She brought some papers back to Paige.
Paige glanced through them quickly. Dr. Harry Bowman's application showed that he had come from a small university in the Midwest and, according to the records, had worked his way through medical school. He was an anesthesiologist.
His father was a barber.
Honey Taft was an enigma to most of the doctors at Embarcadero County Hospital. During the morning rounds, she appeared to be unsure of herself. But on the afternoon rounds, she seemed like a different person. She was surprisingly knowledgeable about each patient, and crisp and efficient in her diagnoses.
One of the senior residents was discussing her with a colleague.
"I'll be damned if I understand it," he said. "In the morning, the complaints about Dr. Taft keep piling up. She keeps making mistakes. You know the joke about the nurse who gets everything wrong? A doctor is complaining that he told her to give the patient in Room 4 three pills, and she gave the patient in Room 3 four pills, and just as he's talking about her, he sees her chasing a naked patient down the hall, holding a pan of boiling water. The doctor says, 'Look at that! I told her to prick his boil!' "
His colleague laughed.
"Well, that's Dr. Taft. But in the afternoon she's absolutely brilliant. Her diagnoses are correct, her notes are wonderful, and she's as sharp as hell. She must be taking some kind of miracle pill that only works afternoons." He scratched his head. "It beats the hell out of me."
Dr. Nathan Ritter was a pedant, a man who lived and worked by the book. While he lacked the spark of brilliance, he was capable and dedicated, and he expected the same qualities from those who worked with him.
Honey had the misfortune to be assigned to his team.
Their first stop was a ward containing a dozen patients. One of them was just finishing breakfast. Ritter looked at the chart at the foot of the bed. "Dr. Taft, the chart says this is your patient."
Honey nodded. "Yes."
"He's having a bronchoscopy this morning."
Honey nodded. "That's right."
"And you're allowing him to eat?" Dr. Ritter snapped. "Before a bronchoscopy?"
Honey said, '"'The poor man hasn't had anything to eat since—"
Nathan Ritter turned to his assistant. "Postpone the procedure." He started to say something to Honey, then controlled himself. "Let's move on."
The next patient was a Puerto Rican who was coughing badly. Dr. Ritter examined him. "Whose patient is this?"
"Mine," Honey said.
He frowned. "His infection should have cleared up before now." He took a look at the chart. "You're giving him fifty milligrams of ampicillin four times a day?"
"That's right."