"That's not right. It's wrong. That's supposed to be five hundred milligrams four times a day. You left off a zero."
"I'm sorry, I ..."
"No wonder the patient's not getting any better! I want it changed immediately."
"Yes, doctor."
When they came to another patient of Honey's, Dr. Ritter said impatiently, "He's scheduled for a colonoscopy. Where is the radiology report?"
"The radiology report? Oh. I'm afraid I forgot to order one."
Ritter gave Honey a long, speculative look.
The morning went downhill from there.
The next patient they saw was moaning tearfully. "I'm in such pain. What's wrong with me?"
"We don't know," Honey said.
Dr. Ritter glared at her. "Dr. Taft, may I see you outside for a moment?"
In the corridor, he said, "Never, never tell a patient that you don't know. You're the one they're looking to for help! And if you don't know the answer, make one up. Do you understand?"
"It doesn't seem right to . . ."
"I didn't ask you whether it seemed right. Just do as you're told."
They examined a hiatal hernia, a hepatitis patient, a patient with Alzheimer's disease, and two dozen others. The minute the rounds were over, Dr. Ritter went to Benjamin Wallace's office.
"We have a problem," Ritter said.
"What is it, Nathan?"
"It's one of the residents here. Honey Taft."
Again? "What about her?"
"She's a disaster."
"But she had such a wonderful recommendation."
"Ben, you'd better get rid of her before the hospital gets in real trouble, before she kills a patient or two."
Wallace thought about it for a moment, then made his decision. "Right. She'll be out of here."
Paige was busy in surgery most of the morning. As soon as she was free, she went to see Dr. Wallace, to tell him of her suspicions about Harry Bowman.
"Bowman? Are you sure? I mean . . . I've seen no signs of any addiction."
"He doesn't use it," Paige explained. "He sells it. He's living like a millionaire on a resident's salary."
Ben Wallace nodded. "Very well. I'll check it out. Thank you, Paige."
Wallace sent for Bruce Anderson, head of security. "We may have identified the drug thief," Wallace told him. "I want you to keep a close watch on Dr. Harry Bowman."
"Bowman?" Anderson tried to conceal his surprise. Dr. Bowman was constantly giving the guards Cuban cigars and other little gifts. They all loved him.
"If he goes into the dispensary, search him when he comes out."
"Yes, sir."
Harry Bowman was headed for the dispensary. He had orders to fill. A lot of orders. It had started as a lucky accident. He had been working in a small hospital in Ames, Iowa, struggling to get by on a resident's salary. He had champagne taste and a beer pocketbook, and then Fate had smiled on him.
One of his patients who had been discharged from the hospital telephoned him one morning.
"Doctor, I'm in terrible pain. You have to give me something for it."
"Do you want to check back in?"
"I don't want to leave the house. Couldn't you bring something here for me?"
Bowman thought about it. "All right. I'll drop by on my way home."
When he visited the patient, he brought with him a bottle of fentanyl.
The patient grabbed it. "That's wonderful!" he said. He pulled out a handful of bills. "Here."
Bowman looked at him, surprised. "You don't have to pay me for that.''
"Are you kidding? This stuff is like gold. I have a lot of friends who will pay you a fortune if you bring them this stuff."
That was how it had begun. Within two months, Harry Bowman was making more money than he had ever dreamed possible. Unfortunately, the head of the hospital got wind of what was going on. Fearing a public scandal, he told Bowman that if he left quietly, nothing would appear on his record.
I'm glad I left, Bowman thought. San Francisco has a much bigger market.
He reached the dispensary. Bruce Anderson was standing outside. Bowman nodded to him. "Hi, Bruce."
"Good afternoon, Dr. Bowman."
Five minutes later when Bowman came out of the dispensary, Anderson said, "Excuse me. I'm going to have to search you."
Harry Bowman stared at him. "Search me? What are you talking about, Bruce?"
"I'm sorry, doctor. We have orders to search everyone who uses the dispensary," Anderson lied.
Bowman was indignant. "I've never heard of such a thing. I absolutely refuse!"
"Then I'll have to ask you to come along with me to Dr. Wallace's office."
"Fine! He's going to be furious when he hears about this."
Bowman stormed into Wallace's office. "What's going on, Ben? This man wanted to search me, for God's sake!"
"And did you refuse to be searched?"
"Absolutely."
"All right." Wallace reached for the telephone. "I'll let the San Francisco police do it, if you prefer." He began to dial.
Bowman panicked. "Wait a minute! That's not necessary." His face suddenly cleared. "Oh! I know what this is all about!" He reached in his pocket and took out a bottle of fentanyl. "I was taking these to use for an operation, and ..."
Wallace said quietly, "Empty your pockets."
A look of desperation came over Bowman's face. "There's no reason to . . ."
"Empty your pockets."
Two hours later, the San Francisco office of the Drug Enforcement Agency had a signed confession and the names of the people to whom Bowman had been selling drugs.