A Brain by Robin Cook Page A

comprehended Mannerheim’s behavior.
    â€œDied on the table,” said the nurse. “Tragedy, especially since it was Mannerheim’s first.”
    Philips turned back to his viewer. Instead of seeing Lisa Marino’s X ray, he saw her face as it had been that morning in the patient-holding area outside of surgery. He remembered his image of a bird without its feathers. It was disturbing and Philips forced his attention back to the X ray. He wondered what could have been learned. Impulsively Martin slid off his stool. He wanted to go over Lisa Marino’s chart; he wanted to see if he could associate the pattern on the X ray with any clinical signs and symptoms of multiple sclerosis in Lisa Marino’s neurological workup. It wouldn’t take the place of more X rays, but it was something.
    Passing Helen, who was eating a sandwich at her desk, he told her to call down to the angiography room and tell the residents to start without him and that he’d be there shortly. Helen swallowed rapidlyand asked what she should tell Mr. Michael Ferguson about the supply room when he called back. Philips didn’t respond. He’d heard her but he pretended he hadn’t. “Fuck Ferguson,” he said to himself as he turned down the main corridor toward surgery. He’d learned to despise hospital administrators.
    There were still a few patients waiting in the holding area when Philips arrived in surgery, but it was nowhere near so chaotic as the morning. Philips recognized Nancy Donovan, who had just come out from the OR suites. He walked over and she smiled.
    â€œHad some trouble with the Marino case?” asked Philips sympathetically.
    Nancy Donovan’s smile vanished. “It was awful. Just awful. Such a young girl. I feel so sorry for Dr. Mannerheim.”
    Philips nodded, although he found it astounding that Nancy could sympathize with a bastard like Mannerheim.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked.
    â€œA major artery blew right at the end of the case.”
    Philips shook his head in understanding and dismay. He remembered the proximity of the electrode and the posterior cerebral artery.
    â€œWhere would the chart be?” asked Philips.
    â€œI don’t know,” admitted Nancy Donovan. “Let me ask at the desk.”
    Philips watched as Nancy spoke to the three nurses at the OR desk. When she came back she said, “They think it’s still in Anesthesia, adjacent to room number twenty-one.”
    Returning to the surgical lounge, which was now crowded, Philips changed into a scrub suit. Then he walked back to the OR area. The main corridor leading down between the OR rooms showed signs of themorning battles. Around each scrub sink were pools of water whose surfaces opalesced with a film of soap. Scrub sponges and brushes littered the edges of the sinks with a few scattered on the floors. On a gurney pushed to the side of the corridor was a sleeping surgeon. He’d probably been up all night operating and when he’d come out of his case, thought he’d use the gurney for a moment’s respite. Instead he’d fallen fast asleep and no one disturbed him.
    Philips reached the anesthesia room next to OR #21 and tried the door. It was locked. Stepping back he looked through the small window of the OR room. It was dark, but when he pushed the door, it opened. He flipped a switch and one of the huge kettledrum operating lights came to life with a low electrical hum. It cast a concentrated beam of light straight down on the operating table, leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness. To Philips’ shock, OR 21 had not been cleaned since the Marino disaster. The empty operating table with its mechanical undercarriage had a particularly evil appearance. On the floor around the head of the table were pools of thickened blood. Bloodstained footprints radiated out in various directions.
    The scene made Martin feel sick, reminding him of unpleasant episodes