compound in Bethesda, Maryland. To him, the National Institutes of Health resembled a cross between a European spa and a military base.
From his corner office the wilderness seemed to stretch for miles. But Markey knew better.
He knew, for instance, that his big boss, the President of the United States, was about ten miles away, beginning his weekly brunch meeting with the Vice President. The two men met most Mondays for a light brunch and a heavy discussion. Raymond had attended a few of those brunches. He did not particularly care for the conversation or the food.
He sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
He was excruciatingly nearsighted. When he viewed the sprawling landscape without his glasses, the world turned into a large abstract painting. The bright colors bled into one another and seemed to move in a kaleidoscope pattern.
He put his glasses back on, turned away from the calming view, and glanced at the two reports on his desk. The first was marked "Confidential!" and there were numerous seal protectors on the envelope so that Markey could be sure that no one had opened it before him. The envelope was also specially treated so that its contents could not be read by holding it up to a light.
Any tampering left permanent scars. It was a lot of security, but ' sometimes every bit of it was needed. n The second envelope read "Sidney Pavilion, Columbia!
Presbyterian Medical Center, New York." The security surrounding this file, while significant, was somewhat more limited.
Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services a long and rather unimpressive title, Raymond Markey thought.
But he knew better. His office was in charge of the U.S. Public Health Service, controlling such agencies as the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, and the National Institutes of Health hardly an unimportant or ceremonial post.
Markey reached for his letter opener and slit the confidential envelope. He then laid the reports side by side. The regular report had been filled out by Dr. Harvey Riker and for the first time Dr. Brace Grey's signature had been omitted. Too bad. As for the confidential report... well, safer not to think about the source.
Repeating the name of the author out loud could prove hazardous to one's health. Even fatal.
Markey skimmed the files for obvious discrepancies. One jumped out at him immediately.
The number of patients.
According to Hiker's report, they had been treating forty-one patients, two of whom had been murdered in recent weeks.
Riker's write-up was factual, not drawing any conclusions, but he did mention the strange coincidence that two patients had died of multiple stab wounds within a couple of weeks of one another. Markey also noticed that Riker never referred to Grey's death as a suicide but as a "shock" and "death that made no sense."
Curious description, Markey mused.
He examined the reports again. The report stamped "Confidential"
stated unequivocally that there had originally been forty-two patients, not forty-one. Why the discrepancy? Markey wondered. Raymond doubted very much it was a mistake. No one made mistakes in these situations.
There was a reason for the discrepancy. All he had to do was figure out what.
Markey thumbed back to the beginning of the confidential report. He was sure that Harvey Riker was behind the discrepancy. He knew Riker well and did not trust him. Many years earlier, when Raymond Markey had been chief of staff at St. Barnabas Hospital in New Jersey, he had first encountered a brash, young intern named Harvey Riker. Even back then Riker hated rules and regulations. And now that those rules and regulations came from the government, Markey knew Riker was even more apt to bend them. The man had tremendous talent but very little discipline. He needed to be watched. Closely.
Ah, here it was. On page two.
Page two of the confidential report listed all the staff members and patients at
From his corner office the wilderness seemed to stretch for miles. But Markey knew better.
He knew, for instance, that his big boss, the President of the United States, was about ten miles away, beginning his weekly brunch meeting with the Vice President. The two men met most Mondays for a light brunch and a heavy discussion. Raymond had attended a few of those brunches. He did not particularly care for the conversation or the food.
He sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
He was excruciatingly nearsighted. When he viewed the sprawling landscape without his glasses, the world turned into a large abstract painting. The bright colors bled into one another and seemed to move in a kaleidoscope pattern.
He put his glasses back on, turned away from the calming view, and glanced at the two reports on his desk. The first was marked "Confidential!" and there were numerous seal protectors on the envelope so that Markey could be sure that no one had opened it before him. The envelope was also specially treated so that its contents could not be read by holding it up to a light.
Any tampering left permanent scars. It was a lot of security, but ' sometimes every bit of it was needed. n The second envelope read "Sidney Pavilion, Columbia!
Presbyterian Medical Center, New York." The security surrounding this file, while significant, was somewhat more limited.
Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services a long and rather unimpressive title, Raymond Markey thought.
But he knew better. His office was in charge of the U.S. Public Health Service, controlling such agencies as the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, and the National Institutes of Health hardly an unimportant or ceremonial post.
Markey reached for his letter opener and slit the confidential envelope. He then laid the reports side by side. The regular report had been filled out by Dr. Harvey Riker and for the first time Dr. Brace Grey's signature had been omitted. Too bad. As for the confidential report... well, safer not to think about the source.
Repeating the name of the author out loud could prove hazardous to one's health. Even fatal.
Markey skimmed the files for obvious discrepancies. One jumped out at him immediately.
The number of patients.
According to Hiker's report, they had been treating forty-one patients, two of whom had been murdered in recent weeks.
Riker's write-up was factual, not drawing any conclusions, but he did mention the strange coincidence that two patients had died of multiple stab wounds within a couple of weeks of one another. Markey also noticed that Riker never referred to Grey's death as a suicide but as a "shock" and "death that made no sense."
Curious description, Markey mused.
He examined the reports again. The report stamped "Confidential"
stated unequivocally that there had originally been forty-two patients, not forty-one. Why the discrepancy? Markey wondered. Raymond doubted very much it was a mistake. No one made mistakes in these situations.
There was a reason for the discrepancy. All he had to do was figure out what.
Markey thumbed back to the beginning of the confidential report. He was sure that Harvey Riker was behind the discrepancy. He knew Riker well and did not trust him. Many years earlier, when Raymond Markey had been chief of staff at St. Barnabas Hospital in New Jersey, he had first encountered a brash, young intern named Harvey Riker. Even back then Riker hated rules and regulations. And now that those rules and regulations came from the government, Markey knew Riker was even more apt to bend them. The man had tremendous talent but very little discipline. He needed to be watched. Closely.
Ah, here it was. On page two.
Page two of the confidential report listed all the staff members and patients at
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