chiefs of the departments of obstetrics and internal medicine at MCB, and Dr. Sarah Baldwin, the resident who had contributed so uniquely to saving the life of Lisa Summer.
At eight-fifteen, when the doorbell rang, Sarah was wearing leather flats, a gathered madras skirt, a beige cotton blouse, and a hand-embroidered Burmese belt, topped by a loose-fitting turquoise blazer. Her major concession to the formality of the occasion was wearing panty hose—not comfortable in any month, but even less so in July.
“Coming,” she shouted into the intercom.
She snatched up the ornate brass earrings fashioned for her by an Akha craftsman and slipped them in place as she hurried down the stairs. Though she admired Glenn Paris, being a performer in one of his extravaganzas was not Sarah’s style. But the report of a third DIC case in an MCB patient did demand a quick, reassuring-but-informative response from the hospital. And Paris felt she could help accomplish that. What had been a curiosity with the first patient, then a serious concern with the second, had suddenly become a terrifying priority.
The cabbie let her off on the street side of the Thayer Building. Glenn Paris met her in his outer office and greeted her warmly. As always, he was noticeably well dressed. Today, his tan suit, sky-blue shirt, and red power tie seemed tailor-made for television. He appeared somewhat tense, but there was a confident, dedicated energy about him that Sarah found disarming and attractive. It was the same sort of aura that had initially drawn her to Peter Ettinger.
“Sarah, do you have any idea who might have leaked this information to the
Herald?”
Paris asked.
“No, sir.”
“Neither does anyone else I’ve talked to. A letter about the Hidalgo case comes in from the New York City Medical Examiner to our chief of surgery. He sends copies to pathology, obstetrics, hematology, internal medicine, the morbidity and mortality committee, and then, almost as an afterthought, to me. No sooner do I read about the case in my copy of the letter, than I read it in the damn paper. Now, isn’t that just something! Each of the people I have spoken with gave a Xerox of the letter to one or more others. At last count, any of twenty-five or thirty people could have leaked it. They all say they had no idea it was that important. Not important! Well, I’m going to get him, Sarah. This time whoever it is has gone too far. Mark my words, I’m going to get him.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sarah said softly.
Although she understood his anger, she was not comfortable with it. She came close to reminding him that, regardless of the source of the news leak, regardless of the negative publicity, something very serious and frightening
was
going on. And the Medical Center of Boston
did
seem to be right in the middle of it.
When they left the building on the campus side, they saw a fairly large number of people—hospital staff, reporters, and one television camera crew—streaming across toward the auditorium.
“Looks like we’re going to have quite a turnout,” Paris said. “That’s good. We’ve got to let the public know we’re on top of this thing. Our foundation grant is looking very good, but it’s not a lock. Negative publicity can still hurt us.”
“Have you met with any members of the medical staff yet?” she asked, hoping to bring him back to the real issue at hand.
“Dr. Blankenship and I have been huddled almost continually since this article broke. I have an old friend who’s an administrator at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. I put Eli in touch with him, and he tells me they’re trying to get someone up here in time for—”
Paris stopped short, his hand raised to keep her silent. He motioned her into the shadow of the outpatient building. Ahead of them, just at the corner of the building, a well-dressed man with a briefcase in one hand was engrossed in intimate conversation with one of the hospital’s
At eight-fifteen, when the doorbell rang, Sarah was wearing leather flats, a gathered madras skirt, a beige cotton blouse, and a hand-embroidered Burmese belt, topped by a loose-fitting turquoise blazer. Her major concession to the formality of the occasion was wearing panty hose—not comfortable in any month, but even less so in July.
“Coming,” she shouted into the intercom.
She snatched up the ornate brass earrings fashioned for her by an Akha craftsman and slipped them in place as she hurried down the stairs. Though she admired Glenn Paris, being a performer in one of his extravaganzas was not Sarah’s style. But the report of a third DIC case in an MCB patient did demand a quick, reassuring-but-informative response from the hospital. And Paris felt she could help accomplish that. What had been a curiosity with the first patient, then a serious concern with the second, had suddenly become a terrifying priority.
The cabbie let her off on the street side of the Thayer Building. Glenn Paris met her in his outer office and greeted her warmly. As always, he was noticeably well dressed. Today, his tan suit, sky-blue shirt, and red power tie seemed tailor-made for television. He appeared somewhat tense, but there was a confident, dedicated energy about him that Sarah found disarming and attractive. It was the same sort of aura that had initially drawn her to Peter Ettinger.
“Sarah, do you have any idea who might have leaked this information to the
Herald?”
Paris asked.
“No, sir.”
“Neither does anyone else I’ve talked to. A letter about the Hidalgo case comes in from the New York City Medical Examiner to our chief of surgery. He sends copies to pathology, obstetrics, hematology, internal medicine, the morbidity and mortality committee, and then, almost as an afterthought, to me. No sooner do I read about the case in my copy of the letter, than I read it in the damn paper. Now, isn’t that just something! Each of the people I have spoken with gave a Xerox of the letter to one or more others. At last count, any of twenty-five or thirty people could have leaked it. They all say they had no idea it was that important. Not important! Well, I’m going to get him, Sarah. This time whoever it is has gone too far. Mark my words, I’m going to get him.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sarah said softly.
Although she understood his anger, she was not comfortable with it. She came close to reminding him that, regardless of the source of the news leak, regardless of the negative publicity, something very serious and frightening
was
going on. And the Medical Center of Boston
did
seem to be right in the middle of it.
When they left the building on the campus side, they saw a fairly large number of people—hospital staff, reporters, and one television camera crew—streaming across toward the auditorium.
“Looks like we’re going to have quite a turnout,” Paris said. “That’s good. We’ve got to let the public know we’re on top of this thing. Our foundation grant is looking very good, but it’s not a lock. Negative publicity can still hurt us.”
“Have you met with any members of the medical staff yet?” she asked, hoping to bring him back to the real issue at hand.
“Dr. Blankenship and I have been huddled almost continually since this article broke. I have an old friend who’s an administrator at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. I put Eli in touch with him, and he tells me they’re trying to get someone up here in time for—”
Paris stopped short, his hand raised to keep her silent. He motioned her into the shadow of the outpatient building. Ahead of them, just at the corner of the building, a well-dressed man with a briefcase in one hand was engrossed in intimate conversation with one of the hospital’s
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