Silent Fear, a Medical Mystery by Barbara Ebel Page A

Sunday.”
    Everyone finally smiled. Danny laughed out loud at the genuine southern CDC doc and he caught Joelle’s smile, her white teeth standing out like pearls.
    “We need to get a list of all patients they worked on,” Joelle said. “And if Dotty or James was working Sunday.” She eyed Pamela who scribbled on a note pad.
    “Wednesday Harold didn’t feel good,” Danny added. “Thursday I did cases and I remember the anesthesiologist, Dean, saying he thought Lucy wasn’t in because she was sick.
    Joelle tapped her pen on the spotless table top. The words rushed out of her mouth. “We’re getting a narrower time frame for the outbreak of whatever we’re dealing with.”
     
    Chapter 9
     
    Except for Robert Madden, everyone in the room reviewed the patients’ charts and scribbled any physical complaints they had mentioned on admission or during their hospitalization. All four of the patients varied to some degree, just like the fluctuation in the CSF cell count numbers. Ralph logged the patients’ verbal complaints onto a main sheet, again using columns. Joelle stood back like a painter examining her work, and shook her head affirmatively. “Yes, we have the makings again of meningoencephalitis, headache, fever, nausea, and uncomfortable if not stiff neck.”
    Ralph stuck his thumb in his right suspender. “Are we all missing anything?”
    Everyone glanced around the table, searching each other for more details.
    Danny searched his memory over the last bizarre week. Not one patient had complained about it, yet he thought it odd that Harold had so much saliva. Come to think of it, so did Lucy Talbot.
    Danny furrowed his brow. “There may be something else. But it’s just an observation.”
    “Please, Dr. Tilson, what do you have?” Joelle asked.
    “Drool.”
    “Drool?’ Joelle blinked her eyes and her head bobbed backwards.
    “Excess saliva,” Danny said. “At least that was my impression with Harold and Lucy.”
    “From the beginning?” Joelle asked.
    “No, I wouldn’t say that. It came later.”
    Timothy Paltrow tapped his cane on the floor. “Danny has a point. I agree. Not only them, but Bill has me involved with Dotty and James now, too. That befuddled me about them both this morning. They’ve grown secretions, besides the fact that they’re deteriorating with lethargy.”
    The room hushed again, only until Robert Madden let out a big sigh. He pushed himself out of his chair and paced back and forth at the head of the table, hands enveloping each other. He had an impeccable history, this being his second hospital as a CEO. He didn’t want to retire now at sixty-five but he sensed the tail end of his career was going to snap and pop like a soda can, especially when it came to the media.
    Amongst the charts and strewn papers on the table, Danny’s pager beeped and shimmied due to the vibrator mode. He reached for it and nodded his approval. “Its pathology,” he said, “must be biopsy news.” Danny strutted back out and dialed the department.
    “Danny,” the pathologist said, “sorry for the delay. The incisional biopsy on Harold Jackowitz is positive for meningoencephalitis.”
    Joelle wandered out of the conference room and neared Danny, with Ralph behind her. Danny focused on Joelle and her silver earrings and then turned his attention to Ralph. He nodded affirmatively to both of them, thanked the doctor, and hung up.
    “The pathologist confirmed our diagnosis.” Danny said.
    “As we suspected,” Joelle said. “I notice by the charts all four patients are on a good choice of antibiotics. I want to spin by the lab, check on their progress regarding organism growth, but take CSF samples over to my own lab.”
    “I’d like to come along as well,” Ralph said.
    Danny was just about to echo Ralph’s remark when his pager went off again. “It’s the ICU,” he said softly and dialed.
    Joelle looked down the corridor at a swirling carpet pattern and an empty wall lining the