The Face-Changers by Thomas Perry Page A

say anything, we understand: there’s no way to predict whether you might open yourself up to some kind of malpractice litigation or other legal problems. It would cause delay that’s probably unnecessary, but after all, we do need to respect your rights, too. Because this is an official police inquiry, it can’t be off the record and could come out in court.” Carey admired the smooth, affable way the captain had spoken. It seemed to him that Folger had probably read him his rights and set a trap at the same time. If Carey was here to delay the police, Folger had offered him a simple way to do it.
    But that would confirm their suspicion that he was the enemy.
    “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he answered. “Will it?”
    “I can’t give anybody legal advice,” said Folger. “And I don’t know anything about all these civil suits against hospitals and doctors. We just do the criminal stuff.” He paused. “Want to go ahead?”
    Carey nodded.
    “Our logs say officers brought Richard Dahlman in here at seven-fifteen this evening. The hospital records say you operated on him at eight-fifteen. Is that right?” So this was going to be about the subject of times. He didn’t want to talk about times. That would help them isolate exactly when Jane had slipped Dahlman out, and if they knew when, they would know where it had happened. People might remember having seen Jane there. He answered with names.
    “Yes, I operated. Dr. Shelton was anesthesiologist and Dr.
    Stern assisted. The surgical nurse was Mrs. Brooks.”
    “What did you do to him?”
    “I removed fragments of a bullet from his left shoulder –
    five, I think. Very small – particles, really. The main projectile had expanded as it passed through, and glanced off a bone.
    That seems to have been what caused the pieces to come off. It also caused a fracture with bone chips, torn musculature, and damage to a major vein. The main artery was not severed, and there appeared to be no significant nerve damage.”
    “How long did that take?”
    “Not long. It couldn’t have been more than forty-five or fifty minutes at the outside.”
    Folger looked at his notes. “The anesthetist keeps a timed record. Did you know that?”
    “Of course,” said Carey. “That’s right. If you need exact times, you should get Shelton’s notes.”
    “We have.” He frowned, then handed the sheet of paper to Carey. “Is this his handwriting?”
    “I guess so,” said Carey. It said fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. “He usually keeps his own notes.” He handed the paper back.
    “Fifteen minutes. That seems like world-record speed.” Carey shrugged. “Faster than it seemed to me, at any rate.” He added, “No surgery is entirely without risk. We don’t keep a patient open any longer than necessary. When I was sure I had removed the foreign objects that had shown on the X-ray, repaired the damage to the vein to stop the bleeding, and sutured the muscles, I closed.”
    “What kind of risk are you talking about?” Carey cocked his head. “Infection, adverse reaction to anesthetics, shock and possible cardiac arrest, hemorrhage…” As Carey spoke, he was aware of each of the people in the room. Did the young woman’s squinted eyes and pursed Ups mean she was trying to understand, or did she disbelieve something he was saying? How could she?
    Folger was looking down at his notes. “Why were you the one to operate?”
    Carey had not prepared for this question, and it astounded him that he had overlooked it. He constructed his response cautiously. “Dr. Leo Bortoni was the surgeon on duty at the time,” he said. “When the patient was brought into the emergency room, I was on my usual rounds, visiting my surgical patients. I knew Leo was in surgery at the time. The procedure is to phone one of the surgeons on call, but of course I was on that list, and was already there, so I stepped in.”
    “And you met with the patient.”
    “I went to