right to it, shall we?”
“One important question,” Trace said.
“Yes?”
“Why do nurses call doctors Doctor?”
“What do you suggest we call them? Milkman?”
“I suggest that you call them ‘the doctor’ or ‘Doctor So-and-so.’ ‘We’ve talked to Doctor’ doesn’t make any grammatical sense.”
“I see no need to change anything that has served our profession well for so many years, Mr. Tracy.”
“My father used to feel that way about his undershirts until my mother got him to Undershirt City,” Trace said. “Then he finally got straightened out. Family liked him a whole lot better then too.”
“Have you come here to tell me disgusting stories about your relatives?” she asked.
“No, and you’re lucky. If I got to telling really disgusting stories like the time my aunt Billie fell off the wagon and barfed in the soup tureen, well, we’d really find that disgusting, wouldn’t we?”
“Doctor told me to answer your questions. He did not tell me to let you waste my entire working day. Good day, Mr. Tracy.”
“Just one question,” Trace said.
“Please hurry.”
“Why did Patient name Doctor as his beneficiary? Did he tell you?”
“No. He never said a word to me.”
“Did Patient say he was unhappy with Family?”
“We did not have many personal discussions, actually.”
“I can believe it. Did Patient say he was happy with Hospital?” Trace asked.
“You’re really very insolent, Mr. Tracy. Yes, Mr. Plesser said he was happy here and I do believe that you can leave now.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” Trace said.
“Well, you’ve been most obnoxious.”
“Investigator apologizes,” Trace said as he left.
11
As he walked down the long hallway, Trace sensed the steely eyes of Nurse Simons still burning into his back. He turned casually into the corridor leading toward the front door, then ducked quickly into a stairwell and walked upstairs.
Mitchell Carey was in Room 213.
It was a large private room with two assortments of fresh flowers on a small table across the room from the foot of the bed. Carey lay in the bed, sleeping or unconscious, and Trace could see he was a large man, burly and robust. Big hands and thick wrists protruded from the sleeves of his rough-textured white hospital gown. But the man’s face seemed puckered and tired, the look that seems to come onto the faces of politicians and popes who are shot and never regain their look of full vigor. Carey had a lion’s mane of white hair, and Trace thought he looked like the kind of man you’d expect to see in a meadow, with a shotgun folded over his arm, looking skyward for ducks. There was a green oxygen tank standing next to the bed, and on the wall over Carey’s head was a small panel that looked like the channel selector box for cable television, which held a half-dozen monitor lights. All the lights were green.
The man hissed noisily as he breathed.
Trace looked at the cards on the flowers. One said, “You are always loved. Amanda.” The other read, “Same message as the last time. Get better. These flowers are expensive. Will.”
Trace looked around the room. There was nothing to see, really. He walked to the cabinet next to Carey’s bed and opened the top drawer. Sure, he thought, it’s going to have a hundred legal documents changing the beneficiary of his insurance and the heirs to his estate. It contained a small box of Kleenex.
He closed the drawer softly, and as he turned toward the old man, Mitchell Carey’s eyes opened wide and he stared at the ceiling, as if in horror, as if death had just entered the room and roughly shook him awake. Trace knew the feeling. It was the sense one gets waking up in the middle of the night and knowing, despite all evidence to the contrary, that there is someone in the bedroom.
The man stared, unblinking, at the ceiling for a moment. The eyes were pinched with fright or terror. Trace reached out and touched the man’s
“One important question,” Trace said.
“Yes?”
“Why do nurses call doctors Doctor?”
“What do you suggest we call them? Milkman?”
“I suggest that you call them ‘the doctor’ or ‘Doctor So-and-so.’ ‘We’ve talked to Doctor’ doesn’t make any grammatical sense.”
“I see no need to change anything that has served our profession well for so many years, Mr. Tracy.”
“My father used to feel that way about his undershirts until my mother got him to Undershirt City,” Trace said. “Then he finally got straightened out. Family liked him a whole lot better then too.”
“Have you come here to tell me disgusting stories about your relatives?” she asked.
“No, and you’re lucky. If I got to telling really disgusting stories like the time my aunt Billie fell off the wagon and barfed in the soup tureen, well, we’d really find that disgusting, wouldn’t we?”
“Doctor told me to answer your questions. He did not tell me to let you waste my entire working day. Good day, Mr. Tracy.”
“Just one question,” Trace said.
“Please hurry.”
“Why did Patient name Doctor as his beneficiary? Did he tell you?”
“No. He never said a word to me.”
“Did Patient say he was unhappy with Family?”
“We did not have many personal discussions, actually.”
“I can believe it. Did Patient say he was happy with Hospital?” Trace asked.
“You’re really very insolent, Mr. Tracy. Yes, Mr. Plesser said he was happy here and I do believe that you can leave now.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” Trace said.
“Well, you’ve been most obnoxious.”
“Investigator apologizes,” Trace said as he left.
11
As he walked down the long hallway, Trace sensed the steely eyes of Nurse Simons still burning into his back. He turned casually into the corridor leading toward the front door, then ducked quickly into a stairwell and walked upstairs.
Mitchell Carey was in Room 213.
It was a large private room with two assortments of fresh flowers on a small table across the room from the foot of the bed. Carey lay in the bed, sleeping or unconscious, and Trace could see he was a large man, burly and robust. Big hands and thick wrists protruded from the sleeves of his rough-textured white hospital gown. But the man’s face seemed puckered and tired, the look that seems to come onto the faces of politicians and popes who are shot and never regain their look of full vigor. Carey had a lion’s mane of white hair, and Trace thought he looked like the kind of man you’d expect to see in a meadow, with a shotgun folded over his arm, looking skyward for ducks. There was a green oxygen tank standing next to the bed, and on the wall over Carey’s head was a small panel that looked like the channel selector box for cable television, which held a half-dozen monitor lights. All the lights were green.
The man hissed noisily as he breathed.
Trace looked at the cards on the flowers. One said, “You are always loved. Amanda.” The other read, “Same message as the last time. Get better. These flowers are expensive. Will.”
Trace looked around the room. There was nothing to see, really. He walked to the cabinet next to Carey’s bed and opened the top drawer. Sure, he thought, it’s going to have a hundred legal documents changing the beneficiary of his insurance and the heirs to his estate. It contained a small box of Kleenex.
He closed the drawer softly, and as he turned toward the old man, Mitchell Carey’s eyes opened wide and he stared at the ceiling, as if in horror, as if death had just entered the room and roughly shook him awake. Trace knew the feeling. It was the sense one gets waking up in the middle of the night and knowing, despite all evidence to the contrary, that there is someone in the bedroom.
The man stared, unblinking, at the ceiling for a moment. The eyes were pinched with fright or terror. Trace reached out and touched the man’s
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