downstairs are in some way disrupting the workings of your hospital—”
“You’re right,” Whitman said. “Their presence is a disruption. When people are here seeking treatment, they have an expectation of privacy, which we take very seriously. We’ve told those folks in plain English that no information concerning that patient will be forthcoming, but they’re hanging around anyway. I suppose they’re hoping to pick up some snippet from a visiting relative.”
“What visiting relative?” Ali asked.
“Exactly,” Whitman answered. “Since we have no idea who the patient is, there are no relatives, and she’s in no condition to supply the names of any. But I’m happy to say that those people are now your problem. I want you to get rid of the reporters—all of them.”
It’s your hospital, Ali thought. Why don’t you do it yourself, or have your people do it?
After a moment’s reflection she knew the answer to that. The group in the lobby might well include local media people that the hospital couldn’t afford to offend. It would be far better for Jake Whitman’s next hospital fund-raising effort if someone else was the bad guy here.
Especially if the bad guy happens to be from someplace out of town, she thought.
“Most of the time I’m expected to dispense information rather than quash it,” she said, “but I’ll be glad to take care of this for you.”
“Thank you,” Whitman said with a smile. “If you manage to get rid of the reporters in the lobby, you might want to hang out in the burn-unit waiting room on the eighth floor just in case. I wouldn’t put it past some of them to try sneaking up there as well.” Standing up, he glanced at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to go to.”
Ali took the hint. She collected her briefcase and headed for the lobby, where she found that a security guard had isolated the group of reporters by herding them into a small seating area just outside the latte stand. She walked over to them and raised her hand to get their attention.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Alison Reynolds. I’m the media relations officer with the Yavapai County Sheriff’sDepartment. We have no additional information to give you at this time. The hospital administration is asking that you vacate the premises. If you’ll leave me your contact information, I’ll be sure you receive all pertinent information once it becomes available.”
“I saw the Angel of Death come in a little while ago,” one of the female reporters said. “Is she here because of the burn victim?”
“Excuse me?” Ali asked. “The what?”
“Sister Anselm,” the woman replied. “She’s a nun, a Sister of Providence. She’s often called in to minister to dying patients, especially unidentified ones. If that’s why she’s here, it’s probably bad news.”
“I’m sorry,” Ali said. “I know nothing at all about that, and I would advise against any speculation in that regard.”
That response was followed by a chorus of questions.
“What can you tell us?”
“Do you know who she is?”
“What was she doing in the house?”
“Is she suspected of being the arsonist?”
Ali held up her hand once more, silencing the questions. “I can tell you that the burn victim from the Camp Verde fires was transported here last night and is being treated here. I have no information about her identity. You’ll need to contact Sheriff Maxwell’s office up in Prescott for details about the ongoing investigation.”
“Talk about passing the buck,” one of the men groused. “I already tried that. The sheriff’s department told me to contact the local ATF office. They in turn told me to piss up a rope. ‘No comment at this time.’ ”
His words were greeted with a spate of knowing and derisivelaughter from his fellow reporters. While Ali waited for the group to quiet down, she finally had an inkling of what was really going on. Sheriff Maxwell had
“You’re right,” Whitman said. “Their presence is a disruption. When people are here seeking treatment, they have an expectation of privacy, which we take very seriously. We’ve told those folks in plain English that no information concerning that patient will be forthcoming, but they’re hanging around anyway. I suppose they’re hoping to pick up some snippet from a visiting relative.”
“What visiting relative?” Ali asked.
“Exactly,” Whitman answered. “Since we have no idea who the patient is, there are no relatives, and she’s in no condition to supply the names of any. But I’m happy to say that those people are now your problem. I want you to get rid of the reporters—all of them.”
It’s your hospital, Ali thought. Why don’t you do it yourself, or have your people do it?
After a moment’s reflection she knew the answer to that. The group in the lobby might well include local media people that the hospital couldn’t afford to offend. It would be far better for Jake Whitman’s next hospital fund-raising effort if someone else was the bad guy here.
Especially if the bad guy happens to be from someplace out of town, she thought.
“Most of the time I’m expected to dispense information rather than quash it,” she said, “but I’ll be glad to take care of this for you.”
“Thank you,” Whitman said with a smile. “If you manage to get rid of the reporters in the lobby, you might want to hang out in the burn-unit waiting room on the eighth floor just in case. I wouldn’t put it past some of them to try sneaking up there as well.” Standing up, he glanced at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to go to.”
Ali took the hint. She collected her briefcase and headed for the lobby, where she found that a security guard had isolated the group of reporters by herding them into a small seating area just outside the latte stand. She walked over to them and raised her hand to get their attention.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Alison Reynolds. I’m the media relations officer with the Yavapai County Sheriff’sDepartment. We have no additional information to give you at this time. The hospital administration is asking that you vacate the premises. If you’ll leave me your contact information, I’ll be sure you receive all pertinent information once it becomes available.”
“I saw the Angel of Death come in a little while ago,” one of the female reporters said. “Is she here because of the burn victim?”
“Excuse me?” Ali asked. “The what?”
“Sister Anselm,” the woman replied. “She’s a nun, a Sister of Providence. She’s often called in to minister to dying patients, especially unidentified ones. If that’s why she’s here, it’s probably bad news.”
“I’m sorry,” Ali said. “I know nothing at all about that, and I would advise against any speculation in that regard.”
That response was followed by a chorus of questions.
“What can you tell us?”
“Do you know who she is?”
“What was she doing in the house?”
“Is she suspected of being the arsonist?”
Ali held up her hand once more, silencing the questions. “I can tell you that the burn victim from the Camp Verde fires was transported here last night and is being treated here. I have no information about her identity. You’ll need to contact Sheriff Maxwell’s office up in Prescott for details about the ongoing investigation.”
“Talk about passing the buck,” one of the men groused. “I already tried that. The sheriff’s department told me to contact the local ATF office. They in turn told me to piss up a rope. ‘No comment at this time.’ ”
His words were greeted with a spate of knowing and derisivelaughter from his fellow reporters. While Ali waited for the group to quiet down, she finally had an inkling of what was really going on. Sheriff Maxwell had
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