Using a matched pair of lateral skull films from Ellen McCarthy’s envelope, that had been taken at slightly different angles, Philips switched on the light in his stereo viewer. Looking through the eyepiece, he had great difficulty perceiving any speckling at all. What he could see seemed to be superficial, in the cerebral cortex rather than deeper in the nerve fibers of the white matter. That was somewhat disturbing information. The lesions of multiple sclerosis were usually in the white matter of the brain. Tearing off the printout from the computer, Philips read the report. At the top of the page was a THANK YOU referring to when Philips had inserted the film. This was followed by a girl’s name and a fictitious phone number. It was more of Michaels’ humor.
The report itself was just as Philips expected. The densities were described and as it had with Lynn Anne Lucas, the computer asked again to be advised as to the significance of the un-programmed abnormalities.
Almost simultaneously Denise returned from the ER and Randy arrived with fifteen more envelopes. Philips gave Denise a resounding kiss. He told her that thanks to her suggestion he’d found two more cases, both young women. He took the new films from Randy and was about to start on them, when Denise put her hand on his shoulder.
“The ER is quiet now. An hour from now, who knows?”
Philips sighed. He felt like a child with a new toy being asked to abandon it for the night. Reluctantly he put the envelopes down and told Randy to pull the rest of the films from the second list and stack them on his desk. Then if he had any time left he could begin pulling the films from the main list, and stack them against the back wall, behind the worktable. As an afterthought Martin asked Randy to call Medical Records and have the hospital charts of Katherine Collins and Ellen McCarthy sent up to his office.
Glancing around the room Martin said, “I wonder if I’m forgetting anything.”
“Yourself,” said Denise with exasperation. “You’ve been here for eighteen hours. Good gravy, let’s go.”
Since the Towers was part of the medical center, it was connected to the hospital by a well-lit and cheerfully painted basement tunnel. Power and heat traveled the same route, concealed in the tunnel’s ceiling, behind acoustical tiles. As Martin and Denise walked hand in hand they passed first under the old medical school and then the new medical school. Farther on they passed branching tunnels leading to the Brenner Pediatric Hospital and the Goldman Psychiatry Institute. The Towers was at the end of the tunnel and represented the current limit of the cancerous spread of the medical center into the surrounding community. A flight of steps led directly into the lower foyer of the apartment house. A guard behind a bulletproof glass recognized Philips and buzzed them in.
The Towers was a posh residential address inhabited mostly by MDs and other professionals from the medical center. A few other professors from the university lived there as well but they generally found the rents on the expensive side. Of the physicians, most were divorced, although there was a rising contingent of young turks with their aggressively career-minded wives. There were almost no children except for weekends when it was Dad’s turn with the kids. Martin also knew there were quite a few psychiatrists, and he’d noticed not an insignificant number of gays.
Martin was one of the divorced. It had happened four years previously after six years of matrimonial suburban stalemate. Like most of his colleagues Martin had married during his residency as a kind of reaction against his demanding academic life. His wife’s name was Shirley and he had loved her, at least he thought he’d loved her. He’d been shocked at the time when she upped and left him. Luckily they’d had no children. His reaction to the divorce had been depression, which he’d dealt with by working even longer hours, if that was possible. Gradually as time passed he was able to view the experience with the necessary detachment to realize what had happened. Philips had been married to medicine, his wife had been the mistress. Shirley had picked the year he’d been appointed Assistant Chief of Neuroradiology as the time to leave because she’d finally understood his value system. Before his selection his excuse to his wife for his seventy hours per week was that he was shooting to become the Assistant Chief. Once he got the position his excuse for the same work week was that he was the Chief. Shirley had seen the light even if Philips hadn’t. She had refused to be married and alone and so she left.