“Listen,” shouted Mannerheim. His voice was rising, “It’s a bit late for Radiology to be reading X rays now. Christ!”
There was a click and a dial tone. Mannerheim’s egocentric behavior seemed to have reached new heights. Martin hung up the phone, thinking. He knew he couldn’t let his emotions intervene; besides, there was another approach. He was aware that Mannerheim didn’t follow his post-op patients that carefully, and that it really was Newman, the Chief Resident, who was responsible for their day-to-day management. Martin decided to get in touch with Newman and see if the girl was still in the recovery room.
“Newman?” asked the OR desk. “He’s been gone for some time.”
“Oh!” said Philips. He switched the phone to the other ear. “Is Lisa Marino still in the recovery room?”
“No,” said the OR desk. “Unfortunately she never made it.”
“Never made it?” Philips suddenly comprehended Marmerheim’s behavior.
“Died on the table,” said the nurse. “Tragedy, especially since it was Mannerheim’s first.”
Philips turned back to his viewer. Instead of seeing Lisa Marino’s X ray, he saw her face as it had been that morning in the patient-holding area outside of surgery. He remembered his image of a bird without its feathers. It was disturbing and Philips forced his attention back to the X ray. He wondered what could have been learned. Impulsively Martin slid off his stool. He wanted to go over Lisa Marino’s chart; he wanted to see if he could associate the pattern on the X ray with any clinical signs and symptoms of multiple sclerosis in Lisa Marino’s neurological workup. It wouldn’t take the place of more X rays, but it was something.
Passing Helen, who was eating a sandwich at her desk, he told her to call down to the angiography room and tell the residents to start without him and that he’d be there shortly. Helen swallowed rapidly and asked what she should tell Mr. Michael Ferguson about the supply room when he called back. Philips didn’t respond. He’d heard her but he pretended he hadn’t. “Fuck Ferguson,” he said to himself as he turned down the main corridor toward surgery. He’d learned to despise hospital administrators.
There were still a few patients waiting in the holding area when Philips arrived in surgery, but it was nowhere near so chaotic as the morning. Philips recognized Nancy Donovan, who had just come out from the OR suites. He walked over and she smiled.
“Had some trouble with the Marino case?” asked Philips sympathetically.
Nancy Donovan’s smile vanished. “It was awful. Just awful. Such a young girl. I feel so sorry for Dr. Mannerheim.”
Philips nodded, although he found it astounding that Nancy could sympathize with a bastard like Mannerheim.
“What happened?” he asked.
“A major artery blew right at the end of the case.”
Philips shook his head in understanding and dismay. He remembered the proximity of the electrode and the posterior cerebral artery.
“Where would the chart be?” asked Philips.
“I don’t know,” admitted Nancy Donovan. “Let me ask at the desk.”
Philips watched as Nancy spoke to the three nurses at the OR desk. When she came back she said, “They think it’s still in Anesthesia, adjacent to room number twenty-one.”
Returning to the surgical lounge, which was now crowded, Philips changed into a scrub suit. Then he walked back to the OR area. The main corridor leading down between the OR rooms showed signs of the morning battles. Around each scrub sink were pools of water whose surfaces opalesced with a film of soap. Scrub sponges and brushes littered the edges of the sinks with a few scattered on the floors. On a gurney pushed to the side of the corridor was a sleeping surgeon. He’d probably been up all night operating and when he’d come out of his case, thought he’d use the gurney for a moment’s respite. Instead he’d fallen fast asleep and no one disturbed him.
Philips reached the anesthesia room next to OR #21 and tried the door. It was locked. Stepping back he looked through the small window of the OR room. It was dark, but when he pushed the door, it opened. He flipped a switch and one of the huge kettledrum operating lights came to life with a low electrical hum. It cast a concentrated beam of light straight down on the operating table, leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness. To Philips’ shock, OR 21 had not been cleaned since the Marino disaster. The empty operating table with its mechanical undercarriage had a particularly evil appearance. On the floor around the head of the table were pools of thickened blood. Bloodstained footprints radiated out in various directions.