He led the way. I watched him walk. He was a small dark man
with short legs, brisk, competent, a little older than me. He
seemed nice enough. And I guessed he wasn’t stupid. Very few
medics are. They have all kinds of complicated stuff to learn,
before they get to be where they want to be. And I guessed he
wasn’t unethical. Very few medics were that either, in my
experience. They’re scientists at heart, and scientists generally
retain a good-faith interest in facts and the truth. Or at least
they retain some kind of innate curiosity. All of which was good,
because this guy’s attitude was going to be crucial. He could
stay out of our way, or he could sell us out with a single phone
call.
His office was a plain square room full of original-issue
grey steel desks and file cabinets. It was crowded. There
were framed diplomas on the walls. There were shelves full of
books and manuals. No specimen jars. No weird stuff pickled in
formaldehyde. It could have been an army lawyer’s offce, except
the diplomas were from medical schools, not law schools.
He sat down in his rolling chair. Placed his file on his
desk. Summer closed his door and leaned on it. I stood in the
middle of the floor, with the crowbar hanging in space. We all
looked at each other. Waited to see who would make the
opening bid.
‘Carbone was a training accident,’ the doctor said, like he was
moving his first pawn two squares forward.
I nodded.
‘No question,’ I said, like I was moving my own pawn.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that straight,’ he said.
But he said it in a voice that meant: can you believe this shit?
I heard Summer breathe out, because we had an ally. But we
had an ally who wanted distance. We had an ally who wanted to
hide behind an elaborate charade. And I didn’t altogether blame
him. He owed years of service in exchange for his medical
school tuition. Therefore he was cautious. Therefore he was an
ally whose wishes we had to respect.
‘Carbone fell and hit his head,’ I said. ‘It’s a closed case. Pure
accident, very unfortunate for all concerned.’
186 I
‘But?’
I held the crowbar a little higher.
‘I think this is what he hit his head on,’ I said.
‘Three times?’
‘Maybe he bounced. Maybe there were dead twigs under the
leaves, made the ground a little springy, like a trampoline.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Terrain can be like that, this time of
year.’
‘Lethal,’ I said.
I lowered the crowbar again. Waited.
‘Why did you bring it here?’ the doctor asked.
‘There might be an issue of contributory negligence,’ I said.
‘Whoever left it lying around for Carbone to fall on might need a
reprimand.’
The doctor nodded again. ‘Littering is a grave offence.’
‘In this man’s army,’ I said.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘We’re here to help you out, is all. With it
being a closed case, we figured you wouldn’t want to clutter
your place up with those plaster casts you made. Of the wound
site. We figured we could haul them to the trash for you.’
The doctor nodded for a third time.
‘You could do that,’ he said. ‘It would save me a trip.’
He paused for a long moment. Then he cleared the file away
from in front of him and opened some drawers and laid sheets
of clean white paper on the desktop and arranged half a dozen
glass microscope slides on the paper.
‘That thing looks heavy,’ he said to me.
‘It is,’ I said.
‘Maybe you should put it down. Take the weight off your
shoulder.’
‘Is that medical advice?’
‘You don’t want ligament damage.’
‘Where should I put it down?’
‘Any flat surface you can find.’
I stepped forward and laid the crowbar gently on his desk, on
top of the paper and the glass slides. Unhooked my boot lace
and picked the knot out of it. Squatted down and threaded it
back through all the eyelets. Tightened it up and tied it off. I
187
looked up in time to see the doctor move a microscope slide. He