“Sure you do, Susan; sure you do,” soothed Mark sarcastically.
“Carbon monoxide! Carefully bled-in carbon monoxide, by way of the T-valve, titrated to cause just the right amount of hypoxia. The blood color would stay the same. In fact it would get even brighter red, cherry red. Even a very small amount would cause the oxygen to be displaced from the hemoglobin. The brain is starved of oxygen and—coma. In the OR everything has seemed absolutely normal. Then the patient’s brain dies; there is not a trace of the cause.”
There was a silence as the two people looked at each other. Susan expectantly, Bellows with tired resignation.
“You want me to say something? OK, it’s possible. Ridiculous but possible. I mean it’s theoretically possible for the OR cases to be caused by carbon monoxide. It’s an awful idea, maybe it’s even ingenious, but at any rate, it’s possible. The trouble is there are still twenty-five percent of the coma victims who didn’t even get close to the OR.”
“They’re the easy ones to explain. That was never hard. It was the OR cases that were hard. It was also hard for me to break away from the idea in the diagnosis of disease in medicine that one should search for single causes. But in this case we’re not dealing with a disease. The cases on the medical floors were given sublethal doses of succinylcholine. Something like that happened in a V.A. hospital in the Midwest, and even in New Jersey.”
“Susan, you can hypothesize until you’re blue in the face,” said Bellows with a tinge of anger growing out of frustration. “What you’re suggesting is some fantastic organized plan—a criminal plan—with the sole purpose of making people comatose. Well, let me tell you this: you haven’t given an ounce of effort to the biggest question: the question of why. Why, Susan? Why? I mean, you’re spinning your mental wheels at ninety miles per hour, taking all sorts of risks with your career, and mine, I might add, to come, up with a potentially plausible although fantastic explanation for what is a series of unconnected, unfortunate incidences. But at the same time, you’ve conveniently forgotten to ask why. Susan, there would have to be motive, for Christ’s sake. It’s ridiculous. I’m sorry, but it is ridiculous. And besides, I’ve got to go to sleep. Some of us work, you know. … And there isn’t one bit of solid evidence. A valve on the oxygen line! God, Susan, that’s pretty weak. I mean you’ve got to come to your senses. I can’t take any more of this. Really. I’m finished. I’m a surgical resident, not a part-time Sherlock Holmes.”
Bellows got up and finished his bourbon in one long drink.
Susan watched him intently, her paranoia awakening once again. Bellows was no longer on her side. Why indeed? The criminal aspect of the matter was horribly apparent to her at that point.
“What makes you so sure,” continued Bellows, “that all this has anything to do with Nancy Greenly or Berman? Susan, I think you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s an easier explanation for this character who seems so interested in getting hold of you.”
“I’m waiting.” Susan was angry now.
“The guy was probably looking for some action and you …”
“Screw you, Bellows!” Susan went livid.
“Now she gets mad. God damn it, Susan, you take this whole affair as some sort of complicated game. I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Every time I tell you about some aggressive behavior from Harris to this fucker who tried to kill me, all you can come up with is some Goddamn sexist explanation.”
“Sex exists, my child. You’d better learn to face that.”
“I think it’s more your problem. You male doctors never do seem to grow up. I guess it’s too much fun being an adolescent.” Susan got up and put her coat back on.
“Where are you going at this hour?” said Bellows with an authoritarian air.
“I have a feeling I’m safer on the street than here in this apartment.”
“You’re not going out now,” said Bellows with determination.
“Ah, now the male chauvinist is displaying his true colors. The great protector! Bull crap. The egoist says I’m not going. Just watch.”