Susanne merely nodded. She felt like asking the nurse if missing orders was something she did on a regular basis. Susanne sighed. She wanted out of there.
After the nurse had removed the IV, Susanne managed to calm herself enough to fall back asleep. But it didn’t last long. Someone was nudging her arm.
Susanne opened her eyes and looked into the face of another smiling nurse. In the foreground and between them was a five-cc syringe.
“I’ve got something for you,” the nurse said as if Susanne were a toddler and the syringe candy.
“What is it?” Susanne demanded. She instructively pulled away.
“It’s the pain shot you requested,” the nurse said. “So roll over and I’ll give it to you.”
“I didn’t request a pain shot,” Susanne said.
“But of course you did,” the nurse said.
“But I didn’t,” Susanne said.
The nurse’s expression changed to exasperation like a cloud passing over the sun. “Well then, it’s doctor’s orders. You are supposed to have a pain shot every six hours.”
“But I don’t have much pain,” Susanne said. “Only when I move or breathe deeply.”
“There you are,” the nurse said. “You have to breathe deeply, otherwise you’ll get pneumonia. Come on now, be a good girl.”
Susanne thought for a moment. On the one hand she felt like being contrary. On the other hand she wanted to be taken care of and there was nothing inherently wrong with a pain shot. It might even make her sleep better.
“Okay,” Susanne said.
Gritting her teeth, she managed to roll to the side as the nurse bared her bottom.
4
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 2:05 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
“You know, Laurie’s right,” Chet McGovern said.
Chet and Jack were sitting in the narrow office they shared on the fifth floor of the medical examiner’s building. They both had their feet up on their respective gray metal desks. They’d finished their autopsies for the day, eaten lunch, and were now supposedly doing their paperwork.
“Of course she’s right,” Jack agreed.
“But if you know that, why do you provoke Calvin? It’s not rational. You’re not doing yourself any favors. It’s going to affect your promotion up through the system.”
“I don’t want to rise up in the system,” Jack said.
“Come again?” Chet asked. In the grand scheme of medicine, the concept of not wanting to get ahead was heresy.
Jack let his feet fall off the desk and thump onto the floor. He stood up, stretched, and yawned loudly. Jack was a stocky, six-foot man accustomed to serious physical activity. He found that standing at the autopsy table and sitting at a desk tended to cause his muscles to cramp, particularly his quadriceps.
“I’m happy being a low man on the totem pole,” Jack said, cracking his knuckles.
“You don’t want to become board certified?” Chet asked with surprise.
“Ah, of course I want to be board certified,” Jack said. “But that’s not the same issue. As far as I’m concerned, becoming board certified is a personal thing. What I don’t care about is having supervisory responsibility. I just want to do forensic pathology. To hell with bureaucracy and red tape.”
“Jesus,” Chet-remarked, letting his own feet fall to the floor. “Every time I think I get to know you a little, you throw me a curveball. I mean, we’ve been sharing this office for almost five months. You’re still a mystery. I don’t even know where the hell you live.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Jack teased.
“Come on,” Chet said. “You know what I mean.”
“I live on the Upper West Side,” Jack said. “It’s no secret.”
“In the seventies?” Chet asked.
“A bit higher,” Jack said.
“Eighties?”
“Higher.”
“You’re not going to tell me higher than the nineties, are you?” Chet asked.
“A tad,” Jack said. “I live on a Hundred and Sixth Street.”
“Good grief,” Chet exclaimed. “You’re living in Harlem.”
Jack shrugged. He sat down at his desk and pulled out one of his unfinished files. “What’s in a name?” he said.
“Why in the world live in Harlem?” Chet asked. “Of all the neat places to live in and around the city, why live there? It can’t be a nice neighborhood. Besides, it must be dangerous.”