Donald nodded again. No one had to tell him that.
“I want to keep you on the IV steroids for a little while longer,” Dr. Doyle explained.
Donald lifted the face mask off his face. “Couldn’t I get the steroids at home?” he suggested. As thankful as he was about the hospital’s having been there in his hour of need, he much preferred the idea of going home now that his breathing had returned to normal. At home he knew he could at least get some work done. As was always the case, this asthma attack had come at a particularly inconvenient time. He was supposed to go back to Texas the following week for more fieldwork.
“I know you don’t want to be in the hospital,” Dr. Doyle said. “I’d feel the same way. But I think it is best under the circumstances. We’ll get you out just as soon as possible. Not only do I want to continue giving you IV steroids, but I want you breathing humidified, clean, nonirritating air. I also want to follow your peak expiratory flow rate carefully. As I explained to you earlier, it is still not completely back to normal.”
“How many days do you estimate I’ll have to be in here?” Donald asked.
“I’m sure it will only be a couple,” Dr. Doyle said.
“I’ve got to go back to Texas,” Donald explained.
“Oh?” Dr. Doyle said. “When were you there last?”
“Just last week,” Donald said.
“Hmm,” Dr. Doyle said while he thought. “Were you exposed to anything abnormal while you were there?”
“Just Tex-Mex cuisine,” Donald said, managing a smile.
“You haven’t gotten any new pets or anything like that, have you?”
Dr. Doyle asked. One of the difficulties of managing someone with chronic asthma was determining the factors responsible for triggering attacks. Frequently it was allergenic.
“My girlfriend got a new cat,” Donald said. “It has made me itch a bit the last few times I’ve been over there.”
“When was the last time?” Dr. Doyle asked.
“Last night,” Donald admitted. “But I was home just a little after eleven, and I felt fine. I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep.”
“We’ll have to look into it,” Dr. Doyle said. “Meanwhile I want you in the hospital. What do you say?”
“You’re the doctor,” Donald said reluctantly.
“Thank you,” Dr. Doyle said.
12
* * *
THURSDAY, 9:45 A.M., MARCH 21, 1996
“For chrissake!” Jack murmured under his breath as he was about to start the autopsy on Susanne Hard.
Clint Abelard was hovering behind him like a gnat, constantly switching his weight from one leg to the other.
“Clint, why don’t you step around the table and stand on the other side,” Jack suggested. “You’ll be able to see much better.”
Clint took the suggestion and stood with his arms behind his back opposite from Jack.
“Now don’t move,” Jack mumbled to himself. Jack didn’t like Clint hanging around, but he had no choice.
“It’s sad when you see a young woman like this,” Clint said suddenly.
Jack looked up. He hadn’t expected such a comment from Clint. It seemed too human. He had struck Jack as an unfeeling, moody bureaucrat.
“How old is she?” Clint asked.
“Twenty-eight,” Vinnie said from the head of the table.
“From the looks of her spine she didn’t have an easy life,” Clint said.
“She had several major back surgeries,” Jack said.
“It’s a double tragedy since she’d just given birth,” Clint said. “Now the child is motherless.”
“It was her second child,” Vinnie said.
“I suppose I shouldn’t forget her husband,” Clint said. “It must be upsetting to lose your spouse.”
A knifelike stab of emotion went down Jack’s spine. He had to fight to keep from reaching across the table and yanking Clint off his feet. Abruptly he left the table and exited to the washroom. He heard Vinnie call after him, but he ignored him. Instead Jack leaned on the edge of the sink and tried to calm himself. He knew that getting angry with Clint was an unreasonable reaction; it was nothing but pure, unadulterated transference. But understanding the origin did not lessen the irritation.
It always irked Jack when he heard such clichés from people who truly had no idea.