lot sealed with a metal accordion gate and cars stack-parked in the
circular drive fronting the main entrance. An ALL FULL sign was posted
at the mouth of the driveway, and a security guard handed me a
mimeographed sheet outlining the procedure for obtaining a new card
key.
“Where do I park in the meantime?”
He pointed across the street, to the rutted outdoor lots used by nurses
and orderlies. I backed up, circled the block, and ended up queuing
for a quarter hour. It took another ten minutes to find a space.
Jaywalking across the boulevard, I sprinted to the front door.
Two guards instead of one in the lobby, but there was no other hint
that a life had been snuffed out a couple of hundred feet away. I knew
death was no stranger to this place but I’d have thought murder rated a
stronger reaction. Then I looked at the faces of the people coming and
going and waiting. Nothing like worry and grief to narrow ones
perspective.
I headed for the rear stairway and noticed an unto-date roster just
past the Information desk. laurence Ashmore’s picture was on the top
left. Specialty in Toxicology.
If the portrait was recent, he’d been a young-looking forty-five.
Thin, serious face. Dark, unruly hair, hyphen mouth, horn-rimmed
eyeglasses. Woody Allen with dyspepsia. Not the type to pose much of
a challenge for a mugger. I wondered why it had been necessary to kill
him for his wallet, then realized what an idiotic question that was.
As I prepared to ride up to Five, sounds from the far end of the
hospital caught my attention. Lots of white coats. A squadron of
people moving across my line of sight, rushing toward the
patienttransport elevator.
Wheeling a child on a gurney, one orderly pushing, another holding an
I.V bottle and keeping pace.
A woman I recognized as Stephanie. Then two people in civvies.
Chip and Cindy.
I went after them and caught up just as they entered the lift.
Barely squeezing in, I edged my way next to Stephanie.
She acknowledged me with a twitch of her mouth. Cindy was holding one
of Cassie’s hands. She and Chip both looked defeated and neither of
them glanced up.
We rode up in silence. As we got off the elevator Chip held out his
hand and I grasped it for a second.
The orderlies wheeled Cassie through the ward and through the teak
doors. Within moments her inert form had been lowered to the bed, the
I.V hooked up to a drip monitor, and the side rails raised.
Cassie’s chart was on the gurney. Stephanie picked it up and said,
“Thanks, guys.” The orderlies left.
Cindy and Chip hovered near the bed. The room lights were off and
slivers of gray morning peeked through the split of drawn drapes.
Cassie’s face was swollen, yet it appeared drained-an inflated husk.
Cindy took her hand once more. Chip shook his head and wrapped his arm
around his wife’s waist.
Stephanie said, “Dr. Bogner will be by again and so should that
Swedish doctor.”
Faint nods.
Stephanie cocked her head. The two of us stepped out into the hall.
Another seizure?” I said.
“Four A.M. We’ve been in the E.R. since then, working her over.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Stabilized. lethargic. Bogner’s doing all of his diagnostic tricks
but he’s not coming up with much.”
“Was she in any danger?”
“No mortal danger, but you know the kind of damage repetitive seizures
can do. And if it’s an escalating pattern, we can probably expect lots
more.” She rubbed her eyes.
I said, “Who’s the Swedish doctor?”
“Neuroradiologist named Torgeson, published quite a bit on childhood
epilepsy. He’s giving a lecture over at the medical school. I
thought, why not?”
We walked to the desk. A young dark-haired nurse was there now.
Stephanie wrote in the chart and told her, “Call me immediately if
there are any changes.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Stephanie and I walked down the hall a bit.
“Where’s Vicki?” I said.
“Home sleeping. I hope. She went off shift at seven, but was down in
the E.R. until seven-thirty or so, holding Cindy’s hand. She wanted to
stay and do another shift, but I insisted she leave-she looked totally