Fatal Cure. Chapter 2, 3, 4
2
MONDAY, MAY 3
Harold Traynor fingered the mahogany and inlaid gold gavel he’d bought for himself at Shreve Crump & Low in Boston. He was standing at the head of the library table in the Bartlet Community Hospital. In front of him was the lectern that he had had built for the hospital conference room. Scattered on its surface were his extensive notes which he’d had his secretary type up early that morning. Stretching out from the lectern and scattered down the center of the table was the usual collection of medical paraphernalia in various stages of evaluation by the hospital board. Dominating the confusion was the model of the proposed parking garage.
Traynor checked his watch. It was exactly six P.M. Taking the gavel in his right hand, he struck it sharply against its base. Attentiveness to detail and punctuality were two characteristics Traynor particularly prized.
“I would like herewith to call to order the Executive Committee of the Bartlet Community Hospital,” Traynor called out with as much pompousness as he could muster. He was dressed in his best pin-striped suit. On his feet were freshly polished elevator shoes. He was only five foot seven and felt cheated as far as stature was concerned. His dark, receding hair was neatly trimmed and carefully combed over his apical bald spot.
Traynor spent a great deal of time and effort preparing for hospital board meetings, both in terms of content and his appearance. That day he’d gone directly home to shower and change clothes after a day trip to Montpelier. With no time to spare, he did not stop at his office. Harold Traynor was an attorney in Bartlet specializing in estate planning and tax work. He was also a businessman with interests in a number of commercial ventures in the town.
Seated before him were Barton Sherwood, vice chairman; Helen Beaton, president and CEO of the hospital; Michael Caldwell, vice president and medical director of the hospital; Richard Arnsworth, treasurer; Clyde Robeson, secretary; and Dr. Delbert Cantor, current chief of staff.
Strictly following parliamentary procedure as specified in Robert’s Rules of Order, which he’d purchased after being elected to the chairmanship, Traynor called on Clyde Robeson to read the minutes of the last meeting.
As soon as the minutes had been read and approved, Traynor cleared his throat in preparation for his monthly chairman’s report. He looked at each member of his executive committee in turn, making sure they were all attentive. They were, except for Dr. Cantor who was, typically, bored and busily cleaning under his fingernails.
“We face significant challenges here at the Bartlet Community Hospital,” Traynor began. “As a referral center we have been spared some of the financial problems of smaller rural hospitals, but not all of them. We’re going to have to work even harder than we have in the past if the hospital is to survive these difficult days.
“However, even in these dark times there is occasional light. As some of you have undoubtedly heard, an esteemed client of mine, William Shapiro, passed away last week of pneumonia coming on after knee surgery. While I very much regret Mr. Shapiro’s untimely passing, I am pleased to announce officially that Mr. Shapiro had generously designated the hospital as the sole beneficiary of a three-million-dollar insurance policy.”
A murmur of approval spread through the people present.
Traynor lifted his hand for silence. “This charitable gesture couldn’t have come at a better time. It will pull us out of the red and push us into the black, although not for long. The bad news for the month is the recent discovery that our sinking fund for our major bond issues is considerably short of its projected goals.”
Traynor looked directly at Sherwood, whose mustache twitched nervously.
“The fund will need to be bolstered,” Traynor said. “A good portion of the three-million-dollar bequest will have to go to that end.”
“It wasn’t all my fault,” Sherwood blurted out. “I was urged to maximize return on the fund. That necessitated risk.”
“The chair does not recognize Barton Sherwood,” Traynor snapped.
For a moment, Sherwood looked as if he might respond, but instead he remained silent.