He sent for the two of them. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he told them. He explained about the missing fentanyl. “I want you to keep your eyes open. If any of the doctors you work with have to step out of the OR for a moment, in the middle of an operation, or show any other signs of addiction, I want you to let me know. Look for any changes in personality—depression or mood swings—or tardiness, or missed appointments. I would appreciate it if you would keep this strictly confidential.”
When they left the office, Kat said, “This is a big hospital. We’re going to need Sherlock Holmes.”
“No, we won’t,” Paige said unhappily. “I know who it is.”
Mitch Campbell was one of Paige’s favorite doctors. Dr. Campbell was a likable gray-haired man in his fifties, always good-humored, and one of the hospital’s best surgeons. Paige had noticed lately that he was always a few minutes late for an operation, and that he had developed a noticeable tremor. He used Paige to assist him as often as possible, and he usually let her do a major part of the surgery. In the middle of an operation, his hands would begin to shake and he would hand the scalpel to Paige.
“I’m not feeling well,” he would mumble. “Would you take over?”
And he would leave the operating room.
Paige had been concerned about what could be wrong with him. Now she knew. She debated what to do. She was aware that if she brought her information to Wallace, Dr. Campbell would be fired, or worse, his career would be destroyed. On the other hand, if she did nothing, she would be putting patients’ lives in danger. Perhaps I could talk to him, Paige thought. Tell him what I know, and insist that he get treatment. She discussed it with Kat.
“It’s a problem,” Kat agreed. “He’s a nice guy, and a good doctor. If you blow the whistle, he’s finished, but if you don’t, you have to think about the harm he might do. What do you think will happen if you confront him?”
“He’ll probably deny it, Kat. That’s the usual pattern.”
“Yeah. It’s a tough call.”
The following day, Paige had an operation scheduled with Dr. Campbell. I hope I’m wrong, Paige prayed. Don’t let him be late, and don’t let him leave during the operation.
Campbell was fifteen minutes late, and in the middle of the operation, he said, “Take over, will you, Paige? I’ll be right back.”
I must talk to him, Paige decided. I can’t destroy his career.
The following morning, as Paige and Honey drove into the doctors’ parking lot, Harry Bowman pulled up next to them in the red Ferrari.
“That’s a beautiful car,” Honey said. “How much does one of those cost?”
Bowman laughed. “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
But Paige wasn’t listening. She was staring at the car, and thinking about the penthouse, the lavish parties, and the boat. I was smart enough to have a clever father. He left all his money to me. And yet Bowman worked at a county hospital. Why?
Ten minutes later, Paige was in the personnel office, talking to Karen, the secretary in charge of records.
“Do me a favor, will you, Karen? Just between us, Harry Bowman has asked me to go out with him and I have a feeling he’s married. Would you let me have a peek at his personnel file?”
“Sure. Those horny bastards. They never get enough, do they? You’re darn right I’ll let you look at his file.” She went over to a cabinet and found what she was looking for. She brought some papers back to Paige.
Paige glanced through them quickly. Dr. Harry Bowman’s application showed that he had come from a small university in the Midwest and, according to the records, had worked his way through medical school. He was an anesthesiologist.
His father was a barber.
Honey Taft was an enigma to most of the doctors at Embarcadero County Hospital. During the morning rounds, she appeared to be unsure of herself. But on the afternoon rounds, she seemed like a different person. She was surprisingly knowledgeable about each patient, and crisp and efficient in her diagnoses.