Wallace sent for Bruce Anderson, head of security. “We may have identified the drug thief,” Wallace told him. “I want you to keep a close watch on Dr. Harry Bowman.”
“Bowman?” Anderson tried to conceal his surprise. Dr. Bowman was constantly giving the guards Cuban cigars and other little gifts. They all loved him.
“If he goes into the dispensary, search him when he comes out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry Bowman was headed for the dispensary. He had orders to fill. A lot of orders. It had started as a lucky accident. He had been working in a small hospital in Ames, Iowa, struggling to get by on a resident’s salary. He had champagne taste and a beer pocketbook, and then Fate had smiled on him.
One of his patients who had been discharged from the hospital telephoned him one morning.
“Doctor, I’m in terrible pain. You have to give me something for it.”
“Do you want to check back in?”
“I don’t want to leave the house. Couldn’t you bring something here for me?”
Bowman thought about it. “All right. I’ll drop by on my way home.”
When he visited the patient, he brought with him a bottle of fentanyl.
The patient grabbed it. “That’s wonderful!” he said. He pulled out a handful of bills. “Here.”
Bowman looked at him, surprised. “You don’t have to pay me for that.”
“Are you kidding? This stuff is like gold. I have a lot of friends who will pay you a fortune if you bring them this stuff.”
That was how it had begun. Within two months, Harry Bowman was making more money than he had ever dreamed possible. Unfortunately, the head of the hospital got wind of what was going on. Fearing a public scandal, he told Bowman that if he left quietly, nothing would appear on his record.
I’m glad I left, Bowman thought. San Francisco has a much bigger market.
He reached the dispensary. Bruce Anderson was standing outside. Bowman nodded to him. “Hi, Bruce.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Bowman.”
Five minutes later when Bowman came out of the dispensary, Anderson said, “Excuse me. I’m going to have to search you.”
Harry Bowman stared at him. “Search me? What are you talking about, Bruce?”
“I’m sorry, doctor. We have orders to search everyone who uses the dispensary,” Anderson lied.
Bowman was indignant. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I absolutely refuse!”
“Then I’ll have to ask you to come along with me to Dr. Wallace’s office.”
“Fine! He’s going to be furious when he hears about this.”
Bowman stormed into Wallace’s office. “What’s going on, Ben? This man wanted to search me, for God’s sake!”
“And did you refuse to be searched?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right.” Wallace reached for the telephone. “I’ll let the San Francisco police do it, if you prefer.” He began to dial.
Bowman panicked. “Wait a minute! That’s not necessary.” His face suddenly cleared. “Oh! I know what this is all about!” He reached in his pocket and took out a bottle of fentanyl. “I was taking these to use for an operation, and…”
Wallace said quietly, “Empty your pockets.”
A look of desperation came over Bowman’s face. “There’s no reason to…”
“Empty your pockets.”
Two hours later, the San Francisco office of the Drug Enforcement Agency had a signed confession and the names of the people to whom Bowman had been selling drugs.
When Paige heard the news, she went to see Mitch Campbell. He was sitting in an office, resting. His hands were on the desk when Paige walked in, and she could see the tremor in them.
Campbell quickly moved his hands to his lap. “Hello, Paige. How’re you doing?”
“Fine, Mitch. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sit down.”
She took a seat opposite him. “How long have you had Parkinson’s?”
He turned a shade whiter. “What?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to cover it up.”
There was a heavy silence. “I…I…yes. But I…I can’t give up being a doctor. I…I just can’t give it up. It’s my whole life.”
Paige leaned forward and said earnestly, “You don’t have to give up being a doctor, but you shouldn’t be operating.”
He looked suddenly old. “I know. I was going to quit last year.” He smiled wanly. “I guess I’ll have to quit now, won’t I? You’re going to tell Dr. Wallace.”