Behind me, Ruby’s microwave oven pinged. I jumped and swiftly pushed the hall door shut. There wasn’t a lock and I hoped the cheap, heady fumes of junk food wouldn’t bring attendants running. Ruby retrieved the bag from the microwave and wheeled herself back to her place by the sliding glass doors. She pulled the rolling tray between us and pointed to a chair. I wasn’t sure about sharing her food, but I’d really brought more than she could eat and I was starving to death. She seemed tickled at the company and wolfed down her Quarter Pounder almost as fast as I did. Both of us made little snuffling sounds as we moved on to the Big Macs and the cartons of fries.
“I hope your heart doesn’t seize up,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke. “Who cares? I’ve got a no-code on my chart and I’d rest in peace.” She held up her Big Mac, delighted at the sight of juices dripping out the bottom. She licked a dab of Special Sauce from the corner of her mouth. “Not as big as the ones on TV, but it’s good.”
“I’m a sucker for these things. So how’ve you been?” She tilted her head, so-so. “I heard they found the doctor’s car so I thought you might stop by. I was looking for you all day.”
“Took me a while to get myself together. How are people dealing with the news?”
“Some are upset, but I don’t think many of us are surprised. Was the body his?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m assuming it was. The autopsy was done today.” I filled her in on the story, adding a few of the grimmer details, which she appeared to enjoy. I said, “Tell me about the night staff. They do much prowling around at night?”
“Not often, no. When I’m wheeling myself up and down the hall, I see them sitting at the desk chatting or doing paperwork. Some have coffee or watch TV in the staff lounge. Most nights it’s quiet unless someone dies.”
“How many total?”
Ruby did a head count. “Seven, if you include the orderlies, the nurses, and the nurse’s aides.”
“Do they make regular rounds checking on the residents?”
“Half the time they don’t even check on us if we ring for them. Why? Are you casing the joint?”
“Absolutely.” I paused to wipe my mouth and wad up the paper napkin and the wrappers in my lap. “Actually, I need to check some files. Think they keep the records locked up?”
Ruby shook her head, tucking a bite of burger in her cheek so she could answer. “Hardly anybody wants to steal geriatric charts.”
“How’d you like to be a lookout? I could use some help.”
She hesitated, suddenly a lot less cocky. “Oh, dear. I don’t know if I could do that. I’m not good at sneaking. Even as a child, I could never manage it well.”
“Ruby, it takes practice. You can’t expect to be good unless you’re willing to apply yourself.”
Her already diminutive body seemed to shrink. “I’ll try, but I don’t think I’ll do a very good job of it.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Moments later, I watched through her partially opened door as she wheeled herself down the hall toward the nurses’ station around the corner. Her single responsibility-aside from chatting with the staff- was to park her chair so she could keep an eye out, making sure no one headed for the office while I was mucking around in there. The layout of the corridor was such that I could get in without being seen, but I was worried one of the nurses would come looking for a chart that wasn’t out on the floor. Seemed unlikely, but I’d have no way to explain myself if someone happened to barge in.
I allowed time enough for Ruby to reach the nurses’ station, and then I slipped out of her room, pulled the door shut behind me, and turned right, walking down the hall as though I had legitimate business there. I passed the dayroom, the entrance, and the dining room. The doors to both the dayroom and the dining room stood open, but all the lights were out. I paused, leaning against the wall. Like an animal on the hunt, I closed my eyes, taking in the scents, deciphering the secrets that lingered in the air. This was the world of the elderly: cinnamon rolls, pine scent, freshly ironed cotton, and gardenias.
When I reached the administrative offices, I took a deep breath and tried the knob. Locked. I considered using my key picks, but I was uneasy at the prospect of loitering for fifteen minutes while I manipulated the tumblers with assorted snap picks, torquing tools, and bent wire. Surely, there was a better way to go about this. I retraced my steps, returning to the front desk, which was abandoned at this hour in the dimly lighted alcove. I slipped behind the counter and searched through drawer after drawer. I kept my ears tuned, alert to any warning sounds that might signal someone’s approach. In the bottom drawer, I saw a metal file box that opened at a touch. Inside was a small compartmentalized tray with various keys, all neatly tagged and labeled. Yea for my team. This was really more exciting than a scavenger hunt. To be on the safe side, I took three; one for Administration, one for Admissions, and one for Medical Records. I closed the lid on the box, slid the drawer shut, and scurried down the hall again.
I started with Administration. My hands trembled slightly, 1.2 on the Richter scale, but otherwise I did all right. Once inside, I didn’t dare risk a light, though the door itself was solid. My chief concern was that someone pulling into the side parking lot would wonder why the windows were alight at this hour. I reached down my shirt and removed the flat pinch flashlight from its hiding place in my bra. When I squeezed it, the plastic felt warm and the beam emitted was wee, but sufficient for my purposes. I took a moment to reorient myself. I’d seen this office previously by day and I had a fair sense of how the space was organized.
On the far side of the counter was Merry’s desk, which was arranged back-to-back with an identical desk. In addition, there were several rolling file carts, the copy machine, and a row of metal file cabinets along the far wall. Merry’s computer screen was dark, but a small dot of amber pulsed steadily like a heart. In the darkness, I couldn’t see the big wall clock, but I was aware of its relentless click, click, click as the second hand measured the circumference of the face. To my right was the door to Dr. Purcell’s office where I’d had my chat with Mrs. Stegler. To the left was the door that connected this office with Medical Records. I flashed the light on my watch. It was 10:22.
Cautiously, I tried the door to the Medical Records department, which I discovered was unlocked. Oh, happy day. I swept my light across the space, yawning and dark, with four desks, a worktable, assorted chairs, and a copy machine. File cabinets were built along the periphery of the room with an additional double bank down the middle. On the far wall, I saw a second door. I crossed and tried that knob and was delighted to find that it was unlocked as well. I poked my head in. From a quick survey of the space beyond, I realized I’d gained access to Admissions; all three offices were connected by a series of interior doors. I was sure the medical records personnel, the secretaries, and front office clerks appreciated the ease with which they could move from one department to the next without resorting to the public corridor. I was getting happier by the minute.
I went back into the Medical Records department. I focused on the job at hand, that being to find Klotilde’s chart in this warehouse of densely packed medical records. I toured with my tiny handheld beam, scanning the drawer fronts for a clue about the game plan here. I’d hoped for an organizing principle as basic as A. B. C. No such luck. I opened the first drawer and stared at the endless march of paperwork. The charts seemed to be arranged according to a number system-a row of six digits. I selected fifteen charts, which I chose randomly, looking for the underlying principle that linked that particular run of charts. None of the fifteen patients shared age, sex, diagnosis, or attending physician. I stood there and stared. I flipped pages back and forth. I couldn’t see the pattern. I opened the next drawer down. Still, not a patient name in sight. I moved to the bottom drawer and tried ten more charts. I couldn’t spot the defining shared characteristics. The patient identification numbers bounced all over the place: 698727 . . . 363427 . . . 134627. I tried a file drawer two cabinets over. How could I hope to find Klotilde’s chart when there had to be thousands more in these drawers? I looked for a common denominator: 500773 . . . 509673 . . . 604073. I’m embarrassed to say how long it took me to spot the element that linked each particular series of charts, but it did finally dawn on me that they were grouped according to the last two digits in the numerical sequence.