Chapter Twenty-One
Even though more than a couple of hours had passed since he left Duke Medical
Center’s twenty-nine room operating suite, each step of Paul’s failed surgical
procedure continued to replay deep inside Dr. Matthews’ mind.
“I just don’t get it,” he shouted for at least the twentieth time since entering his third-floor office. “I did everything absolutely correct. This was a standard procedure and every step I took was by the book. Yet, directly in front of at least a hundred pre-med students, my fourteen-year-old patient died. … I just don’t get it. … It should not have happened. Yet it did.”
Dr. Mathews glanced upward at the white ceiling tiles above him and paused to catch his breath.
“I swear. I don’t consider myself to be one of those god-fearing men …,” he said, starting his rampage, once again, to no one but the four tan walls surrounding him. “… but I’m starting to believe that either someone or something within our universal cosmos is against me.”
Craig then frustratingly snatched the small black rectangular remote from the arm of his dark-brown leather couch and flipped on his 32” LED TV, even though he didn’t have the slightest inclination of watching it. Mentally, he was just too wired up.
A knock resounded from the door minutes later, and Nurse Higgins entered inside - giving him a smile upon seeing he had finally calmed enough to sit down.
“Dr. Matthews?” she said, stepping a couple of feet inside the doorway. “You can contact Pathology now about Paul’s autopsy if you’d like. I just got word from Nurse Smith on the first floor that Mrs. Pontiac and her son have finally left the cafeteria and are most likely heading home.”
“Thanks, Nurse,” Craig loudly exhaled as he shut off the TV and turned to face her. “It’s about damn time. I was starting to think Mrs. Pontiac had decided to call a priest and have ‘last rites’ or some other type of service performed.”
“Last rites?” Nancy raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Pontiacs were Catholic. … Not to mention, aren’t last rites supposed to be performed before a person dies?”
Craig shrugged his shoulders in a manner, which indicated he didn’t know.
“I’m pretty sure it is,” Nancy said, answering her own question as Dr. Matthews reached for his fifth cup of coffee. “I think you meant to reference the Catholic’s ‘Prayer for the Dead’.”
“I guess so. I don’t really know, nor do I really care,” Craig said, getting to his feet. “I’m not big into religion so I don’t keep up with any mumbo jumbo like that. What’s important now is, we get someone in Pathology to do the autopsy - pronto. I’d like to quit worrying about the possibility I somehow screwed up this procedure, and it’s killed my patient. Not to mention, Tom stopped by about a half-hour ago and said some deputy from the Guilford County Sheriff’s Department is bugging every staff member he runs across about getting a copy of Paul’s autopsy report. It’s needed so they’ll have the paperwork to back up the first-degree murder charge they’ve nailed on his assailant. … What’s his name, Butch McGuire?”
“I think so, Doctor,” Nurse Higgins agreed, though she actually didn’t know. She then paused for a moment as if in thought. “Isn’t a prosecutor supposed to wait until they have an autopsy report in hand before charging somebody with something like that? … At least, that’s the way it’s done on TV.”
“Damn if I know,” Craig answered, shortly before they started for the door. “Paul Pontiac’s definitely dead so it shouldn’t really matter if the standard legal procedure has been broken or not.”
The nurse nodded in agreement, and the two stepped into the hallway.
*****
“Doctor Taylor?” Nurse Gilbert said, finding the pathologist sitting behind his desk deep inside the Duke Medical Center’s morgue, reviewing the medical record of the teenage patient he was planning to do the next autopsy on – as soon as he received word the boy’s mother and younger brother had left the facility.
“Yes,” James replied, reaching to turn down his radio, even though it was currently playing one of his favorite songs from the 70s.” He then swiveled on his stool to the right - about eighty degrees, so he could see her. “What on your mind, Mary?”
Nurse Gilbert smiled and handed him a high-energy drink he had asked her to get the next time she passed the basement’s “employee’s lounge." “I just thought my Indian, dark-skinned friend might be interested in taking a short break before the fun began.”
“Fun,” James questioned, before taking the bottle and thanking her. “I seriously doubt if I would call it fun. But at least the higher powers in this place hand out a couple bucks once a month for doing it. And needless to say, unlike a few other professions around here, there isn’t a line of vampires waiting to replace me. Most people prefer to stay far away from this place.”
“I can understand why,” Mary said, nodding. “I also prefer to be deal with the living, than the dead.”
James grinned a crooked grin and glanced at the monochrome computer screen beside him. Its bright green lettering reminded him of one of the original IBM 5150 monitors he used for research while studying at the Chhatrapati Shahuji Maharaj Medical University in Lucknow.
“I know. You’ve mentioned it before. … At least a hundred times this past year alone. But there’s at least two good things about working with the deceased.”
“Oh?” Mary folded her arms across her chest in a subtle show of defiance. “And what’s that?”
“For one,” James began, raising his forefinger after shifting his position so he could gaze at his monitor and watch her at the same time. “No matter what you’re doing you’ll never hear the dead complain, even though they do pass gas every now and then. And two,” he added, extending a second finger. “The odds of being hit with a malpractice suit are almost next to nil.”
“Hmm.” Mary pursed her lips. “Okay. I’ll give you credit for that one. You ARE probably saving a bundle in Medical Insurance costs. … So are you about ready to get started on the Pontiac kid?”
“Almost,” James replied. “I’m just waiting for …”
Unexpectedly, his words suddenly froze – while his jaw dropped and eyes widened as a blinding yellowish-white flash, not unlike a bolt of lightning, instantly flared across the forty by forty-foot room. It seemed to have emanated from somewhere down the hallway.
“Did you see that?” James exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Wow!”
“I sure did,” Mary confirmed, staring toward the hallway as she moved a foot closer to his side. “What was it? A power surge?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think so. Not way down in the basement of a faculty like Duke Hospital,” James answered, his hands now visibly shaking. “There are supposed to be generators and some other stuff inside here to prevent something like that happening.”
“That’s true,” Mary agreed, slowly turning her focus back towards him. “So what do you think it was?”
“Heaven knows,” James replied with a shake of his head. “But I'd like to find out. … Let’s go check it out. Okay?”
Mary hesitated for a second and then tightly grasped his right hand.
*****
“Why aren’t we going up to Paul’s room?” Nathan asked, glancing over the back of his wheelchair at his stepmother as they continued down the hallway away from the cafeteria – totally unaware of what had just happened a couple of floors below them. “That’s where he should be. Isn’t it, Aunt Ellen?”
Mrs. Pontiac negatively shook her head as they approached the hospital’s large entranceway. “I’m afraid not, Nathan. Once someone has died, they’re usually sent to the morgue.”
“The morgue?” Nathan questioned in a slightly raised tone.
“Yes, Sweetie. Haven’t you ever seen one in any of the police shows on TV?”
“Oh. That place.” An understanding look rapidly flashed across youth’s face. “You mean the weird underground room they take dead people to, so they can see what killed them.”
“That’d be the one,” Ellen confirmed, while noticing the help desk was only a few feet away.
A dark brown-haired lady currently sitting behind it seemed to be busy at the moment conversing on the phone. Thus, upon reaching her desk, Ellen brought Nathan’s wheelchair to a halt and proceeded to patiently wait.
“But why would they take Paul there?” Nathan asked, glancing upward as his stepmother came up beside him. “He’s not dead.”
Ellen gazed downward as if she was about to answer when the help desk lady abruptly lowered her phone’s handset.
“Hi. Welcome to Duke Medical Center. How can I help you?”
Ellen paused to clear her throat. “Yes, Ms?”
“Ms. Kindle,” the smiling thirty-something said, briefly glancing at the nametag attached an inch above her front pocket.
“Yes, Ms. Kindle,” Ellen continued with a slight quiver in her voice. “I’m Mrs. Pontiac and my son … son … ah … this afternoon.”
“Died,” Ms. Kindle said, displaying a sympathetic smile, while acknowledging the unspoken intense pain within Ellen’s blue eyes.
“Yes, … and I wondered …?”
“Where his … is located?”
Ellen nodded, then reached for the flora handkerchief from inside her purse and dabbed her left eye.
“Most likely the morgue, Ma’am. … If you’ll kindly give me your son’s name, I’d be glad to call down there just to make sure.”