Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

Kornblatt said, “Alex, here, was one of our star psychologists. Back when we had them.” To me: “Speaking of which, I thought you guys were verboten around here. Has something changed in that regard?”

I shook my head. “It’s just an isolated consult.”

“Ah. So where you heading? Out?”

I nodded.

“If you’re not crunched for time, why don’t you come with us? Emergency staff meeting. Are you still on staff? Yeah, you must be if you’re doing a consult.” His brows creased. “How’d you manage to avoid the Psychiatry bloodbath?”

“Through a technicality. My affiliation was in Pediatrics, not Psychiatry.”

“Pediatrics — that’s interesting. Good loophole.” To the others: “You see, there’s always a loophole.”

Four knowing looks. None of them was over thirty.

Kornblatt said, “So, you wanna hang with us? The meeting’s an important one — that is, if you’re still feeling sufficiently affiliated to care what goes on around here.”

“Sure,” I said, and fell in alongside him. “What’s the topic?”

“The decline and fall of the Western Peds Empire. As evidenced by the murder of Larry Ashmore. Actually, it’s a memorial for him.” He frowned. “You heard about what happened, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Terrible.”

“Symptomatic, Alex.”

“Of what?”

“What’s happened to this place. Look at the way the whole thing’s been handled by the administration. A physician gets murdered and no one even bothers to send around a memo. Not that they’re paper-shy when it comes to disseminating their directives.”

“I know,” I said. “I happened to read one. On the door of the library.”

He scowled and his mustache flared. “ What library?”

“I saw that too.”

“Sucks,” he said. “Every time I have research to do I’ve got to drive over to the med school.”

We walked across the lobby and came up against the queues. One of the doctors noticed a patient waiting in line, said “I’ll join you in a moment,” and left the group to greet the child.

“Don’t miss the meeting,” Kornblatt called after her, without breaking step. When we were clear of the crowd, he said, “No library, no Psych department, no overhead for grants, total hiring freeze. Now , there’s talk about more cutbacks in all departments — straight across the board. Entropy . The bastards probably plan to tear the place down and sell the real estate.”

“Not in this market.”

“No, I’m serious, Alex. We don’t make money and these are bottom-line people. Pave it over, put in lots of parking lots.”

“Well,” I said, “they might start by paving the ones across the street.”

“Don’t hold your breath. We are peons to these guys. Just another form of service staff.”

“How’d they get control?”

“Jones — the new chairman — was managing the hospital’s investments. Supposedly did a really good job, so when hard times got harder the board claimed they needed a financial pro and voted him in. He, in turn, fired all the old administration and brought in his own army.”

Another crowd milled near the doors. Lots of tapping feet, weary head shakes, and needless punches of the buttons. Two of the lifts were stuck on upper floors. An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped across the door of the third.

“Onward, troops,” said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top, Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.

“Go, team!” he said, pushing the door open.

The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said ASHMORE MEMORIAL.

I said, “Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?”

Kornblatt said, “Who?”

“Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn’t he work with Ashmore?”

“I didn’t know anyone worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a real—” He stopped himself. “Herbert? No, can’t say I remember him.”

We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of occasional conversation filled the room.

The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a pass-fail class. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.

Lots of white coats — full-time staffers. But where were the private practitioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay away? Western Peds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the full-timers and the physicians out in “the real world” had always managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.

As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray heads. Where were all the senior people I’d known?

Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.

He said, “Please,” and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then silence.

“Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?”

Faces turned. I realized I was closest to the exit, got up and shut the door.

“Okay,” said Afro. “The first order of business is a moment of silence for our colleague Dr. Laurence Ashmore, so if you could all please rise...”

Everyone stood. Heads drooped. A long minute passed.

Afro said, “Okay, please be seated.” Walking to the board, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote:

             AGENDA

         1. ASHMORE MEMORIAL

         2 .

         3 .

         4.... ?

Stepping away from the board, he said, “Is there someone who wants to say a few words about Dr. Ashmore?”

Silence.

“Let me say, then, that I know I speak for all of us in condemning the brutality of what happened to Larry. And in offering our deepest sympathy to his family. In lieu of flowers, I propose we get together a fund and donate it to an organization of the family’s choice. Or our choice, if it would be too disruptive to ask the family at this point. We can decide now, or at a later date, depending on what people feel. Anyone care to comment?”

A short-haired woman in the third row said, “How about the Poison Control Center? He was a toxicologist.”

“Poison Control Center sounds good,” said Afro. “Anyone second that?”

A hand rose in the middle of the room.

“Thanks, Barb. So moved. Anyone know the family? To inform them of our plan?”

No response.

He looked at the woman who’d made the suggestion. “Barb, would you be in charge of collecting the funds?”

She nodded.

“All right, people, bring your donations to Barb Loman’s office in Rheumatology and we’ll see that the Poison Control Center gets the money, posthaste. Anything more along those lines?”

“Data,” said someone. “As in, we don’t have any.”

“Could you stand and clarify, Greg?” said Afro.

A stocky, bearded man in a checked shirt and wide, floral, retro tie rose. I thought I remembered him, as a resident, without the beard. An Italian name...