Michael Palmer - The Society

“Been there, done that,” Micelli said.

“For so long, I just took being a doc for granted.”

“I understand. You know that I do.”

“I’ll pull it together.”

“Good. So, what’s the deal with Patty Moriarity?”

Will snapped around to face him.

“What about her?”

“She’s on our side, right?”

“Right. I told you a little about her. She’s the detective who got taken off the managed-care case.”

“Well, she called my office while I was on my way here, but I had the line on call forwarding to my cell phone.”

“Why didn’t she call me?”

“She said something about not being able to get through to your cell and not wanting to call you at home. She said to tell you she was off on business and would be in touch either late tonight or tomorrow. She said another thing, too. She doesn’t want you to go home until you speak with her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t go home tonight.”

“But why?”

“No idea, but she made it sound as if you might be in some danger if you do.”

“This is crazy.”

“I asked her if you should stay with me tonight and she thought that would be a good idea.”

Why not with her? Will wondered.

“You have room?” he asked.

“I do.”

“I have some business to attend to tomorrow morning, but I suppose I can go from your pad as well as mine. She give you any idea what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Listen, you’ll come to my place tonight. I’ll fix you up with a toothbrush and a set of purloined scrubs, and we’ll talk.”

They had arrived at the ER. Leary motioned Micelli to the head of the line and he led the expeditionary force into the waiting room. The ER seemed surprisingly calm, especially considering the miles of rain-slicked roadways outside. The waiting room could probably hold twenty-five, but at the moment there were just a mother and her baby, neither of whom seemed particularly ill, and a grizzled man with a hard hat on the seat beside him and an ice pack on his wrist.

“Good news,” Micelli said after a brief trip to the inner sanctum of the ER. “We can all go in.”

What interest Will had left in the fruitless search for his shoes had been shoved aside by the news of Patty’s call and her insinuation that he would be in some sort of danger should he return home tonight.

Barbara Cardigan, the charge nurse, had two decades of experience in the ER and a carefully maintained gruff exterior that Will knew would crack for almost anyone with a legitimate illness or injury. She met the five of them by the nurses’ station.

“How are you doing, Will?” she asked, her concern genuine.

“It’s been hell.”

“I’m sorry. Well, much as I’d like to, I don’t think we’re going to be able to help you out. We’ve certainly had clothing bags left around, but not for more than a day or two. You were brought down from the OR to the Crash Room and intubated there. I wasn’t here that day, but Renee Romanowski was. I just called her. She’s certain that you were stripped down here, not in the OR, and that someone put your clothes in a bag.”

Will visualized the scene and found himself feeling embarrassed in front of the others.

“I was in scrubs,” he said, for no particular reason.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Cardigan said, “given that you came from the OR. Mr. Micelli, how would you like to proceed?”

“How many rooms do you have?”

“Altogether, fifteen. Two of those have four beds. Five of them have two.”

“And how many of those have closets?”

“I think about half of them do. The rest just have shelves.”

“And there’s a closet in the Crash Room?”

“Yes, the largest one.”

Will saw the muscles in Jill Leary’s face tighten. Seven or eight closets to inspect followed by a notarizing session in her office to document that they had found nothing. Coming off a long workday, and with her husband and child waiting at home, she had to be desperate to have the safari disbanded.

“I’ll tell you what,” Micelli said, as if reading Leary’s mind, “I’m assuming the Crash Room’s empty right now.”

“It is.”

“Well, let’s all go there together, and if we have no luck, we can split up and each of us can check a closet in the rooms where there are no patients. Perhaps Ms. Cardigan can check the others.”

The nurse nodded her agreement, and the six of them trooped into ER 4, the Crash Room, which was reserved for major emergencies, both medical and trauma. Will, still distracted, was brought back to the moment by the sight of the room where he had so often been one of the central players in a life-and-death medical drama. He was again captivated by the vivid image of himself, lying naked, vulnerable, and unconscious, endotracheal tube down his throat, IVs in his arms, a catheter draining urine from his bladder into a plastic bag, his career as a physician about to slip away.

Goddamn whoever did this to me! Damn you!

The ER used narrower beds than the ICU, each with a wire holder underneath for a patient’s belongings. Under normal circumstances, there was no way a clothing bag could remain unnoticed for long. But with a major emergency such as Will’s, and a roomful of technicians, nurses, and physicians, it was possible, albeit remotely so, that someone could have shoved the bag aside or even into the closet. At the moment, the accordion door of the closet was pulled shut, but during a code it was often left open to make supplies more accessible.

Micelli and Barbara Cardigan agreed to inspect the closet together. Will gave passing thought to waiting in the hall but instead stood off to one side, feeling somewhat foolish for having gotten so excited about Micelli’s theory in the first place.

The lawyer and nurse entered the supply closet, which Will knew was perhaps twelve feet by eight and filled with both medical and janitorial supplies. A minute passed, then another. The four remaining in the Crash Room could hear snatches of an animated conversation coming from within. Finally, Micelli appeared at the doorway, his expression neutral.

“Dr. Grant,” he said, “why don’t you come on in here?”

Will did as he was asked.

The bag was there-heavy, bright blue plastic, somewhat larger than a shopping bag, with white plastic handles. It was on the floor, wedged in a corner behind two mops, a broom, and a bucket. DR. W. GRANT was printed in black Magic Marker across the front.

Will stared at the clothing bag in utter disbelief, as if the numbers on his lottery ticket had just matched the ones shown on TV.

“We haven’t opened it,” Micelli said, “but we each felt it. There are two shoes in there-sneakers, from what we can tell.”

He pulled a small digital camera from his jacket pocket and took half a dozen shots. Then he turned, put his hands on Will’s arms, and squeezed.

“I don’t believe this,” Will muttered.

“We’ll get this bag sealed up, initialed by all of us, and off to the station evidence room with Bob McGowen. As soon as tomorrow, I might be able to have the state lab examining those shoes. One of the women who works there had her renal artery accidentally tied off during a tubal ligation and lost a kidney. Lucky for us, she’s still working at the lab.”

“But with the Law Doctor on her side,” Will said, imagining a six- or even seven-figure settlement, “not for much longer, I’ll bet.”

“You’ve got that right, brother,” Micelli said, beaming. “You’ve got that right.”

With the Camaro’s windshield wipers throbbing against what had become a steady downpour, Patty slashed through the night toward Camp Sunshine. Several miles back, she had passed the white H on a purple background indicating that there was a hospital somewhere off to her right. Will’s hospital. He would be there right now with Augie Micelli, searching the emergency ward and intensive care unit for a bag of clothing that had been taken from him two weeks ago. It felt strange knowing that she was so near to him and that she couldn’t simply swing a right and be there, but at the moment she had a more pressing matter to deal with.