Richard Mabry - Medical Error

Nick straightened his back, squinted, rubbed his eyes, and rolled his shoulders. He'd spent most of the afternoon glued to the microscope, and it was time for a break. The slides stacked before him represented previously living tissue, cut into ultrathin sections, stained with special dyes, waiting for him to study them and render judgment. The chemistry lab down the hall might have reached a level of sophistication that allowed machines to carry out analysis and spit out the results in cold, impersonal numbers. That wasn't the case here. In this room, the fate of patient after patient depended on Nick's eyes and brain. Was the nucleus of that cell too dark? Were the natural borders of that tissue breached by invading cells? If this specimen represented a cancer, was it an aggressive type?

The ring of his cell phone startled Nick. Despite the jealousy he'd felt when he discovered she had assigned a special ring tone to her attorney, Nick had followed suit and given calls from Anna a unique ring. Right now he was listening to the faint tones of the old John Denver hit, "Annie's Song."He pulled the phone from the pocket of his lab coat and said, "Anna, what's up? Are you all right?"

"For now," she said. "Things are getting crazy, though."

"Like what?"

"Never mind. I just wanted to ask a favor."

"Sure. Anything."

"Just like that?" she said. "Aren't you going to ask me what I want?"

Nick leaned back in his swivel chair, pleased that Anna had called him rather than Ross Donovan. "Nope. If it's humanly possible, it's yours for the asking."

"I… may need to borrow your gun."

Nick leaned forward and his feet hit the floor with a slap of leather on vinyl. "No. Absolutely not." He took a deep breath."I mean, why would you want-? Anna, you don't know how to handle a pistol. You don't have a permit. What could you possibly need a gun for anyway?"

"I don't really know if I should tell you. If I get into trouble over this, I want you to have what the politicians call 'plausible deniability.' "

"Anna, I lost that when you asked to borrow the gun. If you're into something that serious, then the only way you're going to get my gun is with me on the other end of it. Now, will you tell me what's going on?"

In the silence that followed, Nick could picture Anna chewing on her lip and trying to decide what and how much to tell him. Finally, he heard her sigh. "Okay, I'll tell you this much. Last night I was going over my latest credit report and noticed there were a couple of accounts in my name with a different address."

"Do you think it might be someone with a similar name?"

"I think it's more than that," Anna said. "That address is in this neighborhood, about halfway between my house and Eric Hatley's. I'm not sure what's going on, but it seems to me that whoever stole my identity has some connection with this part of town. I intend to find them, and the place to start is the address on those new charge accounts."

"But-"

"No. No 'buts.' I don't have time to waste. Ross told me I may only have a couple of days before the police arrest me. The charges are ridiculous, and he thinks we can probably beat them, but there's no guarantee. Besides, I don't relish the idea of jail time while the legal battle plays out. So I've decided to take matters into my own hands."

"Look, I can't get away right now," Nick said. "I'll come by tonight. We can have dinner together and talk about this. Remember, I'm in this along with you. I have been ever since Hatley died."

It was as though Anna hadn't heard his last words. "Maybe you're right about the gun," she said. "I think I'll do a little surveillance first, and I shouldn't need a gun for that. Thanks."

"Anna-" Nick heard a click and found that he held a dead phone. He replaced it in the pocket of his coat and turned back to the stack of slides, already calculating how quickly he could go through them without sacrificing accuracy. He needed to get to Anna's before she did something foolish.

As she hung up the phone, Anna already regretted calling Nick. She wasn't sure why she thought she needed a gun. She certainly had no business with one. Anna had heard story after story in the doctors' lounge of homeowners who'd confronted a criminal, only to have their own guns turned on them. No, she was being foolish, letting her emotions overcome her common sense.

She wasn't a detective; she was a doctor. And even if she did manage to discover the person who had compromised her credit, stolen her DEA number, and indirectly caused Eric Hatley's death, what would she do with the knowledge? She couldn't very well call the police and say, "You need to come here right away. I think this person is a criminal."

The thing to do was call Ross Donovan, tell him about her theory, and see if his investigator could find out anything that would help her. In her heart, she knew that was the proper course of action. It kept running through her head, even as she dressed carefully in jeans, a dark sweatshirt, and scuffed sneakers. She kept repeating, "This is crazy," as she shoved her wallet in one side pocket, her keys in the other, and clipped her cell phone to the waistband of her jeans. Her mind told her, "You have no business doing this," as she climbed into her car and placed the scrap of paper with a scribbled address on the seat beside her. Finally, as she backed out into the street, she murmured, "God, I know this is crazy. But I have to do it. Please go with me. Protect me. Help me. Please."

She found the street and began cruising along it. This was a typical suburban neighborhood, populated with single-family homes set comfortably back from the street, front yards just large enough for a game of catch, backyards-most of them enclosed with chain-link fence-where dogs and children could romp. The house she wanted was in the middle of a short block, a one-story brick. The flowers and shrubs in the front bed were dead or dying, the grass was brown, and the "For Sale" sign in the yard told Anna why. She looked at the slip of paper once more. Yes, this was the place. But why would someone open a charge account and use the address of a vacant house?

She circled the block, went by again, did a U-turn and came back from the other direction. The blinds were drawn in the house. No car in the drive. No bikes or toys in the yard. No sign of life anywhere.

On this street, the driveways were in front of the houses, meaning the homes backed up to each other without an intervening alley. Unless someone crawled over the back fence, if Anna watched the front of the house she should be able to see anyone coming in and out.

Three houses down from the house in question, Anna tucked her car between two others and slouched down in her seat until she could barely see over the steering wheel. She wished she'd covered her hair with a dark baseball cap, but she was new at this spying thing. Maybe no one would notice her.

Anna started to turn on her car radio, but thought better of it. Much as she'd like something to combat boredom, she didn't want any noise. She planned to listen, as well as watch. She fidgeted until she achieved the best compromise between comfort and hiding. Then she settled down to wait.

Almost an hour passed before Anna saw activity. She eased up a bit in the seat. A man in a gray-blue uniform walked toward her. As he came nearer, she could see a brown pouch hanging offhis shoulder, resting against his hip. Just a mail carrier.

The mailman continued toward her, stopping at some houses, not at others. When he did stop, his body blocked Anna from seeing what he did. Then he turned in at the vacant house. Here she had a clear view of the man's actions. He opened the flap of the mailbox, reached in and pulled out a handful of envelopes. He thumbed through them, selected three to shove into his leather pouch, and replaced the rest. Then he closed the box and walked away, going back the way he came. She watched him until he got to the end of the block, where he climbed into a nondescript gray sedan and headed right toward her.