Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” he said.

“I didn’t. At least not for you.” Jillian’s smile was enigmatic. “Call it a little Mole softener. I thought I’d try bribing our friend into helping us rather than beating us out of his office with a broom.”

“What could possibly accomplish that?”

“You’ll see,” she answered.

“It seems to me it would help to have a sense of what makes the man tick before we barge in and ask him to stick his neck on the line for us,” Nick said in the elevator ride to subbasement level two. “You’re the shrink nurse. Any ideas?”

“Well, maybe it’s obvious, but my guess is he feels left behind, abandoned, and disrespected after the hospital administration stripped him of his power and influence when the electronic medical records project was completed. He seems bright enough, but his sour personality couldn’t have helped him when they made the final decision on the position.”

“Sort of a chicken-egg thing,” Nick said.

“Exactly. Did he get bypassed because he’s miserable or has he become what he is because of what they did?”

“Probably a little of each. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Dunno. Empathy and trust are usually good places to start when trying to get through to anyone.”

“With a pinch of bribery thrown in.”

“Who said surgeons have zero insight?”

“Hey, that’s my specialty you’re talking about!”

They proceeded down the dimly lit corridor to Saul Mollender’s mausoleum: MEDICAL RECORDS.

“I hope you got him new window stencils,” Nick said, pointing to the eroded lettering.

“Be brave.”

Jillian winked at him and then opened the door. Though their lives had changed dramatically since the last visit here, time stood still in the Mole’s world. The man was seated as before, at his neatly kept desk, behind a tall, carefully maintained stack of records. He groaned when he glanced up and saw the visitors.

“Oh goodness,” he sighed. “I must remind myself to be even less hospitable next time. What on earth inspired you two to come back here again?”

Nick saw Jillian’s cheeks redden, and remembered her warning him about her hair-trigger temper. Just a few seconds in the man’s gloomy office and trust and empathy appeared to have been cast into the industrial shredder beside his desk. Without the Mole noticing, Nick gently wiggled the package Jillian carried. Trust and empathy …

“Yes,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “Well, since we took up your time and you were so gracious to consider helping us, I wanted to give you a little something in return.”

Jillian set the wrapped package down on the desk. The Mole stared at it with a perplexed scowl, as though a bomb squad might now be needed.

Begrudgingly, he unwrapped the package, tearing the paper thoughtlessly and ignoring the card taped to the outside. It was a framed saying, which he lifted up to study.

“Thank you, but I already have one of these,” he said, gesturing to the wall behind them.

He turned the frame around and Nick saw for the first time what Jillian had done. Printed in marvelous calligraphy was the mantra of Mollender’s bleak operation, DISTRACTIONS ARE DEADLY, done on parchment, matted in black, and tastefully framed. Nick wondered how much of the job Jillian had done herself-most or all, he suspected. Now, it was his turn to fume.

“You know what, Mollender?” he said. “You might not appreciate what Jillian did for you, but you could at least, for a moment, pretend to care and, God forbid, to act civil.”

The Mole lowered his oval glasses to the bridge of his nose and peered at Nick-perhaps the record keeper equivalent of rolling up his sleeves for a fight.

“Why should I?” he asked defiantly. “It’s obvious she did it only because you want something. If you believed a framed aphorism would make me your friend, then I’m sorry to say you were sadly mistaken.”

Mollender set the gift on the corner of his desk, glass side down, and went back to studying a file.

“We need your help, Saul,” Nick said.

The record keeper hesitated, leaned back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully at his visitors.

“What is it you need?”

It was working! The Mole sounded less hostile, even vaguely interested.

“We need to know if a friend of mine was a patient here four years ago,” Nick explained. “That simple.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

“Then you’ll help us?” Jillian asked.

“No, of course not. Obviously, you tried and were denied access because that’s how the system works. Now you come down here wanting me to violate a rule of my department-hell, of the U.S. government! Listen, Ms. Coates, why don’t you take this work of art and hang it where you work so you can remind yourself not to bother me again. Now, good day, ma’am.”

“Good day nothing!”

Jillian snatched up the plaque and stormed out of the records room, leaving the door ajar, expecting Nick to follow. Nick, however, stayed where he was. Standing alone in the hallway, she looked back at him incredulously. He held up a finger, silently asking her to give him a minute alone with the man. Her response was to slam the door hard enough to rattle the frosted glass.

Nick let a minute pass before speaking. Mollender did not even acknowledge, let alone question, the surgeon’s continued presence.

“Why are you so angry, Saul?” Nick finally asked.

“I’m sorry. I thought you had left.”

“I’m guessing it’s not because of this job. No, I work with broken people all the time, and I know a shell when I see one-something a person builds around himself to keep from getting hurt. I have one of those shells, Saul. And it’s a whopper, too. Hard as diamonds, impenetrable. Do you know why?”

“Do I care?” Mollender shot back.

“Because in the Army, I nearly lost my will to live. I’m still not sure I’ve gotten it back, but a day at a time, I keep trying.”

At that Mollender stopped looking down at his file and actually made eye contact with Nick.

“You served?”

“Captain Nick Garrity, of the 105th Forward Surgical Team, at your service.”

Training prevented Nick from saluting the Mole, even though such action might have been considered playful and friendly by a civilian.

“What branch? Where?”

“Fifty-sixth Combat Support Hospital in Forward Operating Base Savannah.”

“Afghanistan,” the Mole said in a near whisper.

“Yeah. About one hundred kilometers southeast of Khost. I lost my fiancée and all my staff except one in a terrorist attack. Suicide bomber drove his truck into the hospital. I could have been blown to bits if my friend hadn’t raced back in front of the truck and pulled me under a steel refrigeration unit. I came home more or less shattered. Gave up my surgical practice to drive around in an RV-a rolling clinic-providing health care to those who can’t afford it, and helping vets like myself get their PTSD benefit claims approved. It’s been all the medical work I can manage.”

“Sad story,” Mollender said without cynicism.

Then the Mole did something Nick did not expect. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a blue velvet box. Lifting the lid, he turned the box around and held it up. Nick immediately recognized the medal inside, a small silver star centered within a much larger bronze one. The medal was attached to a broad ribbon with five stripes: two blue, two white, and one red.

“Silver Star,” Nick said. “Yours?”

Mollender shook his head.

“My younger brother Andy’s. He enlisted at thirty because he believed in what we were doing over there.”