Robin Cook - Marker

Roger hung up the phone and looked at the list of the seven nonphysicians who'd also transferred to the General during the period in question, and he wondered if he should have run down the list for Laurie. More than anything else, he wanted to fan her interest as much as possible, in the hope that she'd accept the idea of getting together. He thought about calling again to add to his message, but then decided the message he'd given was enough of a teaser.

After donning the long, white coat he wore whenever he ventured out into the hospital, Roger walked the length of the administration area. He'd been there a few times in the evenings, but never after midnight. At this hour, it was like a mausoleum.

The main hospital corridor was empty, save for a person using a floor polisher in the distance. As he rode up in the elevator, he was amazed at how wide-awake and energized he felt. He also recognized a touch of euphoria, which unfortunately reminded him of heroin. He shook his head. He didn't want to fall into that trap. For doctors, such temptation is harder to fight, with drugs so easily available.

Roger got out at the third floor and pushed through a pair of swinging doors into the OR complex. He found himself in a deserted corridor. To his right, the sound of a TV issued forth from the arched opening leading into the surgical lounge. Hoping to run into some of the surgical staff, he walked in.

The room was about thirty feet square, with windows that looked out onto the same courtyard as the staff cafeteria did. Two opposing doors led into the locker rooms. The furniture consisted of a couple of gray vinyl couches, a smattering of chairs, and several dictating desks. A central coffee table was littered with newspapers, outdated magazines, and an open box of pizza. A corner TV was tuned to CNN, but no one was watching. In another corner was a small refrigerator with a communal coffee pot on top.

Ten people were sitting in the room, all dressed in the same unisex scrubs. Some had hats or hoods, and some didn't. Although the OR appeared egalitarian, Roger knew otherwise. It was the most hierarchical domain of the hospital. Most of the people in the room were reading and munching on various snacks while sipping coffee, while others chatted.

Roger went over to the coffee machine. He debated having more, not to keep awake, but more as a social ploy, as well as an ostensible reason to be there. He hadn't recognized anyone in the room. Believing he was adequately wired, he opened the refrigerator and opted for a small orange juice.

With his drink in hand, Roger swept his eyes around to look more closely at the various people. No one had paid him any heed when he'd come in, but now a woman made eye contact and smiled. Roger walked over to her and introduced himself.

"I know you," the woman said. "We met at the Christmas party. My name is Cindy Delgada. I'm one of the nurses. We don't get admin visitors very often. What brings you up here in the middle of the night?"

Roger shrugged. "I was working late, and I thought I'd wander around a bit for some human contact and see the hospital in action."

A wry smile appeared on Cindy's face. "Not much excitement with this somnolent group. If you're looking for entertainment, I suggest the ER."

Roger laughed to be polite. "No cases tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," Cindy said. "We've done two, there's one going on right now in room six, and we have another coming up from the ER within the hour."

"Do you know Dr. José Cabreo?"

"Of course," Cindy said while pointing to a pale, heavyset man in a chair by the window. "Dr. Cabreo is right over there."

Hearing his name, José lowered his paper and looked over at Roger. He had a bushy mustache that hid most of his mouth. His eyebrows rose expectantly under the edge of his surgical cap.

Roger felt obligated to walk over. He hadn't necessarily planned to talk with the two anesthesiologists directly; his informal game plan had been to engage the OR staff in casual conversation about the men to see if he could get a feel for their personalities. Roger wasn't fooling himself. He was no psychiatrist and had no delusions that he'd be able to recognize a serial killer unless the person out-and-out told him, yet he had a vague idea that he would be able to sense if either man could be a potential suspect.

"Hi," Roger said self-consciously, since he didn't know what to say. He berated himself for not anticipating the possibility of such a confrontation.

"What can I do for you?" José questioned.

"Well," Roger said, trying not to sound as confused as he was. "I'm chief of the medical staff."

"I know who you are," José said. His voice had an edge, as if he was wary of what Roger wanted.

"You do? How is that?" José was one of many on staff he'd not met, which included just about everybody on the night shift.

José pointed to Roger's nametag.

"Oh, of course," Roger responded, bouncing the heel of his hand off his forehead. "I forget it's there."

There was an awkward pause. The rest of the room was quiet except for the TV whose volume was turned way down. Roger had the sense the other people in the room were listening.

"What is it you want?" José asked.

"I just wanted to make sure that you are content, and there are no problems."

"What do you mean, 'problems'?" José demanded. "I don't like your implication."

"There's no reason to get upset," Roger said soothingly. "My intention is merely to be proactive and meet the staff. We've not had the pleasure." Roger stuck out his hand toward José, whose face had flushed.

José eyed Roger's hand but made no attempt to shake it. Nor did he get to his feet. Slowly, his eyes rose and reengaged Roger's. "You've got a lot of nerve coming up here out of the blue and talking to me about problems," he said heatedly. He poked his finger threateningly toward Roger. "This better not have anything to do with ancient history, like dredging up the painkillers I needed for my back or my closed malpractice cases, because if it does, you and the rest of the administration will be hearing from my lawyer."

"Calm down," Roger urged softly. "I had absolutely no intention of talking about any such thing." He was taken aback at José's belligerence and defensiveness, yet he forced himself to remain cool and collected. If the man could get this wound up with such little provocation, maybe he was a loose cannon capable of the unthinkable. To defuse the situation, Roger quickly added, "My real goal in stopping by was to ask how things were working out with Dr. Motilal Najah. You've been here a long time, and Dr. Najah is a relative newcomer. As the senior man, I was interested in your opinion."

Some of the hostility and tenseness drained out of José's face, and he motioned for Roger to take a seat next to him. As soon as Roger was seated, José leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Why didn't you say that straight off? Motilal is the one you should be talking with, if you're concerned about problems."

"How so?" Roger asked. José's eyes now had a conspiratorial glint. Roger found himself thinking that even if José wasn't a serial killer, he might be the last person Roger would want giving him anesthesia.

"The man is a loner. I mean, like, we're kind of a tight team on the night shift. Let me tell you, he doesn't interact with anyone except in a professional capacity. He eats by himself and never comes in here to socialize. And when I say never, I mean never!"

"He seemed personable enough when I interviewed him," Roger said. Roger could distinctly remember being impressed by Motilal's easy candor and gentle manner. He seemed friendly enough, yet what he was hearing from José suggested that Motilal had some antisocial traits, and if that was true, he'd have to be considered a suspect.