Warren Murphy: Murder Ward

"You get your game a day if you want it."

"Not if I can't schedule these operations but have to take them mid-day, afternoons. Morning or late afternoon are too cold for golf these days."

"A lot of doctors work twenty-four hours in a row sometimes, even come in in the wee hours. It's not a profession conducive to rest, Dan."

"If I wanted an easy life, I wouldn't have to be going down to that waiting room now to tell the widow What's-her-name that her husband didn't survive an appendectomy. Really, the way you set things up, I'm going to have to work up a routine for terminal head cold."

"Her name's Nancy Boulder. Mrs. Nancy Boulder. Her husband's name was John. John Boulder. He was with the Internal Revenue Service."

"We seem to be getting a few Internal Revenue specials nowadays. Some sort of trend?" Demmet asked.

"Not your worry, Dan."

"Boulder. John Boulder," Demmet repeated. "If I keep on getting these specials, I'll never break eighty."

"If the sand wedge doesn't work for you, try running the ball up to the green. You can use a three iron like a heavy putter," said Kathy Hahl.

Demmet stared at a large red arrow painted on a sign that said $20 million advancement goal. The arrow was almost reaching the top of the black line that marked progress.

"But the wedge looks so nice popping up on the green and stopping."

"Do you want form or score?"

"I want both."

"So do we all, Dan. Give the widow Boulder your regrets, and I'll meet you at the club."

"I'd like three strokes a side."

"Your handicap is big enough already."

"I'll use my pitching wedge, my old pitching wedge. Three strokes a side," Demmet said.

"Two," said Kathy Hahl, smiling the special smile that made men aware of their own heartbeat.

"You're a cruel, hard, ungiving person," said Dr. Demmet.

"Never forget that, Dan," said Kathy Hahl.

When Dr. Demmet told the head nurse he wished to see a Mrs. Nancy Boulder who was in the waiting room, the nurse asked, "Another one?"

"Are you keeping score?" asked Dr. Demmet sternly. The nurse had violated professional decorum, and she knew it.

"No, doctor. My apologies."

"Accepted," said Dr. Demmet.

Nancy Boulder was in the waiting room, explaining to an elderly gentleman that he really had no cause for worry, when she heard a nurse call her name. She excused herself momentarily from the man, who was fingering a small brown paper bag, and quietly told the nurse she would be with her in a minute.

"I think it's important," said the nurse.

"That man is important, too," said Nancy Boulder. "He's in agony. His wife is having a hysterectomy and…"

"A hysterectomy is nothing to worry about."

"That's not the point," said Nancy Boulder. "He thinks so, and he's terrified. I just can't leave him here. Give me a minute, please."

The nurse sighed in resignation, and Nancy Boulder went back to the man, who, in his anxiety, hardly heard her words. But she tried.

"Listen. I know it's very important to you and your wife. It is to the hospital, too. But just because it's important doesn't mean it's dangerous. They do these operations because they are safe."

The man nodded dully.

"I don't know what to say to you, sir, but you're going to look back on this some day and laugh," said Nancy Boulder, giving him a big, hopeful smile. He saw the smile and like so many others who knew her, could not resist its warmth and openness. He smiled back briefly.

Well, at least he had a brief respite, thought Nancy Boulder. It was a nice thing about people that they responded to warmth. She tried to explain this to the nurse, but the nurse did not seem to understand. She just asked Mrs. Boulder to follow her please.

"You know, it's funny how superstitions linger. Even John had a premonition," Nancy said to the nurse. "He was in pain. But when the doctor told us it was appendicitis, I stopped worrying. An appendectomy is the simplest operation in the world, isn't it?"

"Well," said the nurse. "No operation is really simple."

There was something in her tone that made Mrs. Boulder's hands tighten. She tried to remain calm. All the nurse had said was that no operation was simple. That was all.

Mrs. Boulder's dark, middle-aged face suddenly showed the lines normally hidden by her ever-present smile. The happy brown eyes became dull with a gnawing terror and her brisk gait became a forced trudge. She held her pocketbook in front of her chest like a shield. All the nurse had said was that no operation was simple. So why should she worry?

"Everything worked out all right, didn't it?" asked Mrs. Boulder. "I mean, John is all right, isn't he? Tell me he's all right!"

"The doctor will explain everything," said the nurse.

"I mean he's all right. He's all right, isn't he? John's all right." Mrs. Boulder's voice rose, loud and tense. She grasped the nurse by an arm. "Tell me John's all right. Tell me he's all right."

"Your husband was not my patient."

"Was? Was?"

"He is not my patient. Is," said the nurse and freed her arm with a fast snap of the elbow.

"Oh, thank God," said Mrs. Boulder. "Thank merciful God."

The nurse, beyond an arm's distance, led Mrs. Boulder down the corridor to a frosted glass door that read, "Anaesthesiology. Dr. Daniel Demmet, Chief."

"The doctor is waiting for you," said the nurse, knocking twice on the door. Before Mrs. Boulder could say thank you for showing her the way to the doctor's office, the nurse was gone, walking very quickly down the hall as if on an urgent matter. If Mrs. Boulder had not had as much faith in hospitals as she did, she would have sworn it was flight.

Dr. Demmet heard the knock and put his sand wedge into a closet. He had been chipping peanuts from the wall-to-wall dull gray carpeting to the back of a worn leather chair. If he could chip a peanut off a carpet with a sand wedge, why couldn't he do it with a golf ball close to the green?

This was the problem, then, that faced him as the distraught woman entered. He knew immediately that the nurse had let on. He saw Mrs. What's-her-name, clutching her pocketbook, knuckles white. Her jaw quivered.

"Will you sit down please?" said Dr. Demmet, motioning to the green leather chair near his desk. He whisked away the peanuts with a swipe of his left hand.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Boulder. "Everything is all right, isn't it?"

Dr. Demmet's face was sombre. He lowered his eyes momentarily, circled the desk and sat down, even though he knew he must rise again in a moment. He made a cathedral arch of his fingers before him, nails immaculately white, hands scrubbed clean, clean to the redness of the palms and knuckles.

Dr. Demmet stared mournfully at the hands. Mrs. Boulder trembled.

"We did everything we could for Jim," said Dr. Demmet.

"John," corrected Mrs. Boulder weakly.

"We did everything we could for John. There were complications."

"No," cried Mrs. Boulder.

"The heart gave out. The appendectomy was perfect. Perfect. It was the heart."

"No. Not John. Not John. No!" cried Mrs. Boulder, and then the tears came in overwhelming grief.

"We took every precaution," said Dr. Demmet. He let the first rush of grief run itself out before he rose from his seat, placed a comforting arm around the widow, helped her to her feet, and out the door to the first nurse they encountered in the hallway, giving explicit instructions that everything that was possible should be done for this woman. He ordered a mild sedative.

"What is her name, doctor?" asked the nurse.

"She'll give it to you," said Dr. Demmet.

By the time he reached the Fair Oaks Country Club outside Baltimore, he knew what he must do. He could delay it no longer. He was only deceiving himself if he thought he could, and he was not one to encourage self-deception.