Warren Murphy: Union Bust

It was a kidnapping, dammit, even if Dr. Braithwait had agreed. It was a kidnapping across state lines if ever there was one. Dr. Braithwait clenched his fists. He noticed that the nurse looked worried. He forced a smile to indicate he was not mad at her.

Dr. Harold Smith, director of Folcroft Sanatorium in Rye, New York, had a fine reputation. And this reputation would not be so fine when Dr. Braithwait got out of this hospital that was disguised as a barge. He would tell the whole world what had happened to one of the nation's foremost internists.

It had all seemed so harmless, and yes, well, profitable, too. If Dr. Smith hadn't known about Dr. Braithwait's special plan, or hope, or even a dream one could call it, Dr. Braithwait would never have agreed to examine a special patient right away, a patient who was 'Just a short hop from Folcroft." But Dr. Smith had known of the dream. He had known and had promised to make it come true. An entire medical school built around the concepts Dr. Braithwait knew were valid, needed, and sure to be successful—concepts that had yet to be tried by others. Concepts that Dr. Braithwait, in his thirty years as one of the country's leading internists, had formulated. Dr. Braithwait should have been suspicious when Dr. Smith phoned his office in New York City and immediately, or almost immediately, offered him the hospital. Oh, wouldn't it be nice if Dr. Braithwait could drop up to Folcroft this afternoon for a little chat about the medical school? Oh, wouldn't it be nice if preliminaries could be worked out right away, because Folcroft was interested in this new concept also?

How did Dr. Smith hear about the new concepts for a medical school when Dr. Braithwait had told only a few friends? That's a long story. That's something Dr. Braithwait should talk about when he got to Folcroft. And Dr. Braithwait wouldn't even have to drive. There was a driver in New York City who worked for the sanatorium and would be happy to take Dr. Braithwait right now.

Did Dr. Braithwait stop to think? Did Dr. Braithwait become suspicious? Did Dr. Braithwait respond like a mature, intelligent human being? No. Dr. Braithwait thought only about the medical school, wrapped his plans in a giant paper bundle, and canceled his appointments for the afternoon.

That was the first step. The second, for some unexplained reason, was a medical examination. Dr. Braithwait agreed to it. Another internist of equal rank was having an examination also.

"Hey, Gerry. Gerald Braithwait. How are you doing?"

"Fine. Fine," Dr. Braithwait had said.

"This Folcroft is some place. They've got money coming out of their ears."

"Is that so?" said Dr. Braithwait. "Is that so?"

Dr. Smith seemed incredibly interested in the new hospital. He even talked dates of construction. But he was in a rush. Could the sanatorium’s private plane take Dr. Braithwait back to New York City? They could discuss the new medical school on the airplane.

Of course, agreed Dr. Braithwait. That was the third step. The plane did not land in New York City. Almost as soon as it took off from the small Westchester airport, two things happened. One, Dr. Smith promised the medical school. Two, would Dr. Braithwait examine a patient Dr. Smith was very concerned about. He was just south of New York, and if Dr. Braithwait could look at him now, Dr. Smith would be ever so grateful.

Fourth and final mistake.

"Yes, Dr. Smith. I would be delighted."

Just south was a two and a half hour trip with night falling rapidly. At the airport, it was just a few minutes by helicopter. The copter landed on top of a broad pile of coal. Dr. Braithwait could smell the swampiness of the nearby lands. Breezes brought salt water air. It was a river near the ocean.

And then into the hole in one of the coal piles and the door locked behind him, and Dr. Smith was not all that friendly anymore.

"You will cure this patient," said Dr. Smith. "I can be reached through a telephone you will find in a room down the hall."

A cursory tour of this hospital and then Dr. Smith was gone, and here was Dr. Gerald Braithwait for nearly a week, trapped in a madhouse with a nurse who did not speak English, a patient who only resembled a human being, and an Oriental who spoke English but made no sense.

Dr. Gerald Braithwait watched the body twitch.

"I think the straps will hold," he said.

The dark-eyed nurse looked at him, puzzled. He pointed to the straps, made a tugging motion and smiled. The nurse smiled back. Wonderful. Sign language.

If only that peculiar old Oriental, obviously three breaths from the grave, also failed to speak English. That would be a help. He was a nuisance from the first day, when he hovered over the body, watching, probing with his long fingernails, staring at the doctor with distrust. He had explained to Braithwait what happened.

"Hamburger," the old man had said. "An impurity in his essence."

"Will you get out of here?" Dr. Braithwait had said. "How can I examine a patient with you poking him?"

"My son took an impurity into his essence," insisted the ancient Oriental. "It must be removed."

Dr. Braithwait had called for an orderly to remove the old man. There was none. He tried to do it himself. He pushed. The frail creature did not move. He grabbed a shoulder. The shoulder seemed to slip from his hands. Dr. Braithwait pushed on the chest. The old man couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds, but he did not move. Dr. Braithwait weighed a middle-aged 195 pounds, or about that. He had been losing weight for the last month. Dr. Braithwait had shoved again, and again no movement.

Then, feeling the rising anger coupled with the ever present frustration of the situation, he had hurled himself into the frail wisp of a man. And bounced off. Backside on floor. Bounced off.

"You are most fortunate that I need your services," said the old man. For the next few days he stayed beside the table upon which the patient rested, watching the doctor, watching the patient, asking questions about this instrument or that.

"All right," he said finally. "Perhaps you will be able to save him." And with that he was out of the room and down the corridor and had not been seen since.

The patient was a horror of reflexes. A touch on one muscle produced a whole series of responses, as if the muscles had been given a memory or had been programmed. A tap on the knee generated a flurry of hand movements so fast they appeared to be a blur.

And the semiconscious babbling. If one were to believe the delusions, this man had been publicly electrocuted so that he could be transformed into a sort of super-weapon without a past, without an identity. There were fragments of statements such as "Chiun."

"That's the biz, sweetheart."

"Jam the heart."

The patient was obviously suffering from guilt through the delusion that he had killed scores of people. The patient babbled about balance and thrusts and peaks. The muscles twitched, the eyes opened, some consciousness, and then back to sleep.

Dr. Braithwait stared at the evenly breathing patient. What on earth was wrong with him? This defied medical knowledge.

The only clue available came from the old Oriental on the first day. Hamburger. Hmmm. Hamburger.

Dr. Braithwait absentmindedly touched the steel straps. Hamburger. He checked his watch. He had been warned not to disturb the Oriental until after 4.30 p.m. It was that now. Hamburger. That nervous system.

Dr. Braithwait strode quickly out of the room with the surgical lights and went down the corridor. He knocked on a door. He waited. Inside the mellifluous organ of a daytime soap opera whined its heavy tune. Then someone was selling soap. The door opened.

Draped in a saffron kimono, the aged Oriental indignantly inquired about Dr. Braithwait's manners, upbringing, and by what right he, Dr. Braithwait, felt he could destroy moods of artistry?