Читать книгу Next - Michael Crichton, Michael Crichton - Страница 15

Kevin McCormick, chief administrator of Long Beach Memorial, looked up at the chubby figure coming into his office, and said, “How the hell did this happen?” He pushed a sheaf of papers across his desk.

Marty Roberts, the chief of pathology, glanced quickly through the document. “I have no idea,” he said.

“The wife of the deceased, Mr. John J. Weller, is suing us for unauthorized release of tissue to the daughter.”

“What’s the legal situation?” Marty Roberts said.

“Unclear,” McCormick said. “Legal says the daughter is a family member and has a clear right to be given tissues to test for diseases that may affect her. Problem is, she did a paternity test and it came back negative. So she’s not his daughter. Arguably that makes our release of tissues unauthorized.”

“We couldn’t have known that at the time—”

“Of course not. But we’re talking about the law. The only important question is, can the family sue? The answer is yes, they have grounds to bring a suit, and they are.”

“Where’s the body now?” Marty said.

“Buried. Eight days ago.”

“I see.” Marty flipped through the pages. “And they are asking for…”

“Besides unspecified damages, they’re asking for blood and tissue samples to conduct further testing,” McCormick said. “Do we have blood or tissue samples from the deceased?”

“I’d have to check,” Marty said. “But I’d presume that we do, yes.”

“We do?”

“Sure. We keep a lot of tissue these days, Kevin. I mean, everybody that comes into the hospital, we collect as much as we possibly can legally…”

“That’s the wrong answer,” McCormick said, glowering.

“Okay. What’s the right answer?”

“That we don’t have any tissues from this guy.”

“But they’ll know that we do. At the very least, we did a tox screen on the guy because of the accident, so we have his blood—”

“That sample was lost.”

“Okay. It was lost. But what good does that do? They can always dig up the body and get all the tissues they want.”

“Correct.”

“So?”

“So let them do that. That’s Legal’s advice. Exhumation takes time, permits, and money. We’re guessing they won’t have the time or the money—and this thing will go away.”

“Okay,” Marty said. “And I am here because?”

“Because I need you to go back to pathology and confirm for me that, unfortunately, we have no more samples from the deceased, and that everything not given to the daughter has been lost or misplaced.”

“Got it.”

“Call me within the hour,” McCormick said, and turned away.

Marty Roberts entered the basement pathology lab. His diener, Raza Rashad, a handsome, dark-eyed man of twenty-seven, was scrubbing the stainless steel tables for the next post. If truth be told, Raza really ran the path lab. Marty felt himself burdened by a heavy administrative load, managing the senior pathologists, the residents, the medical student rotations, and all the rest. He’d come to rely on Raza, who was highly intelligent and ambitious.

“Hey, Raza. You remember that forty-six-year-old white guy with crush injuries, a week back? Drove himself into an overpass?”

“Yeah. I remember. Heller, or Weller.”

“The daughter asked for blood?”

“Yeah. We gave her blood.”

“Well, she ran a paternity test, and it came back negative. Guy was not her father.”

Raza stared blankly. “That right?”

“Yeah. Now the mother’s all upset. Wants more tissues. What’ve we got?”

“I’d have to check. Probably the usual. All major organs.”

Marty said, “Any chance that material got misplaced? So we couldn’t find it?”

Raza nodded slowly, staring at Marty. “Maybe so. Always possible it could be mislabeled. Then it would be hard to find.”

“Might take months?”

“Or years. Maybe never.”

“That’d be a shame,” Marty said. “Now, what about the blood from the tox screen?”

Raza frowned. “Lab keeps that. We wouldn’t have access to their storage facility.”

“So they still have that blood sample?”

“Yeah. They do.”

“And we have no access?”

Raza smiled. “It might take me a couple of days.”

“Okay. Do it.”

Marty Roberts went to the phone and dialed the administrator’s office. When McCormick came on the line, he said, “I have some bad news, Kevin. Unfortunately, all the tissues have been lost or misplaced.”

“Sorry to hear that,” McCormick said, and hung up.

“Marty,” Raza said, coming into the office, “is there a problem with this Weller guy?”

“No,” Marty said. “Not anymore. And I told you before—don’t call me Marty. My name is Dr. Roberts.”