Читать книгу Next - Michael Crichton, Michael Crichton - Страница 20

Marty Roberts was sweating by the time he got back to Long Beach Memorial Hospital. Because of what he had done at the cemetery, he could lose his license, no problem. One of those gravediggers could pick up the phone and call the county. The county could wonder why Marty had broken protocol, especially with a lawsuit pending. When you take tissues in the field, you risk contamination. Everybody knew that. So the county might start wondering why Marty Roberts would risk that. And before long, they might be wondering…

Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

He pulled into the emergency parking, next to the ambulances, and hurried down the basement hallway to Pathology. It was lunchtime; almost nobody was there. The rows of stainless steel tables stood empty.

Raza was washing up.

“You dumb fuck,” Marty said, “are you trying to get us both in jail?”

Raza turned slowly. “What is the problem?” he said quietly.

“The problem,” Marty said, “is that I told you, take the bones only on the cremations. Not the burials. The cremations. Is that so fucking hard to understand?”

“Yeah, well. That’s what I do,” Raza said.

“No, that’s not what you do. Because I just came from an exhumation, and you know what I saw when I dug the guy up? Very fucking skinny legs, Raza. Very skinny arms. In a burial.”

“No,” Raza said, “that’s not what I do.”

“Well, somebody took the bones.”

Raza headed to the office. “What’s the name of this guy?”

“Weller.”

“What, that guy again? He’s the guy we lost the tissues for, right?”

“Right. So the family exhumed him. Because he was buried.”

Raza leaned over the desk, keyed in the patient name. He stared at the screen. “Oh yeah. You’re right. It was a burial. But I didn’t do that one.”

Marty said, “You didn’t do that one? Who the fuck did?”

Raza shrugged. “My brother came in, that’s all. I had an appointment that night.”

“Your brother? What brother? Nobody else is supposed to be—”

“Don’t sweat it, Marty,” Raza said. “My brother comes in from time to time. He knows what to do. He works at Hilldale Mortuary.”

Marty wiped sweat from his forehead. “Jesus. How long has this been going on?”

“Maybe a year.”

“A year!”

“Only at night, Marty. Late night only. He wears my lab coat, looks like me…We look the same.”

“Wait a minute,” Marty said. “Who gave that girl the blood sample? That girl Lisa Weller.”

“Okay,” Raza said. “So sometimes he makes mistakes.”

“And sometimes he works afternoons?”

“Only Sundays, Marty. If I have appointments, is all.”

Marty gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself. He leaned over and breathed deeply. “Some fucking guy who doesn’t even work for the hospital gave unauthorized blood to a woman because she asked for it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Not some fucking guy. My brother.”

“Jesus.”

“He said she was cute.”

“That explains everything.”

“Come on, Marty,” Raza said, in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry about the Weller guy, I really am, but anybody could have made the switch. Fucking cemetery could have dug him up and taken the long bones. Gravediggers working as independent contractors could have done it. You know it happens all over. They got those guys in Phoenix. And the ones in Minnesota. And now Brooklyn.”

“And they’re all in jail now, Raza.”

“Okay,” Raza said. “That’s true. The thing is, I told my brother to do it.”

“You did…”

“Yeah. That particular night, the Weller body came in, we had a stat call for bone, and the Weller guy typed right. So do we fill the order or what? Because you know those bone guys can take their business elsewhere. To them, now means now. Supply or die.”

Marty sighed. “Yeah, when they call stat, you should fill it.”

“Okay, then.”

Marty slid into the chair and began typing at the keyboard himself. “However,” he said, “if you extracted those long bones eight days ago, I don’t see any payment transfer to me.”

“Don’t worry. It’s coming.”

“The check is in the mail?”

“Hey, I forgot. You’ll get your taste.”

“Make sure of it,” Marty said. He turned to go. “And keep your fucking brother out of the hospital from now on. You understand me?”

“Sure, Marty. Sure.”

Marty Roberts went outside to move his car from the emergency space. He backed out and drove to the Doctors Only section of the parking garage. Then he sat in his car for a long time. Thinking about Raza.

You’ll get your taste.

It seemed that Raza was starting to believe that this was his program, and that Marty Roberts worked for him. Raza was handing out the payments. Raza was deciding who should come in to help. Raza was not behaving like an employee; he was starting to behave like he was in charge, and that was dangerous for all sorts of reasons.

Marty had to do something about it.

And he had to do it soon.

Or losing his medical license would be the least of his problems.