Devil's Waltz (17 page)

“Pediatrics — that’s interesting. Good loophole.” To the others: “You see, there’s always a loophole.”

Four knowing looks. None of them was over thirty.

Kornblatt said, “So, you wanna hang with us? The meeting’s an important one — that is, if you’re still feeling sufficiently affiliated to care what goes on around here.”

“Sure,” I said, and fell in alongside him. “What’s the topic?”

“The decline and fall of the Western Peds Empire. As evidenced by the murder of Larry Ashmore. Actually, it’s a memorial for him.” He frowned. “You heard about what happened, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Terrible.”

“Symptomatic, Alex.”

“Of what?”

“What’s happened to this place. Look at the way the whole thing’s been handled by the administration. A physician gets
murdered
and no one even bothers to send around a memo. Not that they’re paper-shy when it comes to disseminating
their
directives.”

“I know,” I said. “I happened to read one. On the door of the library.”

He scowled and his mustache flared. “
What
library?”

“I saw that too.”

“Sucks,” he said. “Every time I have research to do I’ve got to drive over to the med school.”

We walked across the lobby and came up against the queues. One of the doctors noticed a patient waiting in line, said “I’ll join you in a moment,” and left the group to greet the child.

“Don’t miss the meeting,” Kornblatt called after her, without breaking step. When we were clear of the crowd, he said, “No library, no Psych department, no overhead for grants, total hiring freeze.
Now
, there’s talk about more cutbacks in all departments — straight across the board.
Entropy
. The bastards probably plan to tear the place down and sell the real estate.”

“Not in this market.”

“No, I’m serious, Alex. We don’t make money and these are bottom-line people. Pave it over, put in lots of parking lots.”

“Well,” I said, “they might start by paving the ones across the street.”

“Don’t hold your breath. We are
peons
to these guys. Just another form of service staff.”

“How’d they get control?”

“Jones — the new chairman — was managing the hospital’s investments. Supposedly did a really good job, so when hard times got harder the board claimed they needed a financial pro and voted him in. He, in turn, fired all the old administration and brought in his own army.”

Another crowd milled near the doors. Lots of tapping feet, weary head shakes, and needless punches of the buttons. Two of the lifts were stuck on upper floors. An
OUT OF ORDER
sign was taped across the door of the third.

“Onward, troops,” said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top, Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.

“Go, team!” he said, pushing the door open.

The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said A
SHMORE MEMORIAL
.

I said, “Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?”

Kornblatt said, “Who?”

“Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn’t he work with Ashmore?”

“I didn’t know
anyone
worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a real—” He stopped himself. “Herbert? No, can’t say I remember him.”

We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of occasional conversation filled the room.

The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a pass-fail class. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.

Lots of white coats — full-time staffers. But where were the private practitioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay away? Western Peds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the full-timers and the physicians out in “the real world” had always managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.

As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray heads. Where were all the senior people I’d known?

Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.

He said, “Please,” and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then silence.

“Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?”

Faces turned. I realized I was closest to the exit, got up and shut the door.

“Okay,” said Afro. “The first order of business is a moment of silence for our colleague Dr. Laurence Ashmore, so if you could all please rise….”

Everyone stood. Heads drooped. A long minute passed.

Afro said, “Okay, please be seated.” Walking to the board, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote:

AGENDA
1. A
SHMORE MEMORIAL
2.
3.
4….?

Stepping away from the board, he said, “Is there someone who wants to say a few words about Dr. Ashmore?”

Silence.

“Let me say, then, that I know I speak for all of us in condemning the brutality of what happened to Larry. And in offering our deepest sympathy to his family. In lieu of flowers, I propose we get together a fund and donate it to an organization of the family’s choice. Or our choice, if it would be too disruptive to ask the family at this point. We can decide now, or at a later date, depending on what people feel. Anyone care to comment?”

A short-haired woman in the third row said, “How about the Poison Control Center? He was a toxicologist.”

“Poison Control Center sounds good,” said Afro. “Anyone second that?”

A hand rose in the middle of the room.

“Thanks, Barb. So moved. Anyone know the family? To inform them of our plan?”

No response.

He looked at the woman who’d made the suggestion. “Barb, would you be in charge of collecting the funds?”

She nodded.

“All right, people, bring your donations to Barb Loman’s office in Rheumatology and we’ll see that the Poison Control Center gets the money, posthaste. Anything more along those lines?”

“Data,” said someone. “As in, we don’t have any.”

“Could you stand and clarify, Greg?” said Afro.

A stocky, bearded man in a checked shirt and wide, floral, retro tie rose. I thought I remembered him, as a resident, without the beard. An Italian name…

“…I’m saying, John, is that security stinks around here. What happened to him could have happened to any of us, and since it’s
our
lives on the line we deserve to have full access to information. Exactly what happened, the progress of the police’s investigation, as well as any measures we can take to assure our safety.”

“There aren’t any!” a bespectacled black man across the room called out. “Not unless the administration makes a real commitment to genuine security — twenty-four-hour guards at every entrance to the lot and at each and every stairwell.”

“That means money, Hank,” said the bearded man. “Good luck.”

A ponytailed woman with dishwater hair got up.

“The money
would
be available, Greg,” she said, “if they got their priorities straight. What we
don’t
need are more paramilitary types obstructing our patients in the halls. What we
do
need is exactly what you and Hank just said:
genuine
security, including self-defense classes, karate, Mace, personal training, whatever. Especially for female staff. The nurses deal with this kind of threat every single day, coming from across the street. Especially the night shift — you know how a couple of them were beat up, and—”

“I know tha—”

“…the open lots have no security at all. As all of us are learning, from direct experience. I drove in at five this morning on an emergency call, and let me tell you, it felt scary, people. I also have to say I think it was a
serious
mistake to limit this meeting to physicians. This is no time for elitism. There are nurses and ancillary staff out there suffering just like we are, working for the same goals. We should be getting together, empowering each other, not fractionating.”

No one spoke.

The ponytailed woman looked around the auditorium and sat down.

Afro said, “Thank you, Elaine, your point is well taken. Though I certainly don’t think any deliberate attempt was made to be exclusionary.”

“Well,” said the ponytailed woman, standing again, “was anyone else other than physicians informed?”

Afro smiled. “This was an ad hoc
medical
staff meeting, Elaine, so it’s only natural that physicians would—”

“Don’t you think the rest of the staff
cares
, John?”

“Of course,” said Afro. “I—”

“Western Peds women are
terrified
! Wake up, people! Everyone needs to be empowered. If you recall, the last two assault victims were women and—”

“Yes, I do recall, Elaine. We all do. And I assure you that in the event other meetings are scheduled — and it’s certainly clear to me that they need to be — a definite effort will be made to reach out.”

Elaine contemplated debate, then shook her head and sat.

Afro returned to the board, chalk poised. “I suppose we’ve moved on to another item, de facto, haven’t we. Staff security?”

Scattered nods. The lack of group coherence was almost tangible. It reminded me of so many other meetings, years ago. Endless discussions, little or no resolution…

Afro placed a check next to A
SHMORE MEMORIAL
, wrote
STF SECURITY
on the next line, and faced the assembly.

“Okay. Any suggestions beyond guards and karate?”

“Yeah,” said a balding, swarthy, thick-shouldered man. “Guns.”

A few chuckles.

Afro gave a tight smile. “Thank you, Al. Was that the way things were handled in Houston?”

“You bet, John. S and W in every black bag. That’s Smith and Wesson, for all you pacifist types.”

Afro made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, pointed it at Bald, and winked. “Anything else, Al, short of turning the hospital into an armed camp?”

Dan Kornblatt stood. “I hate to say it but I think we’re lapsing into tunnel vision here. What we need to do is address the larger issues.”

“In what sense, Dan?”

“In the sense of our purpose — the institution’s purpose.”

Afro looked puzzled. “Are we through, then, with item two?”

Kornblatt said, “
I
certainly am. Security is just a symptom of the greater malaise.”

Afro waited a moment, then checked off
STF SECURITY
.

“What malaise is that, Dan?”

“Chronic, end-stage apathy — institutionally
sanctioned
apathy. Just look around. How many private physicians are there on staff, John? Two hundred? Just take a look what percentage cared enough to brown-bag it today and make a statement with their presence.”

“Dan—”

“Wait, let me finish. There’s a
reason
so few private people are here. And it’s the same reason they avoid sending their paying patients here if they can find semi-decent local facilities. Same reason so many of
our
top people have gone elsewhere. We’ve been tagged as a stepchild — an institutional
loser
. And the community’s bought
into
that because the board itself
and
the administration hold this institution in low regard. And so do we. I’m sure we’ve all had enough psych to know what happens to the self-image of a kid who keeps being told he’s a loser. He starts believing it. Same thing applies to—”

The door opened wide. Heads turned. George Plumb entered and straightened his tie, a blood-red paisley against a white shirt and light-gray raw silk suit. His shoes clicked as he descended to the pit. When he got to the bottom he stood next to Afro, as if assuming his rightful position.

“Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

Kornblatt said, “We were just talking about institutional apathy, George.”

Plumb gave a thoughtful look and placed one fist under his chin. “I was under the impression this was a memorial for Dr. Ashmore.”

Afro said, “It was, but we’ve covered some additional ground.”

Plumb turned and studied the writing on the board. “Quite a chunk of ground, it seems. Might I backtrack and talk a bit about Dr. Ashmore?”

Silence. Then nods. Looking disgusted, Kornblatt sat down.

“First of all,” said Plumb, “I want to communicate the sympathy of the board of directors and the administration for the loss of Dr. Laurence Ashmore. Dr. Ashmore was a noted researcher and his absence will be profoundly felt. In lieu of flowers, Mrs. Ashmore has requested that funds be sent to UNICEF. My office will be pleased to handle all donations. Second, I want to assure you that progress
has
been made fabricating new parking cards. The cards are ready and can be picked up from Security between three and five, today and tomorrow. We regret any inconvenience. However, I’m sure all of you recognize the necessity of changing the keys. Any questions?”

The stocky bearded man named Greg said, “What about real security — guards at each stairwell?”

Plumb smiled. “I was just getting to that, Dr. Spironi. Yes, both the police and our own security staff inform us that the stairwells are a problem, and though the cost will be considerable, we are prepared to implement twenty-four-hour guards, one man per shift, for each level of the physicians’ lot, as well as one guard per shift for each of the three open lots across the boulevard. That adds up to a total parking staff of fifteen guards, meaning a net hire of eleven guards added to the four already on staff. The cost, including benefits and insurance, should amount to slightly under four hundred thousand dollars.”