Mr. Monk Gets Even (7 page)

“It was a gasp of horror,” Julie said, “you fat—”

Now it was Monk’s turn to gasp.

I won’t repeat the profanity that she used, but rather than offending Dale, it delighted him.

“I like you, Julie,” he said.

“You know me?” she said.

“I know everything,” Dale said. “I’m omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent. Just ask Adrian.”

Monk took a step up to where the back of the truck met the loading dock. “Whatever scheme you have in mind, it’s not going to happen. I’ll foil it, as I always have.”

“But as smart as you think you are, you weren’t able to stop your wife from being blown to bits in her car. You didn’t see that coming, did you?” Dale asked, smiling as Monk went rigid. “Oops, was that a sore point?”

Stottlemeyer marched into the truck, stopped beside the bed, and leaned close to Dale’s ear, which was nearly lost in the fleshly folds of his cheek and neck.

“If you don’t die on the operating table, I hope you try to escape,” Stottlemeyer said. “It would be my pleasure to shoot you during the attempt.”

“I’d tremble,” Dale said. “But I’m too fat. You’ll have to try to scare me again when I’m thin.”

Stottlemeyer straightened up and gestured to the cop on the forklift.

“Get this blob out of here,” he said.

The forklift scooted forward, turned, and moved into the truck, its long tines sliding under the pallet that held the bed. Then it backed up, turned again, and carried the bed into the hospital and down a long corridor to the first-floor suite of operating rooms.

Monk, Julie, and Stottlemeyer, as well as the two armed guards, followed behind the forklift.

The doors to the operating room had been temporarily removed to accommodate the forklift. Julie could see two maintenance workers standing against the wall, holding up the detached doors and staring wide-eyed at the arrival of the special patient.

A surgeon in his forties wearing blue scrubs was waiting at the entry to the OR. He held up his hand to signal the forklift operator to stop, then stepped up to meet his patient.

“Mr. Biederback, I’m Dr. Damian Wiss. I’ll be your surgeon,” he said, without offering his hand. He had an almost militaristic bearing, like a Navy SEAL about to parachute into Osama bin Laden’s compound.

“Are you any good at this?” Dale asked.

“I’ve done hundreds of these operations,” Dr. Wiss said. “You’re my third patient today.”

Monk smiled at Julie. “That’s promising.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Dr. Wiss said to him.

“That’s not what Adrian meant, Doctor,” Dale said. “He thinks that because three is an odd number that my chances of serious complications or death are vastly increased.”

Dr. Wiss gave Monk a cold look, then shifted his gaze back to Dale. “There are significant risks involved in this operation, but the numerology surrounding it is not one of them. You do need to be fully aware of what you are facing.”

“I’ve already been told about the risks by the prison doctor.”

“But not by me, so you are going to hear them again. I’ll be making a series of buttonhole incisions, inserting a metal tube between your skin and muscle, and sucking out the fat. I’ll also perform a gastric bypass, decreasing the size of your stomach by dividing it into two pouches, the smaller of which will be directly attached to the middle of your small intestine. Afterward, I will make a series of elliptical cuts, remove the excess skin between them, and sew you back up.”

“Sounds delightful,” Dale said. “While you’re at it, could you throw in a nose job? I’ve always wanted something more regal.”

“During the course of those procedures,” Dr. Wiss continued, ignoring Dale’s comment, “I could puncture a major blood vessel or penetrate your abdomen, bladder, or bowel. You could die from dehydration, blood loss, or a heart attack. And if you survive the operation, the risk of infection is significant. There is also a chance of wound dehiscence.”

“Dehiscence?” Stottlemeyer said. “What is that?”

“The wounds ripping open,” Monk said. “Dale could burst like a piñata.”

“Wishful thinking, Adrian,” Dale said.

“You’re this doctor’s third operation on the seventh day of the week on the seventeenth day in the third month of an odd-numbered year,” Monk said. “You’re doomed, Fat Man.”

“That’s enough, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to the doctor. “What’s Dale’s post-op going to be like?”

Although the captain asked the question, Dr. Wiss addressed his answer to Dale. “You will be sewn up tight, covered in antibiotic ointment, and wrapped in bandages like a mummy to protect the wounds. You’re looking at spending two days in the ICU so we can monitor fluids, then another five days under regular care. Do you still consent to the operation?”

“By all means,” Dale said. “I am looking forward to the new me and a bright future as a model prisoner. Fashion model, that is.”

Dr. Wiss stepped back and gestured to the cop driving the forklift that he should proceed to the center of the room, where an anesthesiologist and several nurses were waiting amid numerous pieces of equipment and trays of tools ready to be wheeled into position.

The forklift went into the operating room, lowered the pallet, and then backed out. As soon as the forklift was in the corridor, the nurses wheeled the surgical equipment into place and the workers brought up the doors and began to reinstall them.

Dr. Wiss turned to Stottlemeyer. “I’ll check on Mr. Biederback tonight, but I’m going to Maui tomorrow with my family. My wife won a contest.”

“Lucky you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“My colleague, Dr. Auerbach, will handle Mr. Biederback’s post-op care after that. It should be routine. I’ve handled larger patients than Mr. Biederback.”

“But none as dangerous,” Monk said.

“He’ll be unconscious and quite helpless,” Dr. Wiss said. “See you in about three hours.”

The doctor turned and went inside, so he didn’t see the big smile on Monk’s face.

“Did you hear that?” Monk said to Julie. “Three hours. That’s encouraging.”

“You really want him to die on the table?” Julie asked.

“Hell yes,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer spoke up. “But on the assumption that he survives, and on the chance that he might have been planning an escape of some kind, two officers will be stationed outside this door.”

“Where are you going to be?” Monk asked.

“In the operating room the whole time.”

Julie grimaced just thinking about it. “It’s going to be incredibly gross. Are you sure you want to see that?”

“I’m sure that I don’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I’ve been preparing myself by watching videos of Japanese fishermen stripping blubber from whales.”

“What about us?” Monk asked.

“Stick around, keep your eye on things, make sure everything is in order,” Stottlemeyer said. “After the operation, Dale will be taken to the ICU by elevator. It will be the first time he’s ridden in one in decades. I’ll call you when we’re on the move.”

Stottlemeyer went into the operating room, leaving Monk and Julie in the corridor.

“It sounds like the captain has everything under control,” Julie said. “Don’t worry.”

“I was born worrying,” Monk said.

CHAPTER SIX

Mr. Monk Plays Doctor

F
rom where Monk and Julie were sitting in the hospital hallway, they could see the two officers standing guard between the operating room, which was to their left, and the ER, which was to their right.

The ER was a lot more interesting. Doctors and nurses rushed around and patients were wheeled to and fro, activity that generated a buzz of energy and urgency. Plus there was the instinctive rubbernecking attraction of seeing the injured, suffering, and emotionally distraught people that was hard for either Monk or Julie to resist. It was like watching an episode of that old series
ER
, only this was live and none of the doctors looked half as good as George Clooney, and the nurses were no Julianna Margulies.

Once patients got past the admitting desk and were buzzed through the security door, they were quickly assessed by a nurse or a physician, who determined how serious their medical situations were.

At that point, patients would be rushed into one of the trauma rooms, or into one of the exam rooms, or into a large treatment room where there were eight beds that could be curtained off for privacy, or parked in the hallway on a gurney or in a chair, until somebody could get to them.

Julie kept an eye on Monk for the next two hours, wondering when just sitting there and watching wouldn’t be enough for him and he’d have to get up and straighten something out, literally or figuratively.

It finally happened when he saw a little girl in the treatment room getting a nasty gash on her right leg stitched up by a young doctor with two days of carefully curated stubble on his chin, the hair on his head meticulously askew.

The little girl, who was maybe ten years old, was brave through it all, biting her lower lip and fighting the urge to cry while her mother held her hand and looked away, apparently unable to handle the sight of blood.

When Dr. Stubble left them to attend to something else, Monk rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and went over to the girl.

Julie sat very still in her chair, not sure what to do, and braced herself for an embarrassing incident.

Monk gave the little girl a smile, complimented her on her bravery, and applied a bandage that was identical to the one on her right leg to the same, uninjured spot on her left leg.

Neither the little girl nor her mother questioned the reasoning behind this. In fact, they thanked Monk. They probably assumed that he was another doctor and that he had a very good reason for what he was doing.

Monk patted the little girl on the head, gave her another smile, and then walked away, pulling off his gloves and dropping them in the hazardous waste bin.

He picked up a new pair from a box on a counter and put them on as he returned to his seat beside Julie, who also didn’t say anything about what he’d done.

Giving the girl matching bandages on both legs was harmless and made Monk happy, so Julie figured why make an issue out of it?

I wish I could say I would have handled the situation as reasonably as my daughter did. But I know better and I bet you do, too.

Although there was a lot of activity, the ER seemed to be humming along smoothly.

But then everything changed.

Julie overheard Dr. Stubble gather the nurses and inform them that a set of bleachers on a high school football field had collapsed during a practice game and that paramedics were bringing in a dozen injured people.

Within a few moments of that announcement, the injured started arriving.

Monk stood up and watched suspiciously as one ambulance after another rolled up to the ER. He wasn’t the only one watching closely. There were four police officers stationed at the ambulance bay by Captain Stottlemeyer, and they immediately put their hands on their guns and scanned for trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Julie asked, joining Monk.

He turned and looked past her to the two guards in front of the operating room doors. They were also on alert, braced for trouble.

“This could be a trick,” Monk said. “An attempt to break Dale out of the hospital.”

“But he’s on an operating table getting his fat sucked out,” Julie said. “It’s not a great time for an escape.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

One ambulance after another arrived and injured people were rolled in on gurneys. The police officers kept a close eye on everybody who came in, quickly searched each gurney and bag, and patted down each person just in case any of them was attempting to bring in a weapon.

Each victim was met by Dr. Stubble, a nurse, and some orderlies. The doctor did a quick exam, then took out a red, yellow, or green pen from his lab coat pocket and made a big
X
on the patient’s wrist while giving out orders to the nurses.

The nurses and orderlies then took the victim to the proper room for the care they needed.

Anyone who left the ER, such as the paramedics and ambulance personnel, were closely scrutinized by the officers and Monk.

Once the ambulances and paramedic units had all left and things returned to the previous level of activity, Monk rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and then went to a nurse’s station, where he helped himself to several red, yellow, and green pens, which he clutched in one hand since he had no pockets on his surgical scrubs.

“What are those for?” Julie asked, gesturing to his fistful of pens.

“It’s triage color coding,” Monk said, heading for the treatment room, Julie in tow. “The doctor marked each patient with a color that represents the severity of medical need. Red is the most serious, and those people are already in the trauma rooms. Yellow is for major burns, multiple fractures, that sort of thing. Green is for minor fractures or simple cuts and abrasions.”

He approached the first patient he saw, a man sitting on the edge of a bed, clutching what looked like a broken arm with his left hand, which had a green
X
on the wrist.