Cell

by Robin Cook

  “Bye.” She hung up.

  George went back out to his living room and sat on his threadbare couch listening through the wall to the sex session still going on. The difference in lifestyle between him and Paula sunk in heavily. The idea of going to Hawaii for the weekend was beyond his comprehension. It reminded him of what his grandmother had told him more than once:

  We live and die by our choices in life. They make us who we are.

  30

  DEBBIE WATERS’S APARTMENT

  WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, JULY 3, 2014, 10:10 P.M.

  Debbie enjoyed tormenting Clayton. Why he was so worried about George anyway was beyond her. But since he was, and since he had come to her for help, she was going to use it to her advantage.

  Once Clayton showed up at her place, Debbie made him pay. For forcing her to spend time with George, for one. And for entertaining someone other than herself, for another. She knew it was a woman and took great delight in having made Clayton rush away from whatever they had been up to. Whoever the broad was, she had to be steaming mad, even though Clayton had probably used the excuse he had to go back to the hospital.

  Eventually, after making him grovel sufficiently, Debbie got around to telling Clayton about George’s progressive interest in the five sudden deaths, at least three of whom were iDoc test subjects.

  “He actually asked me to look in the ER records to tell him whether the other two patients were part of your iDoc study.”

  “And what did you say?” Clayton demanded. Finally he had gotten her talking.

  “I told him no. I’m not going to risk a HIPAA violation. Listen, Clayton, the fact that he even thought he could ask me such a thing is your fault. You have me asking him out. You know he’s not my type. He lives in a fucking shithole.”

  Oh, the irony, Clayton thought. If only he could tell her exactly what caliber of man she deserved. Self-awareness was not Debbie’s strong suit. Whatever did he see in her before? Well, he knew the answer to that. Now he had to keep reminding himself that this was work. Just think of the stock options, he kept telling himself.

  “George is also interested in knowing if Salvatore DeAngelis had a reservoir inserted by iDoc. He thinks he did, but he wants to be certain.”

  An alarm bell went off in Clayton’s brain. He could feel his face redden.

  “What is he talking about?” Debbie questioned. “What is a reservoir? How does it relate to your iDoc?”

  “It’s something technical. But I’m interested he talked about it. Just tell me everything that he said.”

  Debbie gave him the whole story as she remembered it. Clayton listened closely, asking questions and making her repeat things to make sure she was remembering them correctly. When he was satisfied he’d gotten everything he could from her, he stood up, ready to leave.

  Debbie was horrified. “Where are you going? Don’t leave now!” She jumped up, grabbing his favorite single-malt scotch, which she kept on a sideboard.

  “I have to go. Sorry. It’s not even an option to stay.” He didn’t want to leave any doubt in her mind that he was leaving. Five more minutes in her faux-everything living room was more than he could bear, even though he could remember a few wild scenes in the past when the decor wasn’t an issue.

  “Why do you care what George thinks?” She was pouting now.

  Clayton brushed her off. “He’s under my charge. It’s part of my job.”

  “What is it about these deaths? What are they to you?”

  Clayton paused. “It all relates to George Wilson’s state of mind. That’s all I can really say about it at this point.”

  She looked hurt.

  Clayton knew he might very well need her help again, so he swallowed his pride and buttered her up. “Thank you for your efforts. Really! You’ve been a tremendous help, but now I have to run. Sorry! I’d love nothing more than to stay and have a drink and then . . . have a little fun. And we will do that soon. I promise. In fact, Saturday at Spago Beverly Hills. It will be a great evening. But for now I want you to continue to monitor George closely. Just for the next few days. And you let me know right away if he decides to act on his concerns. Okay?”

  Debbie was not happy with having to go on seeing George, and even less so about the possibility of Clayton putting her off. “Despite what you might think,” she said, “I have some plans myself in the near future. I’m not just sitting around waiting for you to call.”

  He put his arm around her waist. “This is important.” He bent down and kissed her. God, he resented Thorn for putting him through this.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “And you better not cancel on me for Saturday night!”

  “Not a chance. I promise. I’m looking forward to it.” Clayton gave her a wink as he opened the door. “No worries. It’ll be a wonderful evening.” Once outside, he literally ran to his car. He had brought his Lexus SUV since he didn’t like to leave his Ferrari parked on city streets. Starting the car, he hoped to hell his date was still waiting for him. As he accelerated away from the curb, he wondered when he should tell Thorn the bad news about George’s interest in iDoc reservoirs.

  31

  GEORGE’S APARTMENT

  WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2014, 9:00 A.M.

  George was off from work for the Fourth of July for the first time since coming to Los Angeles, but he had no desire to spend it at the beach. Instead, he wanted to use the day digging into Kasey’s, Sal’s, and Laney’s deaths. The first thing he planned to do was get in touch with Sal’s primary-care physician, Dr. Roland Schwarz. George had had the opportunity to talk with him briefly six months previously on Sal’s behalf. Sal had been confused about the doctor’s orders, and George stepped in to clear them up. He remembered that Schwarz, although somewhat curt, had been cooperative and reasonably knowledgeable.

  George dialed Schwarz’s office number with the intention of leaving a message. He was caught off guard when Schwarz himself answered the phone.

  “This is Dr. Schwarz, how may I help you?” Schwarz bellowed brusquely.

  “Hello, Dr. Schwarz,” George stammered, not prepared to talk to the man himself. “This is Dr. George Wilson calling. I’m at L.A. University Medical Center. We spoke on the phone a few months back regarding a patient by the name of Salvatore DeAngelis. I’m calling now with a few additional questions.”

  “I’m seeing patients today,” Schwarz snapped. “If you academic types want to talk, you can come by the office.” With that he hung up.

  George was so amazed that the man was seeing patients on the Fourth of July that he hardly even registered the guy’s rudeness. If the man wanted him to come to his office, George would oblige.

  • • •

  Dr. Schwarz’s practice was in Westwood Village, on a quaint, tree-lined street normally populated with throngs of UCLA students. But as it was a summer holiday, the streets were quiet; anyone who wasn’t on break was down at the beach for the day. It was, after all, Southern California.

  The medical center where George worked was within walking distance from Schwarz’s office, so George was able to use the hospital garage for his car and make his usual breakfast run. He finished his bagel walking down Braxton Avenue, looking for the doctor’s building. He found Schwarz’s name on a faded shingle bolted onto an old Mission-style ediface.

  George stepped inside and surveyed the room, noting that there wasn’t a receptionist, a secretary, or even a nurse present, just a half dozen patients waiting to be seen. They all looked up, evaluating George as he walked in. He gave them a quick grin and took an empty seat, not wanting to risk looking as if he were going to cut the line. Once he settled into a seat everyone relaxed.

  George waited while several people who had arrived before him were seen. Schwarz would poke his head out of the adj
acent room and call a name off a clipboard, then usher in the patient. Glimpsing the interior, George could see that the entire office consisted of just two rooms: the waiting room and a combination exam room/office. George understood that his name wasn’t on the clipboard and that if he didn’t get up and nab Schwarz he’d be sitting there until closing time.

  The next time Schwarz popped his head out George made his move. The man whose name had been called stood up at the same time, creating a moment of confusion. George apologized, saying that he was a doctor and was only there to have a quick word with Schwarz.

  Schwarz watched the exchange over the top of a pair of bifocals. George turned to him expectantly but was unceremoniously told to take a seat. Chastened, George did as told while watching Schwarz usher his patient inside.

  George scanned the room. Everyone was staring at him as if he were an intruder bent on making their wait longer. Finally, Schwarz reappeared.

  “Doctor?” Schwarz called to George.

  George jumped up and hustled into the exam room. What immediately caught his attention was the computer monitor on Schwarz’s desk. It was one of those massive old-school cathode ray tubes that took up the entire desktop. George hadn’t seen one in years. By appearances, Schwarz was as old-school as it got. He had a full gray beard with a balding pate and a set of bifocals that dangled by a string around his neck. To his credit, he wore a clean, crisp white coat and a well-knotted if out-of-style tie. One thing he had going for him, at least, was that he projected an aura of knowledge and trust. But he wasn’t friendly. He was cantankerous and curt toward George, just as he had been on the phone. He didn’t invite George to sit down. Instead he said, “I don’t have a lot of time, so get to the point.”

  “I appreciate your seeing me,” George began, “and I’m amazed that you’re seeing patients on the Fourth of July.”

  “I have no choice but to see patients on holidays. I’m being squeezed by insurance companies and their reimbursement rules. Just to make ends meet, I practically have to work twenty-four-seven.”

  “I can imagine how difficult it is.”

  “No, you academic doctors have no idea,” Schwarz replied, shaking his head. “What type of doctor are you anyway? A specialist?”

  “Yes,” George admitted, almost as if apologizing. He felt reluctant to say he was just a resident.

  “I assumed as much. Why are you here, then? Be quick! I need to get back to seeing patients.”

  “It’s regarding Mr. Sal DeAngelis.”

  Schwarz ambled over to an old-fashioned file cabinet and fingered through a batch of folders, locating the one with Sal’s name on it. He opened the file and looked up at George. “Okay. What?”

  “First, did you notice any suicidal ideation in the patient?”

  “For Chrissake,” Schwarz complained with a grimace. “Are you a psychiatrist?”

  “No. I’m a radiologist.”

  “I have no idea if DeAngelis had suicidal ideation.” He glanced through Sal’s chart. “I never wrote that, but the man was a pain in the ass.” Schwarz ticked off Sal’s indiscretions. “He couldn’t remember anything I told him, he never took his medicines as ordered, and he was always losing track of his blood sugar. What else do you want to know?”

  “Did you treat him at all for depression? Was he taking any antidepressants?”

  “Not diagnosed nor prescribed by me.”

  George nodded. That must have been iDoc. “How about prostate cancer?”

  Schwarz glanced at Sal’s chart. “Well, it seems that he did have prostate cancer. Here’s a positive biopsy report that was recently sent to me, but I didn’t order it and I never saw him for it.” Schwarz held up the paper. “The damn thing was just sent to me from your medical center, since I am the GP of record. The fact of the matter is that I hadn’t seen the patient for the last couple of months since he became part of the iDoc beta test. The last time I saw him was to put in a reservoir for iDoc. Amalgamated Healthcare paid me a whopping forty bucks.”

  “So Mr. DeAngelis definitely had an implanted reservoir.”

  “As I said, I put it in myself. It was mostly for his diabetes, as I recall.”

  George nodded. “How long was the reservoir supposed to last?”

  “In Mr. DeAngelis’s case, at a minimum two years.” Schwarz stared down at Sal’s file. “God! I hate health insurance companies. They never want to pay, and make you jump through hoops to get reimbursed. I’ve put in a bunch of those reservoirs for Amalgamated. They gave me a short course on how to do the procedure—they want them all in at the same spot on the lower left abdomen off to the side in the belly fat—but once I did the implant, like with DeAngelis, I lost the patients. As I said, once DeAngelis had the reservoir, I never saw him again. The good news was that he also didn’t call me anymore. That was a relief, to tell you the goddamn truth. I put in hours talking on the phone to my patients and do you know how much I get paid for my time? Nothing! I hate talking on the phone. Amalgamated is a bitch of a company. They actually offered me a job, but I told them where to stick it. Goddamn leeches.”

  “How deep did you embed DeAngelis’s reservoir?” George asked cautiously. “Was it just under the skin or deeper?”

  The man was getting agitated. “Are you taking care of DeAngelis now? You aren’t from Amalgamated, are you?” he said accusingly.

  “No way,” George exclaimed. “I’m at L.A. University Medical Center.”

  Schwarz eyed him, eyes narrowing. “Why all these questions?”

  “I’m interested in the case.”

  “Interested?” Schwarz asked, raising his voice. “‘Interested’ does not denote a doctor-patient relationship. Are you treating him or not?”

  “I’m actually a resident radiologist at the medical center and—”

  “Are you family?” Schwarz said, his voice rising.

  “No, I’m an acquaintance. We were neighbors. As I said, I’m a radiologist and—”

  Schwarz’s face went dark. He slammed Sal’s folder shut. “You deceived me in order to obtain confidential patient information. That’s a violation of HIPAA!”

  “The man is dead!” George said. “I’m trying—”

  “That doesn’t make things any better, young man! Your chief of radiology is going to hear about this! Now you have to leave!” He pointed toward the door.

  George knew he’d hit a brick wall and raised his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m out of here. Thank you for your time.”

  He exited through the waiting room, avoiding the open stares and stunned expressions of the seated patients. It was apparent they had overheard the exchange.

  32

  EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT

  L.A. UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER

  WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2014, 11:08 A.M.

  George headed for the back entrance to the emergency department, stopping into the laundry to pick up a white coat. He was fretting over Schwarz’s threat to call the chief of radiology. With George’s previous HIPAA violation involving Kasey’s records, he knew that such a call could cause serious trouble. The possibility of getting Schwarz riled up had never even occurred to him. He tried to put the thought out of his mind but couldn’t. Instead he tried to think of ways to lessen the impact if the chief approached him, but nothing promising came to mind. Luckily he had other things to think about, and reasoned that nothing was going to happen until after the Fourth of July weekend no matter what. He was determined to reassure himself that Kasey’s, Sal’s, and Laney’s deaths—as well as Tarkington’s and Wong’s—were coincidences and not the result of some sort of conspiracy or wireless hacking.

  George heard the uproar in the ER even before he entered the public reception area. As he expected, the place was packed. With the heat wave still gripping the city, he anticipated it would be busy,
especially with holiday traffic and injuries associated with celebrating the Fourth, such as burns and eye injuries from fireworks.

  He spotted Debbie Waters and made a beeline for her. She was again holding court at the front desk, but this time she caught sight of him immediately.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she said in her commander-in-chief persona. “You’re not on call, are you? You should be at the goddamn beach.”

  “Maybe later,” George said. “Got some errands to get out of the way.”

  “Like what?” Debbie demanded. “I hope to hell you aren’t still agonizing over the deaths you were upset about.”

  “Well, they are still on my mind. But the reason I’m here is to talk with Warren Knox. Is he in today?”

  “He is, but he is acting senior resident. Why do you want to see him? The man is very, very busy.”

  “I won’t need much of his time. I just have a couple of questions about the DeAngelis case.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  George leaned over the counter so he could not be overheard. There were a lot of people about and he did not want anyone listening in. “I want to ask him about those so-called self-inflicted wounds. I have a theory about them, which doesn’t have anything to do with suicidal ideation, that is if the wounds are where I suspect they might be.”

  Debbie frowned. “You’ve got to get off this bandwagon, I’m telling you!”

  “I can’t. I’m convinced that DeAngelis was not suicidal.” George looked around the area. “So where can I find Knox?”

  “Trauma Room Eight.” Her response was flat. She went back to barking out orders to several orderlies who had arrived with gurneys, acting as if they didn’t know what to do.

  “Okay, thanks,” George replied. She didn’t look at him, much less acknowledge his thank-you. George shrugged. It was as if she were irritated.

  George made his way down to Trauma Room 8, where he found an ER team just finishing preparations to send a bicyclist up to the OR. He had been hit by a bus and sustained massive trauma.