Death and the Intern

by Jeremy Hanson-Finger

  “Really, I—”

  “Honestly. This has happened to me before and, trust me, shit got way more awkward.”

  Janwar starts to stand up, then realizes he is putting himself in a position of power over her. He sits down again, but further away from her.

  “I feel like I need to explain. I don’t even have an erection—”

  “Don’t worry about it. But, shit, if I’m falling asleep, I should go home. We have to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you driving home if you’re this sleepy.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Like, I don’t mean, stay here and have sex with me.” That’s the wrong thing to say. “That’s the wrong thing to say.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate your directness. Honestly, this isn’t a big deal.”

  “I mean, stay here on the couch and I’ll sleep in my room and we’ll chalk this one up to a misunderstanding and you can leave in the morning.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Fang finds her purse. She checks her phone, and her eyebrows go up. She responds right away, angling the screen away from Janwar.

  “Everything cool?” Janwar says.

  “I’m the worst,” Fang says.

  Janwar can’t very well keep her on his couch, so he lets her go, hoping the nighttime roads, now wet with rain, are forgiving of a sleepy anaesthesiologist possibly going to visit someone she’ll regret visiting in the morning.

  Janwar returns to his couch alone and goes back to El secreto de sus ojos. The investigator learns what has happened: the husband of the murdered woman has kidnapped the killer and locked him in a cell in his shed for twenty-five years. The investigator returns from the husband’s property and goes into the office of the woman he has been in love with all this time. They look at each other meaningfully. She says it’s complicated, and then she tells him to shut the door.

  Janwar tries to examine how he feels about all this, especially being kept in someone’s backyard for twenty-five years without them ever speaking to you, but his mind balks and retreats to a less horrifying place, namely, focusing on the psychedelic patterns behind his now-closed and rolled-up eyes. He is asleep before the credits end, but of course he has nightmares until morning.

  Exhibit E

  TRANSCRIPT OF AUDIO RECORDING FOUND ON SUSAN JONESTOWN’S CELLPHONE

  SPEAKING: SUSAN JONESTOWN, SHAUGHNESSY O’DEADY, JEAN-MARIE DUFOIS

  Saturday, July 5

  At the Civic Lazarus. During my break I’ll try to track down Dr. Parker.

  Shunted Venolia down the priority list. Someone I’d forgotten about is standing in line: the red-haired man who took the therapy dogs from Martina yesterday is waiting to order behind a group of priests.

  SHAUGHNESSY O’DEADY: An Americano, please.

  SUSAN JONESTOWN: Double shot?

  SO: Yes please. Odd there’s no Canadiano.

  SJ: Probably just as well. The Italians came up with the name Americano during the second world war. It was to make fun of the American soldiers who had to water down their espresso because they couldn’t handle the strength.

  SO: Glad it’s them and not us.

  SJ: Hey, I saw you with a couple giant skinny dogs the other day. What do you do in the therapy dog department?

  SO: I’m an anaesthesiologist, but I help out here from time to time. My parents raised greyhounds in Ireland. This is my way of kicking back at the pricks.

  SJ: In what way?

  SO: Being kind to greyhounds and using them to benefit mankind. Imagine how much it would piss off your pig farmer father if you told him you got a pet porker.

  SJ: But your parents didn’t kill greyhounds, did they?

  SO: They sure did. Not for meat, but they’d euthanize them when they’d finished racing, around age two. Or they’d sell them for cosmetics testing. I was pretty gutted about it growing up.

  SJ: The silence of the greyhounds. Hey, what’s your name?

  SO: Shaughnessy O’Deady.

  SJ: Susan Jonestown.

  SO: Susan, your glove is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  SJ: I haven’t heard that one before. Points for originality. I just picked it for function. The glove, I mean.

  SO: What function would that be?

  SJ: The espresso machine at my usual location gets red-card WHMIS violation hot.

  SO: What do you have on later?

  SJ: Not this glove.

  SO: Regardless, any chance you fancy a pint?

  SJ: You know what, why not?

  SO: Seven at the Sir John A?

  SJ: I’ll see you then.

  On break. Inhaled a cigarette so fast that my head feels full of bees. Shaughnessy is obviously a creep but this is my in. If we meet in a public place and I don’t go to a second location, I’ll be safe.

  Heading back in to look for Venolia.

  The receptionist at information desk is the baby-faced man from the therapy department, Jean-Marie. He must be a general temp.

  He’s shuffling a deck of Magic: The Gathering cards.

  SUSAN JONESTOWN: Excuse me.

  JEAN-MARIE DUFOIS: You again. Little Miss Nosy.

  SJ: Watch it, pal. I’m taller than you.

  JD: But your nose—

  SJ: I’m aware.

  JD: Well, what can I do you for?

  SJ: A woman wearing scrubs named Venolia gave me a twenty for her coffee and walked away. I was hoping you could tell me where to find her.

  JD: You can leave it with me and I’ll make sure she gets it.

  SJ: Not a chance, buster.

  JD: What was the name again? Venolia? No, that can’t be right.

  SJ: Why not?

  JD: She doesn’t drink coffee.

  SJ: How do you know that?

  JD: She’s more into relaxing. Infamous for it, actually.

  SJ: It was decaf. The coffee.

  JD: Of course.

  SJ: No, don’t dial. I’ll go find her. Where does she work?

  JD: Records. Want me to draw you a map?

  SJ: Please do. But stick to this plane, Ajani Goldmane.

  Based on Jean-Marie’s map, I don’t have time to make it all the way to Records, which is in the basement at the opposite end of the hospital, before I’m due back at Lazarus.

  Shift is over, but nobody’s in the records department. I might as well keep digging on my phone while I wait.

  Walking to the bus stop now. Waited half an hour but Venolia never showed up. Just a man with bad acne scars along his jaw who leaned in the door.

  Googled Shaughnessy, but he didn’t have any online presence. Surprising for a man who looked in his mid thirties.

  Maybe he had all the usual accounts under a pseudonym. Or maybe he was only part of that social network where doctors share photos of the insides of people’s bodies to help others make diagnoses.

  So anyway, unlike the guys I’d met online and creeped before going on dates with them, I didn’t have any of the other information about Shaughnessy that people reveal on their profiles.

  Digging makes me think of paws, and paws equals paw wax. Frig, I’ve been so focused on where the drugs came from…

  Red Lantern Paw Wax: Official Supplier of the Canadian Rangers and Canadian Junior Rangers.

  Canadian Rangers, a.k.a. Northern Rangers: a military force made of aboriginal volunteers. Patrolling the Arctic by dogsled, wearing red cotton sweatshirts. Reminding the Russians that Canada wants the Northern oil once the ice caps melt.

  Arctic sovereignty means a possible Harper government connection? Maybe a coincidence. But that’s what the newspapers said about Gary Webb and the whole CIA/Contra/crack cocaine story, and eventually the papers admitted he was right. Too bad he’d already committed suicide.

  CHAPTER 6

  Agent Scully – Double D – Iron Fist – Mistakes Were Made – Hydroplane – Thoughts for Docs – Expressionist Codpiece – Fail – The Big Kiwi – Watching the Insects

  Friday, July 11


  When Janwar looks at his phone after his first operation of the day on Friday, he sees he has three email notifications from SHROUD. First, Venolia Parker changed the priority of OPREP-9854 from Blocker to Trivial. Second, Venolia Parker assigned OPREP-9854 to Llewellyn Cadwaladr. And finally, Venolia Parker commented on OPREP-9854:

  [~LCadwaladr] Can you please approve this request?

  Fuck. He could delete the ticket, but Llew would probably still have a record of it in his email, and then how would Janwar get the information? All he can hope is that Llew, in the manner of administrators everywhere, subscribes to every notification possible, and if Janwar gets Venolia to close the ticket, Llew might miss it among the thousand other emails he gets a day.

  Venolia has something he wants—access to the records. She did ask Janwar for a prescription in a way that seemed like it probably wasn’t a joke. Janwar isn’t too naive to believe that hospital staffers either prescribe drugs to themselves or have friends do it for them. Venolia had laughed when he asked if she had the flu. Flu symptoms are also very similar to symptoms of opiate withdrawal—runny nose, sweating, agitation. So maybe he should just go back down and offer to write Venolia a prescription for whatever she’s looking for. She’ll get it from someone anyway. And if it isn’t okay for medical student interns to fake a supervisor’s signature and write prescriptions in exchange for favours, it really isn’t okay for them to kill patients, so he isn’t getting himself in that much more trouble.

  He’s got Llew’s signature on the emailed letter of offer for the internship. A couple of loops and squiggles. Not too hard. He grabs a prescription pad, checks his pockets to make sure he has at least one pen, and heads for the elevator.

  Venolia is reading a different magazine bearing the coverline “See Agent Scully’s Pink Tunnel” when Janwar returns to Records. She doesn’t put it down when Janwar says her name.

  “Venolia.”

  “What.”

  Janwar hasn’t thought out exactly how to introduce his offer. He looks over his shoulder to make sure nobody is coming and then slams the prescription pad down on the desk.

  Venolia looks up. “You again.” She looks back down at the magazine.

  “Can we leave Agent Scully alone for a minute?”

  Venolia doesn’t look up this time. “No.”

  “Remember I asked if I could help you with anything and—”

  Venolia drops the magazine, revealing, guess what, Agent Scully’s pink tunnel.

  “Where did you even get this thing, a corner store in 1995?”

  “Oxy,” Venolia says.

  “What?”

  “That’s what I want,” she says, to the tune of “Money” by the Beatles. “Oh yeah.”

  Judging by the jittery surgeons, enforcement is fairly lax. And if this helps him dig himself out, maybe it’s worth the risk of further punitive action…

  “What are you waiting for? Come on, then.”

  “All right. Don’t we need to be subtle about this?”

  “Do I look like I want to wait any longer?” Her face is even more ashen than the previous day, and patches of yellow sweat spread under her arms.

  “Fair enough. So in exchange for OxyContin you will fill my ticket.”

  “Yes.”

  “Today.”

  “Yes.”

  A connection sparks in Janwar’s brain. “Are you having trouble getting Oxy? I thought there was an Oxy epidemic.”

  “My usual connection said something is going on, I have to hold tight, just for a couple of weeks.”

  “That’s all he said?”

  “Nice try. That’s all he or she or they said, yes.”

  “How much can I get away with giving you?”

  “Ninety caps of 30 milligrams.”

  “Thirty milligrams is a lot.”

  “I know how much I need. I used to be a doctor. I made some personal mistakes, but there’s never been any issue with my work.”

  Janwar transcribes the amount onto the pad and squiggles his signature along with his attempt at Llew’s. “You were an MD?”

  “Yes, an anaesthesiologist.” Venolia reaches for the prescription.

  Janwar jerks back, deciding that withholding the prescription until he has the papers might be a good idea. He raises his arm above his head. “Once you fill the research request.”

  “That’s bullying. I’m calling HR.” Venolia grabs for the prescription again, but even standing she can’t come close to the height of Janwar’s hand. A droplet of sweat splats onto her magazine.

  “How long will it take?” Janwar says.

  Venolia sighs. “Come back at four.”

  “So you were an anaesthesiologist? Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you a Pusher or a Mixer?”

  “What?”

  “A Pusher or a Mixer?”

  “I heard you the first time. I just have no idea what you’re fucking talking about. I’ve been down here for ten years.”

  “Why didn’t they just fire you for whatever it was you did?”

  “There’s a limit to my garrulousness.”

  Janwar waves the prescription again.

  “I’m useful in Records.”

  “Useful how? To whom?”

  Venolia taps her head. “Think.”

  “So you’re telling me that even if you fill this request I can’t trust the data?”

  Venolia nods. “I won’t change anything from this point. I do owe you. But I can’t guarantee the data is correct as it stands now. And you’d better be back right at four. Remember, even med students have records. You sure do. Whew boy.”

  “Can I get a copy of that record too?”

  Venolia sighs.

  Janwar can’t figure out where the nurse rotation is posted, so he asks the nurse during the next operation if Rasheeda is working again this week.

  “She’s off,” Ashley says. “Holiday in Florida.”

  Rasheeda’s absence is obviously not proof of complicity or lack thereof. It means there are more questions Janwar’s not going to be able to answer at the moment. Although taking her out of his investigation feels like scratching off a name in a Clue notebook, it’s really not, Janwar has to remind himself. For a second he wonders if she’s actually been kidnapped, so she doesn’t say anything about whatever she saw during the operation, forcing her to violate OC Transpo Bylaw number 656, which he’s noticed is posted on every bus and in every bus stop: “If you see something, say something.”

  But it’s probably easier to kill someone and make it look like an accident than to hold them against their will. And what would happen after? They’d have to kill her anyway, wouldn’t they? He decides she probably is in Florida slamming margaritas by a swimming pool.

  After the operation, Janwar heads to the Tulip Cafe to re-up on coffee. He hopes Fang won’t be there. The business last night wasn’t too awkward, all things considered, but still. A cooling-off period would be good. He could go to the Lazarus Coffee by the entrance to avoid her, but that’s a long walk.

  He’s in luck. Carla is sitting at a table by herself, and she waves him over. Janwar doesn’t know Carla too well, but she’s a human being who can provide conversation and she isn’t Fang. He signals with his bandaged finger that he will join her in a second.

  His phone rings on the way to the table. He looks at the screen. His parents. If he doesn’t pick up, Ajay will keep calling and calling. He picks up. Garati.

  “Have you heard anything around the hospital about that anaesthesiologist?”

  “Which one?”

  “The Ottawa anaesthesiologist. The one that’s in the news.”

  “The Victoria newspapers?”

  “No, the Ottawa ones.”

  Janwar feels a flash of anger. He knows his mother is just interested in his life, and of course reading the Ottawa newspapers is a way to connect, but she’s got to realize he’s at work.

  “The news I’ve seen is all about OxyContin. There’s
some sort of crisis.” And he’s part of it. Janwar Gupta, pusher—with a lowercase P. Venolia better be telling the truth about knowing her limit. If another person dies because of him…Christ, Janwar. He grasps for a topic change. “Some new exciting condo development is going up that’s very environmentally friendly. I don’t think I saw anything about an anaesthesiologist.”

  “One of the anaesthesiologists at the Ottawa Civic was arrested and charged with multiple counts of sexual assault a few months ago. And now he’s starting to serve his sentence.”

  “Which one?”

  “Fletcher, something like that.”

  “Flecktarn?”

  “I don’t think so, but maybe.”

  It’s got to be. “What did he do?”

  “Even though staff were standing on the other side of the sterile screen, he put his penis into twenty-nine women’s mouths while they were sedated.”

  “Mom!”

  “That’s a lot of women.”

  “Mom!”

  “What? Are you upset I said ‘penis’? You’re a doctor. Or almost a doctor.”

  Janwar can hear Ajay shouting in the background, “Provided everything goes well.”

  Everything hasn’t been going well, and Janwar knows that’s why he’s getting angry, but he can’t stop the feeling. He also can’t figure out what to say.

  “Is everything not going well? You can tell me. Your father and I are here for you.”

  Janwar holds the phone away from his face for a second. He and Dr. Brank haven’t gotten too far into Janwar’s relationship with his parents.

  “Or is it the ‘a lot of women’ comment? We haven’t heard anything from you about nice girls in a long time.”

  “I have to go,” Janwar says.

  Ajay is shouting something in the background. The speaker scrapes as Garati covers the mouthpiece and then uncovers it again.

  “Before you go, your father is asking if you can recommend some whisky to him. His new obsession is stocking a liquor cabinet for when people come over.”

  “I thought he gardened when people came over.” Janwar’s voice comes out far meaner than he intends.