by Melissa Yi
Graveyard Shift
Hope Sze Medical Crime Novel 7
Melissa Yi
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Copyright © 2019 by Melissa Yuan-Innes
Published by Olo Books in association with Windtree Press
Cover photo by boscorelli © 2014⎮Deposit Photos
Cover design © 2019 by Design for Writers
Yi, Melissa, author Graveyard Shift / Melissa Yi.
(Hope Sze crime novel; 7)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927341-76-6, (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-927341-77-3 (PDF)
I. Title. C813'.6
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names or events in this novel have been changed or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This novel portrays medical crises and death and includes sexual references and frank language.
To advise of typographical errors, please contact [email protected]
For Elana Fric
Hospitals are only an intermediate stage of civilization, never intended at all even to take in the whole sick population.
Florence Nightingale
A hospital alone shows what war is.
Erich Maria Remarque
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Melissa Yi
1
"I just need a refill, doc." The emaciated, over-tanned woman glared at me from the black vinyl bed of St. Joseph's ER exam room number 4. "I ran out over the holidays. My stomach hurts so bad, I want to puke."
"Right, Ms. Goody," I said, eyeing the crumpled bag of chips she'd tossed at the garbage can and missed. Whenever the triage nurse wants to indicate that the patient's 10/10 abdominal pain is B.S., she'll write, Says pain 10/10. Eating chips.
And guess what? Narcotic addicts often complain about stomach pain, nausea, and vomiting.
It was 23:06, Lori Goody was my inaugural patient on my first emergency room night shift back in Montreal, and I was in no mood for bull when I had nine horrid hours to go.
I handed back her empty, yellow pill bottle. "The problem is, you refilled this prescription a week ago. You should have enough Dilaudid to last you until next month. It’s only January eleventh."
The patient pushed herself into a sitting position, her brown eyes narrowed behind fake eyelashes. Since she looked like Miss Anorexia, I secretly marvelled that she had enough muscle mass to prop herself up. "What’s your problem? You a doctor?"
"Yes. I’m Dr. Sze." I showed her my badge and adjusted the stethoscope hung around the back of my neck. "We're trying not to prescribe narcotics because over 17,000 Americans died from prescription opioids in 2017." It hit Canada, too—about half that number in the past two years—although most of them overdosed on synthetic Fentanyl bought unlabeled on the street. "Ms. Goody, I checked the blood work from your last visit. Your potassium was slightly high—"
She waved her hand at me. "I heard of you. Hope Sze." She pronounced it like Zee, which is close enough. "You’re the one who’s always running around with murderers."
Stung, I said, "I don’t run around. I've solved a few cases—"
"Get me a real doctor. One who's not in school anymore, and one who doesn’t think she’s the police."
I glanced at the door behind me. I could grab the supervising physician. Even though I'm a doctor, I'm what used to be called an intern, and I think patients have the right to refuse trainees.
On the other hand, I'd have to bug Dr. Chia, who was finishing up her evening shift with me on the ambulatory, or walk-in, side. I’d already messed up an intubation with Dr. Chia at the beginning of my medical residency six months ago.
No, I'd battle it out for a few minutes with a narcotic-seeking patient instead of immediately weeping on my staff. I tried to smile. "Ms. Goody, I am an M.D. doing my post-graduate residency training—"
"Right. You're a resident. That's useless. Get me the real doctor."
I sucked in my cheeks and checked the door to my left and then the one behind me again, wishing that Lori Goody would take off.
The white-walled examining room barely felt big enough for the two of us plus the examining room bed, a chair, and the newly-added ledge that squashed me against the right wall as I checked the monitor for St. Joe's brand new electronic record system, SARKET.
"Got it? Or maybe you no understand Engleesh?" The patient jabbed a pink acrylic nail at me.
Oh, my God. She'd noticed my Asian heritage and was trying to mimic a Chinese accent. My instinct was to face punch her, but as a doctor, you have to act professionally and smile even though patients will report you at the drop of a nun's cap.
"Maybe because you're too busy making Fentanyl?"
Ugh. She must have read those headlines like China Is Poisoning America With Fentanyl. I gazed at her, ignoring her T-shirt slogan, BL♣︎W ME, I'M IRISH. "Actually, China made Fentanyl a controlled substance, Ms. Goody—"
"For fuck's sake. Get me the real doctor. My heart is racing. You're giving me a heart attack." She placed her palm on her chest and hyperventilated, exaggerating the stringy tendons of her neck as well as minimal boobage.
Lori Goody was 35 years old. She'd only have a heart attack with seriously nasty genes and/or cocaine and speed.
Although, speaking of drugs, she had that look, the one my new boyfriend, Tucker, called "rode hard and put away wet": bleached brown hair, darker skin than me even though she was white enough to insult my ancestry, uneven teeth, frosted pink lipstick that might have looked good a few decades ago, and grimy running shoes with no socks despite the icy January weather.
I approached her cautiously, reaching for the navy stethoscope draping the back of my neck. "I can listen to your heart—"
She seized both ends of the stethoscope and wrenched them in opposite directions, to strangle me.
2
I immediately brought my fists together between us and tried to knock her arms away. Kind of like Wonder Woman banging her magic bracelets together and then spreading her arms apart.
I'd taken a few self-defence classes, but learned this move while practicing Akido with my friend Ginger. Also, external shoulder rotators are stronger than internal rotators. I knew that from our clinical methods course, when I practiced on another small, female medical student.
The problem was, Lori Goody had crossed both ends of the stethoscope so tightly around my neck, I couldn't wedge my fingers between the rubber tube and my own skin. The only way I could get any leeway was to press o
n my own throat, indenting it to try and wiggle under the stethoscope.
Not going to happen.
C'mon, Hope. Time to change tactics.
I dug my nails into her fingers to pry them off. I had long, strong nails, and I was willing to draw blood.
She didn't seem to feel my attempts to carve up her digits. Her grip tightened.
This close, her eyes glittered with glee, even more manic behind those half-inch eyelashes. She cackled. "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to dance in your blood!"
You'll never get a prescription that way, I thought, but as I gasped, she wound it tighter.
My brain grew hazy. My vision darkened at the edges.
I’d faced down killers before, and I was going to die like this? Strangled by an opioid addict with my own stethoscope?
Hell, no.
I grabbed her shoulders and kneed her in the stomach with everything I had. Her wiry abdominal muscles caved in.
She bent over with a silent gasp. The pressure eased a little, but not enough.
I drove my right thumb into her closest eye. It gave a pulpy squish.
She screeched so loudly that it made my eardrums crinkle up in horror, but the important part was that her hands loosened, and I could breathe again.
I stumbled backwards, spots in my vision. My stethoscope fell to the floor, its diaphragm banging on my toes, but I didn't care. As long as that weapon was away from my throat, I could afford to replace a stethoscope. Add it to my line of credit, sir.
I backed up so I could keep an eye on Lori Goody while I wrenched the door handle with my right hand. Now I thanked God for a tiny room. It made the exits literally two footsteps away.
"Oh, no you don't." Lori Goody leapt toward me, displaying her crooked teeth and—where did she get that?—a green-handled disposable scalpel, its steel blade pointed directly at me. "I'm going to cut your tits off."
What a bizarre thing to say. I flung the door open. Since it hinged inward, I had to take a step back to escape into the hall.
Dr. Callendar, a dreadful family medicine doctor who moonlit in the emergency room, stood framed in the doorway, blocking my exit. "What is going on—"
He broke off as Lori Goody lunged toward me.
I shoved Dr. Callendar backward as I scrambled for freedom. If he wanted to chat, or do hand to hand combat, better him than me.
Dr. Callendar was bigger than me, at least 5'7", but he put up no resistance, so we ended up stumbling into the hallway in a sort of human snowball, him, me, and a screeching Lori Goody, who yanked my hair backwards so hard that my scalp screamed and my neck spasmed as she jerked me upright.
I blocked out the agony. I reached for the claws of the beast ironically named Lori Goody, trying to imprison them.
I twisted my body clockwise as best I could with my hair still clenched.
I had to know where the scalpel was.
I caught a glimpse of the green scalpel handle. She was right-handed. That arm was coming down.
I brought my left arm up in a hard block, into her inner wrist. Thank you, Ginger.
"Bitch!" Lori Goody squeezed out, but her wrist flexed and her fingers spasmed open. The scalpel hit the floor.
She lunged for it, then changed her mind and charged me, snarling, with both hands raised in the air.
I kicked her still-tender stomach. Actually, she came at me so fast, I ended up kneeing her and belatedly extending my leg as she keeled over.
"Dr. Sze!" Dr. Callendar shouted.
Typical that he'd scream at me while a patient literally tried to stab me in the back and/or carve off my breasts.
"Code White," I thundered back at him as loudly as possible with a mashed throat. That was Callendar's cue to alert everyone that a patient was out of control. A Code White immediately summoned security, not to mention orderlies, nurses, and a doctor to pin this nutbar down (physical restraints) and start drugging the bejeezus out of her (chemical restraints).
Hell, with someone this insane, we needed the police. Preferably all of them.
Dr. Callendar stayed sprawled on the floor outside ambulatory room number 4, still hollering at me, but a nurse took up the call.
"CODE WHITE. CODE WHITE. AMBULATORY SIDE," she shouted, and the nurses on both halves of the ER stared at us for a microsecond before one of them broke toward us, and the rest began to swarm.
Meanwhile, Lori Goody bent over her sore stomach, covering one eye, panting beside Dr. Callendar, but her good eye lasered in on me. "I'm gonna kill you." She started to run, so I ran, too, toward the opposite side of the ER.
There was a wide double door between the ambulatory (walk-in) and acute (ambulance) sides of the ER. That was how we wheeled patients out for X-rays or up to the floor. I could have swerved right beside the old X-ray light boxes and punched open that door, fleeing the emerg altogether. Only another short right would take me down the hall and straight out the ER exit, streaking past a startled security guard.
But what if Lori Goody chased me outside, into the night?
What if the security guard had left his post to scratch his balls?
I couldn't count on waiting patients to do anything except sit and stare as she eviscerated me with a scalpel.
Behind me, she swore, "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you. I'll cut your eyes out, I'll eat your nipples—"
I flinched, but I wouldn't freeze like Dr. Callendar.
I dashed for the nursing station on the acute side, a loose circle of counter space topped by Plexiglass, while the clerk with the punk rock haircut gaped at me, and more nurses and orderlies converged on Lori Goody.
"Code White! Code White!" I yelled at their backs, like a raspy jockey urging them to gallop toward the finish line.
Soon a blessedly flat woman's voice sounded over the loudspeakers. "Code White, Emergency Department. Code Blanc, Salle D'urgence."
"It's okay, Hope, it's okay," said Julie, a female préposée, or orderly, as she shouldered past me, which almost made me laugh.
Anyone with eyes (and Lori Goody might only half fall into this category now) could tell that it wasn't rainbows and moonbeams outside exam room 4.
I had to escape from Lori Goody without putting everyone else in jeopardy.
"Call the police!" I snapped at Julie.
I needed a weapon.
I cast my eyes around the acute side, the side where the bedridden patients lay in stretchers around the perimeter of the room, plus anywhere else we could fit them around the nursing station.
I ignored the paperwork and clipboards strewn over the countertops—useless, unless I thought I could briefly blind her with a blizzard of faxes and reports.
I bypassed the three new computers for SARKET. Also worthless, unless I wanted to heave an LED screen at her.
I did once hear of a PCP patient who ripped out an old school TV embedded in the wall. Another PCP-er strapped to the bed in five-point restraints somehow managed to flip himself into standing position with the bed on his back, like the world's most menacing turtle.
PCP made you that strong and that crazy. Maybe I'd stumbled on Lori Goody's diagnosis. She'd run out of Dilaudid and switched to phencyclidine. PCP was before my time, but maybe drugs were like fashion and cycled in and out every few decades.
My kingdom for a metal urinal. Now, that would have made a decent shield. It was a shame both for safety and the environment that we’d moved on to disposable urinals and bed pans made out of cardboard.
Finally, I spotted someone's iPad on the counter, open to MDCalc. The owner would kill me, but at this point, I'd take a delayed death over one in the next five minutes. I seized the iPad as my shield. It had a case and a glass front. That would do.
I whipped around to check where Lori Goody had gone. Ouch. Pain pierced my neck, but I ignored it, scanning the room.
Dr. Callendar was so useless, he might have continued her history and physical exam and gotten stabbed in the cojones for his troubles.
Ah. If only one good thing w
ould come out of tonight.
Kidding. But I permitted myself a small smile. It felt like Tucker and I were under constant attack. Why not let the bad guys take a hit once in a while?
Back on the ambulatory side, maybe fifty feet away—I wasn’t good with distances—I peered at the scrum of white coats, green scrubs, hair, and twisting arms and legs, at the ambulatory side's mini nursing station, which was really a countertop with rolling stools. They'd turned it into an L shape with an extra computer because of SARKET, but that counter "arm" blocked my view and trapped them in a smaller area.
"Get her arm!" shouted Dr. Chia.
Lori Goody had twisted Dr. Chia's lab coat and, even from halfway across the bay, it looked like LG might break the doctor's wrist.
"I've got her arm. Aughh!" That was Dr. Callendar again. He'd started climbing to his feet before LG caught him under the chin. He tipped backward, his black hair headed straight for the ground again.
"Where are all the guards?" a nurse screamed. "Aren't we supposed to have a thousand of them after the OR?"
What happened in the operating room?
Meanwhile, Dr. Chia, Dr. Callendar, two nurses, and the small orderly all tried to pin Lori Goody to the floor. The problem was, with so little room, they bashed into rolling stools and even into each other while she bit and kicked and punched and spat, scaring them into loosening their grip.
I approached cautiously, holding the iPad in front of my chest.
As soon as Lori Goody caught sight of me, she gave a tonsil-rattling howl and struggled upright before the orderly, who was barely taller than my five foot two, somehow knocked her feet out from under her.
