Double Blind

by Carrie Bedford

  “Someone stuck an IV in the doctor’s arm?” Parry’s tone was incredulous. “And how would that work?”

  “We think he was drugged. The killer gave him something or used ether to knock him out for long enough to get the IV started.”

  “Uh huh.” Parry snapped his notebook closed and stood up. “Interesting theory. I’ll give it some thought. Thanks again for your time, ladies.”

  “Idiot,” muttered Anita after he’d left the office. “We should march to the police station and demand that a real detective take over the case.”

  Standing, up, she retied her hair in a tight bun. We reached the door just as Pauline arrived. Her face was pale. “Anita, I thought you should know. It’s Isaac Kaminski.”

  “What?” Anita hurried away with Pauline, leaving me alone in her office. I kept the door open so I could see everyone coming and going and, when that got boring, I watched pretty pictures of babies floating across her computer screen while I tried to analyze everything Eric had said. Fifteen minutes later, Anita came back to the office. Her mascara was smudged and her eyes looked red.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Can you take a break?”

  She nodded, taking a seat on the visitor chair. “One of our patients died. He was only fourteen.” Anita rubbed her eyes. “Dammit. We’re not supposed to lose them like that.”

  My nephew, Aidan, was fourteen. I couldn’t imagine losing him, although we’d come close the previous year when he’d had peritonitis. He’d also had an aura, which had helped me get him to a hospital in time. Still, he’d been very sick for a while. I shivered, remembering the agony of watching him suffer.

  “I’m sorry, Anita.” I said. “What happened?”

  “I saw Isaac when he first came in. He’d been diagnosed with end-stage renal disease, which meant he needed a kidney transplant. I wasn’t part of the surgical team for that one but I saw him at a follow-up appointment a month after the operation. I seem to remember that he wasn’t responding well to the post-operative medication. It was an immunosuppressant, a drug designed to prevent the immune system from rejecting the new organ. He was showing some symptoms of side effects. High blood pressure, increased BUN values. It wasn’t my case of course. I was just an observer.”

  “Er, what’s a bun?”

  “Blood urea nitrogen. We can measure nitrogen in blood to assess kidney function. Here, change places with me.” She came round the desk to sit in her own chair while I moved to the visitor chair. She typed on her keyboard. “If you look at the EPR — that’s the electronic patient record — there’s no mention of negative side effects. In fact, it says here that he was making good progress.”

  “Who wrote that on the patient record?” I asked.

  Anita typed for a few seconds. “What? That can’t be right. According to this, it was Dr. Reid.”

  She sat back in her chair, drumming her fingers on the desk.

  “Why couldn’t that be right? Was Dr. Reid one of the doctors looking after Isaac?”

  “He was overseeing the team because he’s head of department. The senior physician was Dr. Schwartz. But I’m sure Dr. Reid wouldn’t get it wrong. If there were side effects, he’d have been certain to see them and record them.”

  She leaned down to open the bottom drawer in her desk. I heard papers rustling before she pulled out a sheet of creased lined paper covered in writing. “Because I’m still learning, I keep my own notes on some of the more complex cases,” she said. “I write down my observations of the patient and then review them from time to time. Hence, my complete lack of any kind of social life.”

  She put the paper on the desk, smoothed it out with the palm of her hand. “That’s what I thought,” she murmured. “On January 10th, I wrote here that Isaac was not responding well to post-operative treatment. Darn, it’s hard to make out exactly. Sometimes I can’t even read my own writing.”

  A vertical line appeared between her beautifully arched brows as she read on. “This doesn’t match at all with what is on Isaac’s electronic file. Why would Dr. Reid record inaccurate information?” She carried on typing, murmuring to herself.

  “Anita?

  “I’m sorry.” She turned the screen so that we could both see it before she opened another patient record.

  “Mark Jacobs, another teenager in for a transplant. The operation went well but the kid fell ill afterwards and was moved to intensive care.” She looked at me. “Don’t you dare tell anyone I’m showing you this. Patient confidentiality and all that.”

  “Of course not.”

  Anita pulled another sheet of paper from the drawer. “Falling hematocrit and hemoglobin levels,” she read out loud. “See,” she pointed at her notes. “This is what I recorded when I saw him. Nausea, diarrhea.”

  She pointed at the screen. “Here, it shows HCT and HGB at normal levels. Blood pressure normal, no GI issues.”

  “And was Dr. Reid the doctor who wrote that up too?”

  She pressed a few keys. “Dr. Schwartz was the presiding doctor and I assisted. Dr. Reid made the last few entries.” She leaned back in her chair, tapping one finger against the file.

  She extracted another sheet of paper and read through it. “Danny Boyd. Let’s see. Danny was in urgent need of a transplant when he came in. Kidney function was failing, as measured by his creatinine and blood urea nitrogen levels. He had potassium levels of 6.5, which is high. He couldn’t pee. The transplant seemed to go well, but then, three days later, he was also transferred to the ICU.”

  She flung herself back in her chair and rubbed at her temples.

  “How didn’t I see any of this before?” she said. “I should have noticed these discrepancies.” She put her hands flat on the desk and looked at me. “Do you think this has anything to do with why Dr. Reid died?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think you should do? Report it to another doctor?”

  “If I do, I open up an investigation into Dr. Reid and why he altered these records. I’d hate to do that. He was a good man, Kate. Besmirching his name after he’s dead just seems wrong. And if he was doing something unethical, well, he can’t do any more harm now, can he?”

  I stood up, stretched my arms over my head. My whole body felt tense.

  “I’ll think about it,” Anita said, putting the notes back in her bottom drawer and shoving it closed with a thud. “Promise not to say anything until I decide what to do. Maybe I’ll do some digging around, see if anyone else has noticed anything.”

  “I’d be careful who you talk to. If there is a connection between these files and Dr. Reid’s death, and if he was in fact murdered, you don’t want to alert anyone to how much you know.”

  “Which isn’t much, yet,” she said. “But later on, I’ll go through all these notes. Maybe something will jump out at me.”

  A knock at the door was followed by the appearance of the nurse, Pauline. “Dr. Banerjee, emergency in room 42.”

  Anita jumped to her feet. “I’ll see you at your place later.”

  I followed her out of her office, turning towards the lifts through a constant stream of patients and visitors, doctors and nurses. I saw Detective Parry, who raised a hand in greeting on his way towards the nurses’ station. Knowing he was there made me feel better about leaving Anita behind. I headed out into the chilly afternoon. Dark clouds to the west were rimmed with pink and gold, which meant that the sun had to be shining somewhere. I just couldn’t see it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I walked slowly from the hospital to the tube station, thinking about what Anita had shown me on the patient records. Was it possible that the discrepancies between the electronic records and Anita’s notes were related to Dr. Reid’s death? And what did that mean for Anita? Was her aura signaling a danger that tied into the three patient records we’d looked at?

  Realizing that I’d walked right past the station, I carried on towards the next one. In front of me, the Millennium Bridge, fictionally destroyed in a Harry Potter movie,
stretched across the Thames to the South Bank. To the west, the London Eye soared, its glass pods glowing orange in the strange half-light of the hidden sun.

  This was the view I used to see every day from my office window. I looked at my watch, tempted to make a detour to see if anyone was still there. I was impatient to get back to work. Just a few more days, I thought. But my excitement was tempered by fear. Every hour that passed brought Anita closer to death.

  I turned towards the Victoria Embankment, carried along by the strengthening crowd of early evening commuters. At the Temple tube station, I took the escalators down from the street to the platforms below, suddenly in need of a cup of hot tea and anxious to be home.

  When I got back, I tidied up the already spotless flat, straightening throws and cushions, and scrubbing the granite counters in the kitchen. I could have been doing something useful like reading the project files that Alan had emailed me, but folding towels and rearranging jars in the refrigerator in order of size seemed far more suitable to my frame of mind. After straightening all the wine bottles in their rack, I picked out a sauvignon blanc and put it in the fridge to chill. I was missing Josh, but I looked forward to spending another evening with Anita.

  I checked the time at seven and again at five past, feeling my stomach churn. Anita was late. She didn’t respond when I rang her mobile, so I scrolled through my contacts and found the number for the nurses’ station. Anita had given it to me once when her phone was broken. When one of the nurses answered, I asked for Anita.

  “She’s not here, sorry. I think she left about an hour ago.”

  “Could you just double check that she’s not in her office?” I asked. “It’s really important that I reach her.”

  “All right pet, give me a minute.”

  While I waited for the nurse to return, I stared at my reflection in the blackness of the kitchen window. Bereft of color, it was only a shadow outline, like a ghost hovering on the other side of the glass. Finally, the nurse picked up the phone. “Sorry to take so long. The lights in her office are out and her coat isn’t there. As I said, I’m sure she left already.”

  “Thanks,” I managed to say before clicking off. I decided to call Anita’s parents. I didn’t want to worry them, but there was a chance that Anita had stopped by to see them on her way over. For all that Anita complained about her dad, she was close to her mother and often dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat.

  “Hello, Mrs. Banerjee,” I said. “I was wondering if Anita is with you? I have a question I need to ask her.”

  “Kate, dear, how lovely to hear from you. I was just thinking about you, actually. I’m making tarka daal for dinner and I know that’s one of your favorites.”

  “It is, when you make it.” Anita’s mother was a terrific cook. “So, is Anita there by any chance?”

  “No, I’m sorry, she’s not. Have you tried her mobile? She’s so busy, I never know where she is. She promised to come over for dinner this week though, so perhaps you could come with her? You know we’d like to see you. Oh and before you go, can you explain again how to change the ring tone on my phone? You’re so good at that technical stuff, but I tried what you told me and it’s not working.”

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I began and then relented. “Go to Settings and we’ll take it from there.”

  It took five minutes, at the end of which Mrs. Banerjee happily announced that her ringtone now played Mozart’s Symphony number 40 in G Minor.

  “Come for dinner soon, love,” she said.

  “I will,” I promised. “Thanks Mrs. B. I’ll see you soon.”

  I rang off quickly, anxious to try Anita’s cell again. There was still no answer. My heart was beating fast and I felt short of breath. I tried to calm myself. If she were on the tube, there’d be no cell signal. But the journey should only take twenty minutes or so. I looked at my watch again. I checked the news on the television to make sure nothing had happened to disrupt the tube service. I ran through various scenarios in my head, and considered walking down to the station to see if she was on her way. Perhaps her phone had run out of power. Maybe it had been lost or stolen.

  The sound of someone on the landing outside the front door dispelled all my fears. She was here. I ran to the door and threw it open.

  “Josh!”

  He had been looking for his key, slightly handicapped by the huge bouquet he held in one hand. His bag and briefcase were on the floor and he put the flowers down on top of them before wrapping his arms around me. “The meetings finished early enough for us to get a train back this evening,” he said.

  When I burst into tears, he grasped my hands in his. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m so glad to see you.” I couldn’t talk properly through the tears, and he gently steered me into the living room. “Sit down and I’ll make some tea,” he said. He went back to the door, brought his things inside and then I heard the clink of cups in the kitchen.

  After a minute of sitting alone on the sofa, I jumped up and went to join him. He was running water into a vase and I picked up the flowers to sniff them. “I love these. Thank you,” I said.

  “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked again. “You seem very upset. Didn’t you want me to come over this evening?” His eyes were shadowed with concern and I felt a huge upwelling of guilt.

  “Of course I did. I’m just really worried about Anita.”

  I brought him up to date on the events of the day, telling him about Grace, her analysis of Dr. Reid’s death, and Anita’s concern about the altered patient records. “I haven’t heard from her and she seems to have left the hospital.” I felt tears welling in my eyes again and rubbed them away.

  “I’m sure she’s all right,” said Josh. “Maybe she went down to see Grace again, or stopped to talk to someone else in the hospital.”

  “But she’d answer her phone if she saw it was me calling,” I objected.

  “Cell service goes out all the time,” he said, stretching the truth in an attempt to console me. “Or it might be a delay on the Underground. She could be stuck between stations.”

  I imagined a marooned tube train in a dark tunnel. A crash or a terrorist attack? The options didn’t make me feel any better.

  “Mechanical problems,” Josh said as though reading my thoughts. “Don’t assume the worst, Kate.”

  He took my hands in his. “You say that her aura hasn’t changed much since you first saw it. That means that she’s not dead, not even close to dying yet. So we have time to find her if she’s missing. Okay?”

  I leaned into him, drawing some comfort from the feeling of his arms around me. When we heard the kettle come to a boil, I pulled back and looked at him. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  While we drank our tea, there was a lull in the storm raging in my head. Life felt normal. I was safe. Josh loved me. For just a minute or two, I convinced myself that I was over-reacting. But then I felt the panic returning. Josh sensed it, took my cup and put it with his in the dishwasher.

  “Where do you want to start?” he said. “Should we go to the hospital or her flat?”

  “Her flat is closer. Let’s go there first. None of this makes sense, though. She would have called if she planned to stop off at home.”

  We were soon ready to leave, dressed warmly against the night-time chill. While we waited outside for a taxi, I filled in more details for Josh, telling him about Anita’s fear that she’d been followed home a few nights earlier. Traffic was light along the Westway, which gave our taxi driver the opportunity to show off his Formula One driving skills. I grabbed the door handle each time he took a corner fast, but we finally arrived in one piece outside Anita’s flat in Marylebone, which was on the ground floor of a modern low-rise.

  Anita had given me a set of keys when she first moved into the flat. I found the larger key, which unlocked the front door. A light turned on automatically when we walked into the small lobby.
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br />   Unlocking the door to her flat, I pushed it open. It was dark and she obviously wasn’t home, but I flipped on a light switch just to check. At the sight of the chaos inside my stomach contracted as though I’d been punched. The living room had been ransacked. Sofa cushions were strewn on the floor, and all the books had been swept from shelves. Magazines littered the carpet like colorful confetti. The flat panel television was still in place and intact, which made me think this was no common burglary. Josh grabbed my hand and we made our way to the kitchen. Every drawer and cabinet door was open, many of the contents lying in pieces on the floor. The room was cold, a draft moaning through a broken window in the back door that led to a tiny patio. Glass shards littered the linoleum floor.

  My mouth was dry as we tiptoed up the short hallway to Anita’s room. I prayed that she wasn’t here, hurt or worse. Josh flipped on the bedroom light to reveal more evidence of a thorough search. There was no sign of Anita. Every drawer was open and there were armfuls of clothes on the carpet. The wardrobe gaped open, most of its contents puddled on the floor. The bedclothes and pillows formed a small white hill on one side of the stripped bed. But Anita’s jewelry was still on the dressing table.

  Retracing our steps to the living room, we looked for signs of anything that had been stolen. “Her laptop,” I said, finally. “Usually she leaves it on the coffee table. She never takes it to work.”

  We searched for it amidst the detritus on the floor but found nothing, not even the charging cable.

  “Theft then,” said Josh.

  “It seems like a lot of work for one computer?”

  A noise from the hallway sent my heart rate rocketing. Josh put his finger to his lips and we both ducked down behind the sofa.

  “Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice.

  I peeked around the end of the sofa. A middle-aged woman in purple sweats and slippers stood at the front door, with one hand on the doorknob.