The Sixth Sense (Brier Hospital Series Book 3)

by Lawrence Gold

  “One more thing, Henry, if you’re so naive as to believe that there’s a chance in hell that Monica’s going out on a limb for you, you’re more stupid than I thought.”

  Henry remained silent.

  Brian shook his head, staring into the distance. “I’m not going to jail, Henry. No way.”

  Henry rose, started away, stopped, and turned to face Brian. “Dream on Brian, and by the way, you’re not looking so terrific yourself.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Jordan Goodman sat with me having our morning coffees. “Arnie, my phone’s ringing off the hook. Everyone who received Taxol in our program is in full panic mode. Even those who are doing well and are beyond the period of recurrence are sure that their cancer is back. Those who failed treatment and the families of those who died are out for blood. They’re enraged that those sons-of-bitches at Horizon Pharmacy destroyed their last hope.”

  “It’s inconceivable,” I said, my mind whirling, overwhelmed again with sensory input. “Henry Fischer and Brian Shands are sociopaths willing to sacrifice innocent lives to make a buck.”

  “You read the paper, Arnie. These felony charges are a joke. I’m calling the DA to demand that he charge those bastards with murder or manslaughter.”

  My first call came from Matthew Wallace.

  “When I read the paper, Dr. Roth, I broke down in tears. These bastards brought misery, destroyed Debbie’s hope, and perhaps stole her very life. I’m not a violent man, but Arnie, if I had the chance…”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, but let’s focus our energies on Debbie, and what’s best for her. How did she respond to the news?”

  “She didn’t, Arnie. She sat there, saying nothing.”

  The second call was from Irving Hodges.

  “Is it true, Dr. Roth?” came the subdued question.

  “I’m afraid so, Irv. The entire medical community is in an uproar that this could happen here. They won’t get away with it, I promise.”

  “Will that bring my Beatrice back to me, Doctor?”

  That night I sat at the side of the bed. The alarm clock displayed three a.m.

  Lois turned over. “What’s the matter, Arnie?”

  I looked into her eyes. “It’s reaching the point of distraction. The aromas haunt me everywhere I go. I can’t think straight. Memories constantly flood my mind, and my dreams are nightmares of harsh visual and olfactory hallucinations. During the day, I’m barely functional.”

  “Call Jack or call the Utah program. You must let them know how far this has progressed.”

  “I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll call Jack in the morning.”

  It had finally happened, I thought, as I stood outside the ICU the next morning, overwhelmed by unseen forces. I was trembling, panting, and retreating from what? In fear of what? Sweat dripped over my face and soaked my neck and shirt.

  My forebodings of the night before were becoming reality. I was obsessed and more distracted by the avalanche of aromas and memories. I had no way of escaping. I tried everything: staying in familiar places, chewing gum, and sucking on mints. I even placed Vicks VapoRub under my nose. I first used that trick when attending autopsies in medical school. It worked then, but not now—nothing worked.

  I managed to get into the fifth floor dictating room and closed the door behind. I sat with my head down on the table. The dual assaults on my olfactory system and my psyche continued with the profusion of aromas permeating the hospital: disinfectants, from alcohol to iodines; antibiotics; perfumes and lotions from floral to spicy; human waste; blood, fresh and decayed; perspiration, pure and foul, with or without deodorants; bacterial and fungal decay; foods of all types and conditions from fresh to putrid; coffee, from rich and aromatic to burnt, and uncountable others, some recognizable, others unknown.

  I picked up the phone and dialed home. When Lois answered, I said, “It’s too much for me, Lo. I can’t think straight. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Brier.”

  “Where at Brier?”

  “The fifth floor dictating room.”

  “Can you come home?”

  “What?”

  “Can you leave and drive home?”

  “Leave what?”

  “The hospital and come home,” she tried again.

  “I barely made it here. I can’t drive. I can’t concentrate on anything. It’s too much…It’s too much.”

  “I’m calling Jack Byrnes. Stay put. Don’t move.”

  “Lois, I’m losing my mind. I can’t control the memories, the images, and the confusion of aromas.”

  “Stay put. I’m putting you on hold, but I’ll be right back. Don’t hang up, baby.”

  The line clicked. I stared at the phone, and then put the handset on the table. I was living the sensory equivalent of James Joyce’s stream of consciousness. It was the chaos of a brain mired in a cloudburst, a downpour of olfactory-memory confusion. My brain felt as if it were drowning. Images and thoughts flashed through my mind, frenzied breaking waves and no life preserver in sight.

  I was afraid to breathe as the room air lingered at the threshold of my nose. I held my breath, a moment’s respite, before my body forced the issue and my nasal cavity filled with the vivid, compelling molecules that demanded my attention to the exclusion of all else, an olfactory kaleidoscope of multicolored fireworks filling the night sky. Every recognizable molecule now evoked a memory, while the unidentifiable and the unknown played games with my brain as it struggled to make sense of the overwhelming molecular quagmire.

  I heard the distant resounding voice yelling my name. “Arnie…Arnie, it’s Jack.” I couldn’t focus enough to respond. I felt someone or something pulling at my arm and shoulder. All of it, the aromas, the memories, the sounds, the touch, and a blinding white light took over as my brain, to protect itself, switched into shutdown mode. My mind raised its protective barriers and the sensory input finally faded into oblivion, sinking into the abyss of my unconscious mind.

  Jack approached the transcription room. Arnie was sitting, head down, and frozen and immobile. Lois’ voice sounded through the handset. “Arnie…Arnie…pick up. It’s Lois, pick up.”

  Jack grabbed the handset. “Lois?”

  “Yes. Jack. Where’s Arnie?”

  “He’s here. Hang on.”

  Jack shook him. “Arnie, are you all right?”

  Arnie’s head remained on the table, his eyes open, but unseeing. Jack pulled him into a sitting position. Arnie’s passive movement was that of adjusting the position of a manikin. He remained frozen in position, expressionless, silent.

  “You’d better get down here ASAP, Lois. Arnie’s unresponsive.”

  “Unresponsive!” shouted Lois. “I don’t understand. Where will he be?”

  “I’m admitting him to the psych ward. Ross Cohen, the psychiatrist, will be in to see him as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Following the San Francisco Chronicle’s article about Horizon Drugs, Jim McDonald, like all who did business with Henry Fischer and Brian Shands, was frantic about the effects on his own patients.

  Edith Keller, Brier’s infectious disease specialist, had formulated an approach to the pneumonia vaccine patients and distributed it to the staff.

  “Get me a list,” McDonald told his nurse, “of everyone who received Pneumovax in the last two years. We must determine if they’re protected, or will need re-vaccination.”

  As Jim prepared to see his first patient of the day, his intercom buzzed. “I have Joseph Rinaldi on the line. He’d like a word with you.”

  My God, he thought. Connie…Pneumovax…pneumonia!

  Jim picked up the phone. “Joe. What’s up?”

  “You read the Chronicle article about Horizon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard in all my years of practice. I can�
��t tell you how angry I am.”

  “You’re angry,” he hesitated, preparing for the eruption he’d been suppressing, “I’m about to explode that this could happen…that it happened to Connie. They nearly killed her. Look what’s left of our daughter’s life. I could murder those bastards.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, but I must focus on Connie and my other patients and what’s best for them now.”

  “Is there anything we can do to see to it that they pay?”

  “It’s with the DA now. I’m sure they’ll get what they deserve.”

  “I mean, can we sue them for what they did to Connie?”

  I don’t any part of this, thought Jim.

  “I’m not an attorney, but we know that justice is not always just.”

  “What does that mean?” he said, raising his voice.

  “I don’t want to get into this with you, Joe. We’re on the same side. We’ll have to wait and see what the DA does.”

  “That’s not enough. They nearly murdered her. Shouldn’t they have to pay?”

  “Find a way of making peace with this, Joe. Focus on your family, on Connie. I’ll do what I can, believe me.”

  “But,” he persisted, “it’s clear, isn’t it? They nearly killed Connie.”

  Shit, Jim McDonald thought, he may be relentless, but he’s right.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, Joe. Their attorneys are going to spin this to the defendant’s advantage. They’re going to say that Connie had severe bronchitis to begin with. That illness predisposed her to respiratory infections, and that we can’t prove that the adulterated vaccine had anything to do with her pneumonia. It makes me more cynical than I am, that they’d go so far, and more infuriated that it’s a strategy that might work in court.”

  Jack Byrnes had Warren Davidson, the chief of medicine, on the phone. “Can you get over to a meeting at noon to discuss the Horizon Pharmacy situation?”

  “No problem.”

  “I reserved the medical staff office conference room.” Jack hesitated a moment and then said, “I admitted Arnie Roth to the psych unit this morning.”

  “You what?”

  “I had no choice. He’s catatonic. Depressed. This olfactory thing has been overwhelming.”

  “My God,” said Warren. “Who’s going to see him?”

  “Ross Cohen.”

  “Good, he’s the best. Can Arnie have visitors?”

  “Not yet. I’ll see you at noon.”

  Cindy Hines carried a tray of sandwiches into the QA meeting room. Edith Keller had come early and was sitting at the table reading the Oakland Tribune. She looked up at Cindy “It’s all over the news. Henry Fischer and Brian Shands; why am I not surprised?”

  “I can’t help thinking that those bastards had a part in what happened to Mike,” Cindy said. “I hate the ‘what ifs’ of life, but what if Mike responded well to the EPO? What if his healing improved? What if we’d had a chance to deal with his depression? Would he be here today?”

  Edith shook her head. “Those bastards never gave him a chance.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Cindy said.

  Edith shook her head slowly. “No, it’s not. It’s the logical extension of what’s happening in our culture overall, and with health care providers in particular.”

  “You’ve come a long way from Ames, Iowa, Edith. You’ve become a cynic.”

  “Maybe, but I understand greed. It doesn’t know geographic boundaries, but naively, I expected more from a place like Berkeley. I expected more from people who call themselves medical professionals.”

  Cindy held Edith’s hand. “Judges can be corrupt, priests can be pedophiles, cops can be killers, and medical people can be incompetent and evil. Let’s not blame the institution, let’s put the blame where it belongs, on sociopaths like Henry Fischer and Brian Shands.”

  Warren Davidson and Jack Byrnes entered the meeting room.

  Jack picked up his sandwich. “Let me have a quick bite, and we’ll get started.”

  “Whatever we think of these men now,” Warren said, “I can’t believe that anyone thought they’d stoop to such a level. It’s astonishing. It’s like Lily Tomlin said: no matter how cynical you get, it’s impossible to keep up.”

  Jack took his last bite, downed his coffee. “That’s the reason we’re here today. It all makes sense now.”

  “Of course,” said Edith, “the excessive use of EPO and the failure of the Pneumovax immunization to protect patients. All of it stems from the same problem.”

  Warren turned to Jack. “Bring me up to speed.”

  Jack told Warren about the QA study on excessive EPO usage, and the chart review revealing the deaths of patients from pneumonia—deaths that should not have occurred in patients previously vaccinated.

  Warren reddened. “Those bastards messed with the EPO and the pneumonia vaccine, in addition to the Taxol.”

  “The EPO dilution meant that the docs had to prescribe more for the same effect,” Edith said, “but diluting or failing to give an effective dose of Pneumovax, can leave our chronically ill and aged patients vulnerable to infection. We must deal with that right away. It’s probably simplest to re-immunize them and hope that patients won’t suffer any adverse effects.”

  “I’ll notify the district attorney,” Jack said. “They will need to pursue that side of the investigation as well.” Jack hesitated. “Can we do that, Ben, considering that this is confidential QA information?”

  “Fuck it!” Warren said. “This is too important. I’ll call the DA myself if you like.”

  Kevin Walters, a moderate conservative, had inexplicably been elected District Attorney in ultra liberal Berkeley where, for once, the highly politicized electorate went for competence rather than ideology. Nevertheless, both sides of the political spectrum discovered ways of constantly scrutinizing and disparaging the DA’s actions.

  His sizable city hall conference room walls had the flags of the United States and the State of California. Governor Jerry Brown’s face smiled from a large gold-framed portrait. The victims and families and their attorneys packed the room, all trying to talk at once.

  Walters raised his arms in an attempt to silence the crowd. “If you’ll stop yelling for a moment, I’ll try to answer your questions.”

  “How come you’re not charging these animals with murder or manslaughter?” said a middle age woman sitting in the front row.

  An elderly woman with the PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) logo on her sweater rose. “Don’t you dare use the term animal about these murderers. No animal is capable of such evil.”

  “First of all,” Kevin said, “we’re not finished charging these defendants. Today, we received indications that Mr. Fischer and Mr. Shands were altering, misbranding, or diluting two other drugs. We’re investigating and will amend the charges as needed.”

  “You didn’t answer her question,” said a well-dressed man holding a legal yellow pad standing at the rear.

  “I’m not going to tell you now what additional charges we may file after we fully understand what these defendants have done. We need a chance to review the case law on the subject. I see several attorneys in the room, and I’m sure they’ll agree.” He paused and continued, “and please don’t think me cruel, but it won’t be easy to prove that someone who is already sick with a fatal disease was murdered by the actions of these defendants.”

  “They killed my Betty,” said an elderly man, clearly distraught. “She had one chance, her chemotherapy. They robbed her of that opportunity.”

  “I know how you feel,” Kevin said. “If it was one of my family, I’d like nothing better than to string up the bastards, but I’m an officer of the court, and a servant of the people, and I can do only what the law allows. I promise to do my best to add other charges when and if the evidence supports them, and I think we can win in court.”

  The room burst again into shouting as Kevin rapped on the table. “That’s all I have to say t
oday. I’m sure your attorneys will inform you of the other venues where you can seek justice, such as the civil courts. Thank you,” he said as he left the room.

  When Kevin returned to his office, his secretary stood and apologized. “I couldn’t keep him out. He just barged in.”

  When he entered his office, Byron Potts, the Republican Party Chairman, sat behind Kevin’s desk.

  Another stupid power play, Kevin thought.

  Kevin walked to the side of his desk and waited.

  Byron smiled then stood and moved into a chair before Kevin’s desk. “You got yourself a big headache here, Kev.”

  Byron Potts, now in his early sixties, had been the party chairman in Alameda County for years. Byron was a study in contrasts. While personally disheveled and sucking on an unlit, soggy cigar, he wore a beautiful Armani suit. Byron, brought his chrome monogrammed Zippo lighter to the end of his cigar. “You won’t mind if I light up.”

  “I certainly mind, and so do the people of Berkeley.”

  Byron frowned, then put the lighter away. “Kevin, whatever you do, you better not fuck up this case. You’re about the only thing going for us in this liberal wasteland.”

  “You’ve got balls to come here now about this case. I know what’s at stake politically, but I’m an officer of the court, not the judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “If you plea this out, we’re going to look bad. We’re the tough law-and-order party.”

  “Would you rather have me overcharge and lose in court because we can’t make our case?”

  “Hell, yes, I would. I’d rather have the public blame the liberal courts and the gutless Berkeley jurors than take it out on us.”

  “Find me one case where I can prove that the actions of these defendants directly caused the death or injury of someone, and I’ll take this to the limit. I’ll charge them with manslaughter. If you can’t, then get the hell off my back.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  How cliché, I thought as I watched my life flashing by in black and white like the pages of a newspaper streaming across a microfiche viewer. The images were recognizable even at this speed, but moved too rapidly to focus on any one. Images and aromas of a life: Mom and Dad around the breakfast table with bacon sizzling in the frying pan and fresh-grilled buttermilk biscuits stacked high on a plate; the feeling of security as I lay under the warm bed covers with a cold, the vaporizer spewing billows of steam and tincture of benzoin; the locker room filled with the jibes, taunts, and the smell of high school athletes; my first touch of Lois’s skin and the soft scent of Shalimar; Amy’s birth, her new-baby smell, and thousands of other images.