Stigma

by Philip Hawley Jr.

  “I should be in Guatemala,” Calderon said, “but I’m here, taking care of your problem. Remember?”

  “Why linger near her house? Why take the chance?”

  “You should know the answer to that by now — looking for loose ends.”

  “Seen anything that worries you?”

  “Nothing,” Calderon said. “Nothing at all.”

  11

  “All in favor?” Barnesdale asked.

  Ben Wilson watched six of the eight Medical Executive Committee members — all of whom had been handpicked by Barnesdale for their obsequious nature — raise a hand into the air. In a tiresome display of chickenhearted solidarity, the hens sitting around the conference table had just voted to place Luke McKenna on suspension.

  “Opposed?”

  Ben and Caleb Fagan waved their hands in a flimsy gesture that underscored its futility.

  Barnesdale swiped at an unseen speck of dust on the corner of the conference table. The hens strained to catch a glimpse of the offending particle, as if to conjure its significance.

  The meeting — in fact, the entire day — had grown long in the tooth. Ben had awoken that morning to a call, summoning him to this emergency meeting that for some god-rotting reason couldn’t wait until Monday. So here he was, at seven o’clock on a Saturday night.

  Barnesdale hadn’t even shown the courtesy of telling them the purpose of the meeting. After hearing the scuttlebutt about Kate Tartaglia’s murder, Ben had initially wondered whether there might be some connection. It seemed odd that her name hadn’t even come up during their meeting.

  Barnesdale said, “Anyone have something they want to add?”

  Ben knew there was nothing left to say, but he reached inside and found something anyway. “Only a buzzard feeds on its friends.”

  The outside attorney that Barnesdale had invited to the meeting said, “Let’s not forget that Dr. McKenna is being suspended with pay, and only for three weeks — just long enough for this committee to do a proper investigation of the incident.”

  Ben stared at the attorney, which wasn’t easy. The man had a wandering eye that was distracting as hell. Supposedly, he was there “to clarify any legal issues that arise.” Instead, Barnesdale had used his legal henchman to frighten the committee, which, Ben conceded, was not a particularly difficult feat.

  Any support for Luke had quickly wilted after Wandering Eye dropped his bomb on them. If the football player, Erickson, sued the medical group, every physician in the group would be personally liable because the group’s malpractice policy did not cover this type of situation.

  A portly stenographer, courtesy of the attorney’s law firm, noiselessly punched keys on a small black steno machine that sat wedged between his thick legs.

  Ben turned to the stenographer. “By the way, ‘buzzard’ is spelled B-U—”

  “We’re giving Dr. McKenna every consideration under the circumstances,” Barnesdale snapped. “He’s lucky we’re not terminating him, especially after the arrogance he displayed last night — leaving the hospital knowing that we were waiting for him in my office.” He glanced at his legal lapdog, who nodded obediently.

  Ben leaned into Caleb’s ear and whispered, “Can you imagine that? Those two idiots just sitting there all evening like a coupla cow patties?”

  Barnesdale was glaring at Ben when he turned back. “You have something to say?”

  Ben sat forward and slapped the table with both hands. “Henry, don’t pee down our backs and tell us it’s raining. The truth is, McKenna acted in self-defense. You know it, and I know it. I only wish I’d been there to see McKenna beat the cowboy crap outta that guy.”

  The attorney’s left eye drifted toward Ben. “After spending all day on the phone with Erickson’s lawyer, I can assure you — they have a different view on this. They’re ready to go to war.”

  Ben shot back: “You seem to be missing the point. McKenna is a damn good physician who has never been accused of anything but doing his job. And now he’s being suspended because Henry’s decided to knuckle under to some bastard who deserved what he got.”

  The attorney put a hand on Barnesdale’s arm and said, “Let’s remember what happened here. Your doctor took it upon himself to be judge, jury, and executioner. Think about it — even if the wife’s and daughter’s injuries resulted from a physical assault, how could anyone know whether Erickson was the one who did it? The only thing we know for sure is that Mr. Erickson showed up in your E.R., upset. His wife and child had been injured. That’s reason enough for any man to be upset.”

  Ben rubbed his forehead. It was pounding. “Am I the only one who sees what’s going on here? Erickson is a wife and child abuser. His attorney sees an opportunity to discredit the accuser. He’s throwing up a smoke screen, and we’re playing right into his hands.”

  “The emergency room is a stressful place,” the attorney offered. “Maybe Dr. McKenna just lost his senses for a moment.”

  “What a load of crap,” Ben muttered.

  “Or maybe it’s a genetic trait,” Barnesdale said as he lifted a piece of lint from his sleeve with the wary concentration of someone handling toxic waste. “Luke McKenna seems to have a screw loose, like his father.”

  Caleb Fagan spoke up for the first time. “Leave Luke’s father out of this.”

  “Why should I?” Barnesdale said. “The man makes it his life’s work to ignore every rule in this hospital. He’s an embarrassment to this institution, and now his son appears to be following in his footsteps.”

  Barnesdale never missed an opportunity to snipe at Elmer McKenna, head of Infectious Diseases, and administrative derelict. To say that Elmer wasn’t the archetypal professor of pediatrics was like saying that the Hunchback of Notre Dame lacked a certain something when it came to good looks.

  “If Elmer paid half as much attention to administrative procedures as he does to his poker games and betting pools,” Barnesdale added, “this institution would be flush with money.”

  Ben hated to admit it, but the man was right. Rather than a pot of gold, University Children’s had ended up on the losing side of a legal shootout over the flu vaccine — draining its coffers in the process — all because Elmer had failed to get that Tartaglia woman’s signature on an employee contract.

  “Henry, give it a rest,” Caleb said while looking at his watch. “It’s late, and we’re off topic.”

  As the recipient of grants that comprised fully one-fourth of the entire research budget at University Children’s, and with a reputation that opened doors in the rarefied domain of international healthcare policy, Caleb was one of only a few medical staff members with the stature and inclination to confront Barnesdale.

  He was also Elmer’s longtime friend and research partner. Caleb had contributed much of the immunological groundwork for Elmer’s flu vaccine. If anyone had a right to be angry about the Zenavax debacle, it was Caleb.

  But the angry blush on Barnesdale’s cheeks had little to do with Zenavax. Apparently, it galled him that Elmer was too oblivious, and Caleb too powerful, to submit to his will.

  Barnesdale really is a pompous ass, Ben thought, and living in a glass house. Once a pediatric surgeon whose skills were on the mediocre side of ordinary, he was the last person at their table who should be sniping about someone else’s professional competence.

  Even so, Ben’s feelings for the man vacillated between disdain and pity. He hadn’t always been a schmuck. It wasn’t until a few years after his wife was devastated in an automobile accident that Barnesdale seemed to abandon his better angels.

  But then, the world was full of people who had faced similar tragedies without giving into bitterness. Ben glanced at Caleb, whose only child had died from a genetic disorder. On those rare occasions when the man spoke of his son, Caleb’s pain was as plainly visible as a cattle brand. But unlike Barnesdale, Caleb didn’t foist his personal anguish onto others.

  The intercom on Barnesdale’s phone sounded. “Sir, excus
e me for interrupting,” his secretary said, “but there’s a phone call for you.”

  “Tell them I’m busy,” Barnesdale fumed.

  “I explained that you’re in conference, sir. They told me you had instructed them to interrupt you if you were in a meeting.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Guatemalan Consulate, sir.”

  12

  Luke reached his office and was unlocking the door when a surgical resident came barreling around the corner. The resident sidestepped him in an agile move and raced into Trauma One, which was just down the hall.

  Luke’s altercation with the football player and Kate’s murder were tonight’s topics of conversation in the E.R., and he was using his dinner break to escape the chatter. Once inside the office, he dropped into his chair without bothering to close the door.

  The gossipmongers had settled on a comfortable consensus that Kate was the victim of a random robbery-homicide. Luke was still trying to convince himself that they were right. Was he overthinking it? Were his feelings toward Kate — the untidy blend of onetime affections and vexing disappointments — clouding his judgment?

  Whatever the case, between Kate’s murder, his scuffle with Erickson, and the Guatemalan boy’s peculiar death, the past twenty-four hours had taken on a chaotic rhythm. Perhaps he was searching for existential order where there was none to be had.

  His windowless room wasn’t much bigger than a cubicle, which was fine with him because he was almost never there. His routine was to stop by on Mondays and Thursdays, and then only to pick up his mail, check his phone messages, and wade through whatever paperwork the hospital bureaucrats had thrown at him.

  He looked through his e-mails, going back over the messages he had already seen on Friday night. Then he checked the computer folder that held deleted messages. There was nothing from Kate. Where had her e-mail gone?

  He’d spoken to one of the hospital’s computer programmers earlier that afternoon. The guy had agreed to search the hospital’s e-mail server for any incoming messages with a sender’s address that contained all or most of the letter sequence T-A-R-T-A-G-L–I-A, but he told Luke that his backlog of work orders would keep him from getting to it until Monday or Tuesday.

  Luke had also called Zenavax. The officious operator who seemed unaware of Kate’s fate had been exceedingly unhelpful. If he wanted to talk to someone about an e-mail, he would have to call back on Monday. And no, she would not disturb Dr. Tartaglia’s secretary at home over the weekend.

  He sat forward and punched the voicemail button on his phone. There were three messages. Two were from hospital staff members wanting to hear more about his fight, though they couched their meddlesome curiosity in expressions of concern. A third was from a drug rep who wanted to know if Luke was interested in coming to a drug symposium. He wasn’t.

  There were no messages from Kate.

  “McKenna.”

  Luke cocked his head to the side. Barnesdale and another man were standing in the doorway. The second man took in his office with one eye; his other eye remained fixed on Luke.

  Barnesdale pointed down the hall. “Come with us.”

  Luke followed the two men into a small meeting room. He didn’t know the second man, but the pretentious sheen on his suit marked him as trouble.

  Once in the room with the door closed, Barnesdale came right to the point. “The Medical Executive Committee has voted to temporarily suspend your clinical privileges, pending an inquiry.”

  He waited for Luke’s response. When he gave him none, Barnesdale continued, “Your suspension is effective immediately and will last for three weeks, assuming our inquiry doesn’t require us to take further action.”

  Luke said nothing.

  “Do you have anything you want to say?” Barnesdale asked.

  “That question usually comes before someone is suspended from their job.”

  Barnesdale’s jaw tightened. “You had your chance — last night. You didn’t take it.”

  Luke glanced at The Suit, then back at Barnesdale. “Touché.”

  The Suit said, “Our law firm represents the hospital in certain matters. Dr. Barnesdale has asked me to act as counsel to the committee that will examine this incident. You’ll have every opportunity to present the facts as you see them, and I want you to know that we’ll do everything possible to deal with this issue quickly and fairly.”

  Luke couldn’t tell whether the attorney was looking at him, or the door behind him. He nodded at the man’s nose and said, “While you’re busy looking out for my welfare, who’s looking out for the child?”

  “The child?” asked Barnesdale.

  “Erickson’s daughter. The one that looks like a punching bag. The girl who might just turn up dead someday.”

  “That’s up to the case workers at the Department of Children and Family Services. DCFS is perfectly capable of doing their job. Maybe you should take a lesson from them, and stick to doing your job.”

  Luke fought to control his anger. “Anything else?”

  The attorney said, “I hope you’ll take some time to think about the hospital’s position in all of this. Of course, we want what’s right for the girl, just as you do, but the hospital is in a delicate situation here, and further provoking the Erickson family isn’t going to help the hospital’s position, or yours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Perhaps you were mistaken about Erickson. Perhaps there’s another explanation for what you saw.” The attorney’s eyes jogged to Barnesdale. “We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, but—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Luke said. “Let’s pretend that you weren’t about to ask me to withdraw the DCFS report on that girl. That way, we can keep a civil tone to this conversation.”

  Barnesdale glared at Luke.

  “Like you said, Henry, we should each stick to our own jobs.” Luke turned and walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Luke was halfway back to his office when Megan sidled up to him in the corridor.

  “Do you have a moment?” she asked.

  “This isn’t a good time, Megan.” He slowed his pace but kept walking. “If you’re wondering about Josue Chaca, I don’t know anything yet. The autopsy’s tomorrow.”

  “It’s not about that.” She gave his elbow a gentle tug.

  It was the first time in almost three months that she’d touched him in a familiar way, and the gesture stopped him in mid-stride.

  Megan came right to the point. “About Kate,” she said. “I didn’t say anything earlier because there were others in the doctors’ room and it just didn’t seem like the right time. But…well, I wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened.”

  Her eyes flittered away from his.

  She rarely held his gaze anymore. He still wasn’t accustomed to her reticence, the searing reminders that he’d lost her affection.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m fine, but thanks for your concern.”

  A nurse stepped past them. They both followed her with their eyes.

  When they were alone again, Megan lifted her shoulders an inch and said, “Well, that’s all I wanted to say.”

  She started to walk away.

  “I heard she was still alive when they brought her in,” Luke said.

  Megan turned back. “We did everything we could to—”

  “I know. I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “What I’m wondering is — was she conscious, did she say anything?”

  Megan shook her head. “One of the bullets shattered her skull, went straight through. She wasn’t moving.”

  “The people who carried her into the E.R. — did any of them mention whether they’d seen it happen? Did anyone see the killer?”

  Her expression suddenly changed, her eyes seeming to search his.

  Finally, she answered, “No.”

  Luke’s gaze fell and he nodded at the floor. “Okay.” A moment later he turned to leave.

  Before
he took a step, she said, “Let the police take care of this, Luke. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  When he looked back, a bright red flush was crawling up the side of her neck like a rash.

  They both knew that her admonition was three months too late. He had already revealed a capacity for colossal stupidity that had cost him her trust — and her love.

  “Megan, I’m just asking about what happened. That’s all.”

  “The sad thing is, I don’t know whether to believe you. The last time you asked me questions like this—”

  “Megan, there were a lot of things I could’ve handled better.” He dipped his chin to hide a swallow. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Wanting to say more, and knowing that he wouldn’t, left him drifting in a desolate sadness.

  13

  “So anyway, that’s my theory,” Chewy said.

  Megan pretended to listen to the intern’s prattle as they left the E.R. together. They lived in the same apartment complex a few blocks from the hospital, and Chewy’s nonstop chatter seemed an acceptable price to pay for an escort service at midnight.

  “What theory is that?” Megan asked.

  They walked down the corridor and entered the hospital’s foyer. Everyone entering or leaving the hospital passed through the enormous two-story entry that was built during the Great Depression. It was part of the original hospital and had survived the endless renovations, saved from the wrecking ball by preservation groups that fought to protect the aging structure and its tiled cathedral ceiling, nymph-like gargoyles, and stained-glass windows.

  Chewy rolled a slice of pizza he’d scavenged in the E.R. and put the last three inches into his mouth. “What’m I — talking to myself here?” he mumbled. “My theory about McKenna, that’s what. I think he must be gay.”

  “Chewy, that’s the dumbest—”

  “No, hear me out. The guy’s a babe magnet, right?”

  “I’m not interested in—”

  “But he doesn’t do anything about it. Oh, sure, he dates women — girl-next-door types, ya know, like you. But when’s the last time you saw him put the moves on some hottie in the E.R.? I mean, like, never.” He spread his arms like an umpire. “Oh man, if I was him…”