Do No Harm

Chapter 44

The Medical Records Office hummed with an all-hours vibrancy. A young clerk leaned back in his chair behind the counter, listening to the Dodgers game on the radio and flipping through a worn Michael Crichton paperback.

He didn't so much as look up when David slid into a seat at one of the computer terminals and began punching the keys. To access the confidential records, he typed in his user name and then his password-Elisabeth's maiden name. His password, which he'd kept for the past four years, struck him for the first time as dire and slightly pathetic, so he changed it to pinkerton, in keeping with his new respect for security matters. On the drive over, he'd called Ed to set him on the trail of stolen lithium.

He entered the database and typed in clyde slade and Clyde's birthday. The search engine seemed to run for an eternity, the cursor turning into a ticking clock icon that stared out at him like a miniature eye. No results.

Sheffield tripled, and the radio roared with applause.

David tried CLYDE C. SLADE. Another tedious wait, and again, no results.

He pushed out from the terminal and crossed to the counter. "Excuse me."

The clerk held up a finger. "Hang on."

"Listen, I really need-"

"Just lemme finish this page."

David set aside his irritation. "Crichton, huh? I enjoy him."

The clerk slid a bookmark between the pages and looked up. "Pretty cool stuff. I dig his range. Doctors to dinosaurs."

"I was hoping you could tell me how far back these records are computerized."

"I don't know. Like twenty years."

Not far enough back to include relevant records, if Clyde was indeed harboring a childhood grudge against the hospital. "I need to look for a pediatrics file that's probably older," David said. "Where would it be?"

"Medical Records Storage. Culver City."

"Any way I could get it tonight?"

"No. Sorry." The clerk thrust a form across the counter at David. "Fill this out. Usually takes four to six days."

"Can I go down there myself?"

"Nope. They're closed. It's not run by the Med Center-it's just some warehouse that stores old files for companies."

David jotted down Clyde's information on the sheet and passed it back. "I don't have four to six days. This is an absolute emergency, and I'd really appreciate it if you could put a rush on it and get this file for me first thing tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll do my best." The clerk glanced at the name. "The cops were down here asking about records for this guy," he said. "Anything related?"

"Did you give them access?"

"No way. Not without a court order and my boss's signature."

"Okay." David slid his card across the counter. "I'd really appreciate it if you would page me the minute that file hits this office."

Returning to the computer terminal, David typed in douglas davella and tried to be patient as the clock icon stared out at him cheerily.

The clock radio jarred Diane from her nap, blaring "La Macarena," a song she thought had been consigned to "Achy Breaky Heart" obscurity. With a groan, she slapped at the top of the radio until she hit the appropriate button, and slid out of bed. She'd barely napped for an hour before being awakened for her night shift.

Lowering her feet into a pair of slippers, she shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the shower so hot water would be flowing by the time she finished brushing her teeth. The fact that she didn't drink coffee made her that much more reliant on a hot shower to get her rolling before a long shift. She undressed and regarded her body in the mirror as she brushed, turning sideways for a better view of her rear end. Behind her, the showerhead coughed a few times, then the water steadied again.

She climbed into the steaming shower with a groan of pleasure and turned her face up into the flow, running her hands through her hair. The water went from clear to a cloudy white.

Diane screamed, jerking back out of the spray and knocking over a metal shower caddy propped in the corner. Shampoo and conditioner bottles spun on the slippery floor. She stepped on a can of shaving cream and went down, feeling her razor dig into her hand. Her face felt as though it had been set afire. She shoved the translucent shower door open, knocking it from the tracks, and fell out, the railing along the side of the tub digging into her stomach. As she scrambled from the shower, she opened her eyes momentarily from instinct, and screamed even louder, her hands scrabbling over her face. The smell of rank flesh filled the air and she recognized it instantly. It was the same smell that had lingered about Nancy's and Sandra's faces when they'd stumbled into the ER. Alkali. Somehow, it had gotten into her water supply. That meant it could flow from the sink faucet as well.

She pulled herself up from the bath mat, felt her way to the toilet, and raised the lid. She forced her eyes open again, for an instant, and saw through the tears and excruciating pain that the water was clear. Lowering her head, she leaned heavily on the rim, splashing water up into her face continually with one hand and alternating prying her eyelids apart with her other, trying to get her breathing back under control. Though she felt no burning in her mouth or throat and could taste nothing unusual, she hocked and spit, a cord of drool dangling from her bottom lip. The pain in her face did not seem to be subsiding.

She flushed the toilet, saw that the fresh water spiraling in was also clear, and leaned farther down, scooping it up over her face. She tried desperately not to think of the alkali eating its way through her flesh, focusing instead on treating the injury as if it were someone else's.

She flushed and irrigated for about another four minutes, preparing herself to make the dash to the telephone. Her bedroom phone was the closest, but the one in the kitchen had a sink nearby. She should start filling the sink while she dialed-there was a wash rag draped over the faucet she could use to plug the drain. Once the water was running, she'd have to force her eyes open again to check that it was clear.

Continuing to splash herself with water from the toilet, she envisioned the route to the kitchen. Out the bathroom door, right down the hall, dodge the small table with the vase set against the left wall, six paces to the kitchen door, then around the central table to the countertop. The dial pad was on the inside of the telephone receiver; 9 was the second button up on the right side, 1 the top left.

The pain came in waves, like tiny fragments of shrapnel flying in her face from a series of explosions. Her harsh breaths, strengthened with groans, fired through her chest as though she were finishing a marathon. Grinding her teeth, tensing her entire body, she drew her legs up under her and prepared for the blind sprint.

Douglas DaVella's records popped up on-screen, and David scanned through them eagerly. DaVella had come into the ER for a standard physical after a fender bender in '87-no significant findings-and he'd seen a gastroenterologist in '91 for irritable bowel.

Clearly, they hadn't cross-referenced medical files with employee records when Clyde had worked at the hospital as Douglas DaVella. That made sense, given patient confidentiality and logistical considerations.

David jotted down DaVella's social security number, date of birth, and address-1711 Pearson Rd. He'd just noted that the address was in Venice when his pager went off, its text message alerting him to get down to the ER immediately.