Fatal Cure

14

The weather was not much better the next morning. The rain had stopped, but it was misting so heavily that it might as well have been raining. There was no break in the heavy cloud cover and it seemed even chillier than it had the day before.

While Nikki was doing her postural drainage the phone rang. David snatched it up. Considering the early morning hour, he was afraid the call was about John Tarlow. But it wasn't. It was the state's attorney's office requesting permission to send over an assistant to look at the crime scene.

"When would you like to come?" David asked.

"Would it be too inconvenient now?" the caller said. "We have someone in your immediate area."

"We'll be here for about an hour," David said.

"No problem," the caller replied.

True to their word, an assistant from the state's attorney's office arrived within fifteen minutes. She was a pleasant woman with fiery red hair. She was dressed conservatively in a dark blue suit.

"Sorry to bother you so early," the woman said. She introduced herself as Elaine Sullivan.

"No trouble at all," David said, holding the door open for her.

David led her down the cellar steps and turned on the floor lamp to illuminate the now empty tomb. She took out a camera and snapped a few pictures. Then she bent down and stuck a fingernail into the dirt of the tomb's floor. Angela came down the stairs and looked over David's shoulder.

"I understand that the town police were here last night," Elaine said.

"The town police and a district medical examiner," David said.

"I think I'll recommend that the state police crime-scene investigators be called," she said. "I hope it won't be a bother."

"I welcome the idea," Angela said. "I don't think the town police are all that accustomed to a homicide investigation."

Elaine nodded, diplomatically avoiding comment.

"Do we have to be here when the crime-scene people come?" David asked.

"That's up to you," Elaine said. "An investigator may want to talk with you at some point. But as far as the crime-scene people are concerned, they can just come in and do their thing."

"Will they come today?" Angela asked.

"They'll be here as soon as possible," Elaine said. "Probably this morning."

"I'll arrange for Alice to be here," Angela said. David nodded.

Shortly after the state's attorney's assistant had left, the Wilsons were off themselves. This was to be Nikki's first day back to school since she got out of the hospital. She was beside herself with excitement and had changed her clothes twice.

As they took her to school, Nikki couldn't talk about anything besides the body. When they dropped her off, Angela suggested that she refrain from talking about the incident, but Angela knew her request was futile: Nikki had already told Caroline and Arni, and they'd undoubtedly passed the story on.

David put the car in gear, and they started for the hospital.

"I'm concerned about how my patient will be this morning," he said. "Even though I haven't gotten any calls I'm still worried."

"And I'm worried about facing Wadley," Angela said. "I don't know if Cantor has spoken to him or not, but either way it won't be pleasant."

With a kiss for luck, David and Angela headed for their respective days.

David went directly to check on John Tarlow. Stepping into the room he immediately noticed that John's breathing was labored. That was not a good sign. David pulled out his stethoscope and gave John's shoulder a shake. David wanted him to sit up. John barely responded.

Panic gripped David. It was as if his worst fears were coming to pass. Rapidly David examined his patient and immediately discovered that John was developing extensive pneumonia.

Leaving the room, David raced down to the nurses' station, barking orders that John should be transferred to the ICU immediately. The nurses were in the middle of their report; the day shift was taking over from the night shift.

"Can it wait until we finish report?" Janet Colburn asked.

"Hell, no!" David snapped. "I want him switched immediately. And I'd like to know why I haven't been called. Mr. Tarlow has developed bilateral pneumonia."

"He was sleeping comfortably the last time we took his temperature," the night nurse said. "We were supposed to call if his temperature went up or if his GI symptoms got worse. Neither of those things happened."

David grabbed the chart and flipped it open to the temperature graph. The temperature had edged up a little, but not the way David would have expected having heard the man's chest.

"Let's just get him to the ICU," David said. "Plus I want some stat blood work and a chest film."

With commendable efficiency John Tarlow was transferred into the ICU. While it was being done, David called the oncologist, Dr. Clark Mieslich, and the infectious disease specialist, Dr. Martin Hasselbaum, to ask them to come in immediately.

The lab responded quickly to lab work requested for the ICU, and David was soon looking at John's results. His white count, which had been low, was even lower, indicating that John's system was overwhelmed by the developing pneumonia. It was the kind of lack of response one might expect from a patient undergoing chemotherapy, but David knew that John hadn't been on chemo for months. Most ominous of all was the chest X ray: it confirmed extensive, bilateral pneumonia.

The consults arrived in short order to examine the patient and go over the chart. When they were finished they moved away from the bed. Dr. Mieslich confirmed that John was not on any chemotherapy and hadn't been for a long time.

"What do you make of the low white count?" David asked.

"I can't say," Dr. Mieslich admitted. "I suppose it is related to his leukemia. We'd have to do a bone marrow sample to find out, but I don't recommend it now. Not with the infection he's developing. Besides, it's academic. I'm afraid he's moribund."

This was the last thing David wanted to hear although he had begun to expect it. He couldn't believe he was about to lose a second patient in his brief Bartlet career.

David turned to Dr. Hasselbaum.

Dr. Hasselbaum was equally blunt and pessimistic. He thought that John was developing massive pneumonia with a particularly deadly type of bacteria and that, secondarily, he was suffering from shock. He pointed to the fact that John's blood pressure was low and that his kidneys were failing. "It doesn't look good. Mr. Tarlow seems to have very poor physiological defenses, undoubtedly due to his leukemia. If we treat, we'll have to treat massively. I have access to some experimental agents created to help combat this type of endotoxin shock. What do you think?"

"Let's do it," David said.

"These drugs are expensive," Dr. Hasselbaum said.

"A man's life hangs in the balance," David said.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, when John's treatment had been instituted and there was nothing else to be done, David hurried to his office. Once again, every seat in the waiting room was occupied. Some patients were standing in the hall. Everyone was upset, even the receptionist.

David took a deep breath and plunged into his appointments. In between patients he called the ICU repeatedly to check on John's status. Each time he was told there had been no change.

In addition to his regularly scheduled patients, a number of semi-emergencies added to the confusion by having to be squeezed in. David would have sent these cases to the emergency room if it hadn't been for Kelley's lecture. Two of these patients seemed like old friends: Mary Ann Schiller and Jonathan Eakins.

Although he was somewhat spooked by the way Marjorie Kleber's and now John Tarlow's cases had progressed, David felt compelled to hospitalize both Mary Ann and Jonathan. David just didn't feel comfortable treating them as outpatients. Mary Ann had an extremely severe case of sinusitis and Jonathan had a disturbing cardiac arrhythmia. Providing them with admitting orders, David sent them both over to the hospital.

Two other semi-emergency patients were night-shift nurses from the second floor. David had met them on several occasions when he'd been called into the hospital for emergencies. Both had the same complaints: flu-like syndromes consisting of general malaise, low-grade fever, and low white counts, as well as GI troubles including crampy pain, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. After examining them, David sent them home for bed rest and symptomatic therapy.

When he had a minute he asked his nurse, Susan, if a flu was going around the hospital.

"Not that I've heard," Susan said.

Angela's day was going better than expected. She'd not had any run-ins with Wadley. In fact, she hadn't seen him at all.

Midmorning she phoned the chief medical examiner, Dr. Walter Dunsmore, having gotten his number from the Burlington directory. Angela explained that she was a pathologist at the Bartlet Community Hospital. She went on to explain her interest in the Hodges case. She added that she had once considered a career in forensic pathology.

Dr. Dunsmore promptly invited her to come to Burlington someday to see their facility. "In fact, why don't you come up and assist at Hodges' autopsy?" he said. "I'd love to have you, but I have to warn you, like most forensic pathologists, I'm a frustrated teacher."

"When do you plan to do it?" Angela asked. She thought that if it could be put off until Saturday, she might be able to go.

"It's scheduled for late this morning," Dr. Dunsmore said. "But there's some flexibility. I'd be happy to do it this afternoon."

"That's very generous," Angela said. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure what my chief would say about my taking the time."

"I've known Ben Wadley for years," Dr. Dunsmore said. "I'll give him a call and clear it with him."

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," Angela said.

"Nonsense!" Dr. Dunsmore said. "Leave it to me. I look forward to meeting you."

Angela was about to protest further when she realized that Dr. Dunsmore had hung up. She replaced the receiver. She had no idea what Wadley's reaction to Dr. Dunsmore's call would be, but she imagined she'd learn soon enough.

Angela heard even sooner than she expected. Hardly had she hung up than it rang again.

"I'm caught up here in the OR," Wadley said agreeably. "I just got a call from the chief medical examiner. He tells me he wants you to come up to assist with an autopsy."

"I just spoke with him. I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it." It was obvious to Angela from Wadley's cheerfulness that Cantor had not yet spoken with Wadley.

"I think it's a great idea," Wadley said. "My feeling is that whenever the medical examiner asks for a favor, we do it. It never hurts to stay on his good side. You never know when we'll need a favor in return. I encourage you to go."

"Thank you," Angela said. "I will." Hanging up she called David to let him know her plans. When he came on the line, David's voice sounded tense and weary.

"You sound terrible," Angela said. "What's wrong?"

"Don't ask," David said. "I'll have to tell you later. Right now I'm behind again and the natives are restless."

Angela quickly told him about the medical examiner's invitation and that she'd been cleared to go. David told her to enjoy herself and rang off.

Grabbing her coat, Angela left the hospital. Before setting out for Burlington, she headed home to change clothes. As she approached the house she was surprised to see a state police van parked in front of her house. Evidently the crime scene investigators were still there.

Alice Doherty met her at the door, concerned that something was wrong. Angela immediately put her at ease. She then asked about the state police people.

"They are still downstairs," Alice said. "They've been there for hours."

Angela went down to the basement to meet the technicians. There were three. They had the entire area around the back of the stairs blocked off with crime scene tape and brightly illuminated with floodlights. One man was using advanced techniques in an attempt to lift fingerprints from the stone. Another man was carefully sifting through the dirt that formed the floor of the tomb. The third was using a hand-held instrument called a luma-light, looking for fibers and latent prints.

The only man who introduced himself was the gentleman working on the fingerprints. His name was Quillan Reilly.

"Sorry we're taking so much time," Quillan said.

"It doesn't matter," Angela assured him.

Angela watched them work. They didn't talk much, each absorbed by his task. She was about to leave when Quillan asked her if the interior of the house had been repainted in the last eight months.

"I don't think so," Angela said. "We certainly haven't."

"Good," said Quillan. "Would you mind if we came back this evening to use some luminol on the walls upstairs?"

"What's luminol?" Angela asked.

"It's a chemical used to search for bloodstains," Quillan explained.

"The house has been cleaned," Angela said, taking mild offense that they thought any blood would still be detectable.

"It's still worth a shot," Quillan said.

"Well, if you think it might be helpful," Angela said. "We want to be cooperative."

"Thank you, ma'am," Quillan said.

"What happened to the evidence taken by the medical examiner?" Angela asked. "Do the local police have it?"

"No, ma'am," Quillan said. "We have it."

"Good," Angela said.

Ten minutes later, Angela was on her way. In Burlington, she found the medical examiner's office with ease.

"We're waiting for you," Dr. Dunsmore said as Angela was ushered into his modern and sparsely furnished office. He made her feel instantly at ease. He even asked her to call him Walt.

In minutes, Angela was dressed in a surgical scrub suit. As she donned a mask, a hood, and goggles, she felt a rush of excitement. The autopsy room had always been an arena of discovery for her.

"I think you'll find we are quite professional here," Walt said as they met outside the autopsy room. "It used to be that forensic pathology was somewhat of a joke outside of the major cities. That's not the case any longer."

Dennis Hodges was laid out on the autopsy table. X rays had been taken and were already on the X-ray view box. Walt introduced the diener to Angela, explaining that Peter would assist them in the procedure.

First they looked at the X rays. The penetrating fracture at the top of the forehead was certainly a mortal wound. There was also a linear fracture in the back of the head. In addition, there was a fracture of the left clavicle, the left ulna, and the left radius.

"There's no doubt it was a homicide," Walt said. "Looks like the poor old guy put up quite a fight."

"The local police chief suggested suicide," Angela said.

"He was joking, I hope," Walt said.

"I really don't know," Angela said. "He didn't impress me or my husband with his investigative skills. It's possible he's never handled a homicide."

"Probably not," Walt said. "Another problem is that some of the older local law enforcement people haven't had much formal training."

Angela described the pry bar that was found with the body. Using a ruler for determining the size of the penetrating fracture and then examining the wound itself they determined that the pry bar could have been the murder weapon.

Then they turned their attention to the bagged hands.

"I was delighted when I saw the paper bags," Walt said. "I've been trying to get my district MEs to use them on this kind of case for a long time."

Angela nodded, secretly pleased that she'd suggested it to Dr. Cornish the night before.

Walt carefully slipped the hands out of their covers and used a magnifying glass to examine under the nails.

"There is some foreign material under some of them," Walt said. He leaned back so Angela could take a look.

"Any idea what it is?" Angela asked.

"We'll have to wait for the microscopic," Walt said as he carefully removed the material and dropped it into specimen jars. Each was labeled according to which finger it came from.

The autopsy itself went quickly; it was as if Angela and Walt were an established team. There was plenty of pathology to make things interesting, and, as promised, Walt enjoyed his didactic role. Hodges had significant arteriosclerosis, a small cancer of the lung, and advanced cirrhosis of the liver.

"I'd guess he liked his bourbon," Walt said.

After the autopsy was completed, Angela thanked Walt for his hospitality and asked to be kept informed about the case. Walt encouraged her to call whenever she wanted.

On the way back to the hospital, Angela felt in a better mood than she had for days. Doing the autopsy had been a good diversion. She was glad that Wadley had let her go.

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, she couldn't find a space in the reserved area near the back entrance. She had to park way up in the upper lot instead. Without an umbrella, she was quite wet by the time she got inside.

Angela went directly to her office. No sooner had she hung up her coat than the connecting door to Wadley's office banged open. Angela jumped. Wadley loomed in the doorway. His square jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, and his customarily carefully combed silver hair was disheveled. He looked furious. Angela instinctively stepped back and eyed the door to the hall with the thought of fleeing.

Wadley stormed into the room, coming right up to Angela and crowding her against her desk.

"I'd like an explanation," he snarled. "Why did you go to Cantor of all people with this preposterous story, these wild, ridiculous, ungrounded accusations? Sexual harassment! My God, that's absurd."

Wadley paused and glared at Angela. She shrank back, not sure if she should say anything. She didn't want to provoke the man. She was afraid he might hit her.

"Why didn't you say something to me?" Wadley screamed.

Wadley paused in his tirade, suddenly aware that Angela's door to the hall was ajar. Outside, the secretaries' keyboards had gone silent. Wadley stomped to the door and slammed it shut.

"After all the time and effort I've lavished on you, this is the reward I get," he yelled. "I don't think I have to remind you that you are on probation around here. You'd better start walking a narrow path, otherwise you'll be looking for work with no recommendation from me."

Angela nodded, not knowing what else to do.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Wadley's face was inches from Angela's. "Are you just going to stand there and nod your head?"

"I'm sorry that we've reached this point," she said.

"That's it?" Wadley yelled. "You've besmirched my reputation with baseless accusations and that's all you can say? This is slander, woman, and I'll tell you something: I might take you to court."

With that, Wadley spun on his heels, strode into his own office, and slammed the door.

Angela let out her breath unevenly as she fought back tears. She sank into her chair and shook her head. It was so unfair.

Susan poked her head into one of the examining rooms and told David that the ICU was on the line. Fearing the worst, David picked up the phone. The ICU nurse said that Mr. Tarlow had just gone into cardiac arrest and the resuscitation team was working on him at that very moment.

David slammed the phone down. He felt his heart leap in his chest, and he instantly broke out in a cold sweat. Leaving a distressed office nurse and receptionist, he dashed over to the but he was too late. By the time he arrived it was over. The ER physician in charge of the resuscitation team had already declared John Tarlow dead.

"Hey, there wasn't much point," the doctor said. "The man's lungs were full, his kidneys shot, and he had no blood pressure."

David nodded absently. He stared at his patient while the ICU nurses unhooked all the equipment and IV lines. As they continued to clean up, David went over to the main desk and sat down. He began to wonder if he were suited to be a doctor. He had trouble with this part of the job, and repetition seemed to make it more difficult, certainly not easier.

Tarlow's relatives came and, like the Kleber family, they were understanding and thankful. David accepted their kind words feeling like an impostor. He hadn't done anything for John. He didn't even know why he'd died. His history of leukemia wasn't a real explanation.

Even though he'd now been informed about the hospital autopsy policy, David asked the family if they would allow one. As far as David was concerned, there was no harm in trying. The family said they'd consider it.

Leaving the ICU area, David had enough presence of mind to check on Mary Ann Schiller and Jonathan Eakins. He wanted to be certain that they had been settled and their respective treatments started. He particularly wanted to be sure that the CMV cardiologist had visited Eakins.

Unfortunately, David discovered something that gave him pause. Mary Ann had been put in room 206: the room that John Tarlow had so recently vacated. David had half a mind to have Mary Ann moved, but he realized he was being irrationally superstitious. What would he have said to admitting: he never wanted one of his patients in room 206 again? That was clearly ridiculous.

David checked her IV. She was already getting her antibiotic. After promising he'd be back later, David went into Jonathan's room. He too was comfortable and relaxed. A cardiac monitor was in place. Jonathan said that the cardiologist was expected imminently.

When he returned to his office, Susan greeted David with word that Charles Kelley had called. "He wants to see you immediately," she said. "He stressed immediately."

"How many patients are we behind?" David asked.

"Plenty," Susan said. "So try not to be too long."

Feeling as if he were carrying the world on his shoulders, David dragged himself over to the CMV office. He wasn't exactly sure what Charles Kelley wanted to see him about, but he could guess.

"I don't know what to do, David," Charles Kelley said once David was sitting in his office. Kelley shook his head. David marveled at his role-playing ability. Now he was the wounded friend.

"I've tried to reason with you, but either you're stubborn or you just don't care about CMV. The very day after I talk to you about avoiding unnecessary consults outside of the CMV community, you do it again with another terminal patient. What am I going to do with you? Do you understand that the costs of medical care have to be considered? You know there's a crisis in this country?"

David nodded. That much was true.

"Then why is this so hard for you?" Kelley asked. He was sounding angrier. "And it's not only CMV that is upset this time. It's the hospital too. Helen Beaton called me moments ago complaining about the enormously expensive biotechnology drugs that you ordered for this sad, dying patient. Talk about heroics! The man was dying, even the consults said that. He'd had leukemia for years. Don't you understand? This is wasting money and resources."

Kelley had worked himself up to a fevered pitch. His face had become red. But then he paused and sighed. He shook his head again as if he didn't know what to do. "Helen Beaton also complained about your requesting an autopsy," he said in a tired voice. "Autopsies are not part of the contract with CMV, and you were informed of that fact just recently. David, you have to be reasonable. You have to help me or…" Kelley paused, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air.

"Or what?" David said. He knew what Kelley meant, but he wanted him to say it.

"I like you, David," Kelley said. "But I need you to help me. I have people above me I have to answer to. I hope you can appreciate that."

David felt more depressed than ever as he stumbled back toward his office. Kelley's intrusion irritated him, yet in some ways Kelley had a point. Money and resources shouldn't be thrown away on terminal patients when they could be better spent elsewhere. But was that the issue here?

More confused and dejected than he could remember being, David opened the door to his office. He was confronted by a waiting room full of unhappy patients angrily glancing at their watches and noisily flipping through magazines.

Dinner at the Wilson home was a tense affair. No one spoke. Everyone was agitated. It was as if their Shangri-la had gone the way of the weather.

Even Nikki had had a bad day. She was upset about her new teacher, Mr. Hart. The kids had already nicknamed him Mr. Hate. When David and Angela arrived home that evening, she described him as a strict old fart. When Angela chided her about her language, Nikki admitted the description had been Arni's.

The biggest problem with the new teacher was that he had not allowed Nikki to judge her own level of appropriate exercise during gym and he'd not allowed Nikki to do any postural drainage. The lack of communication had led to a confrontation that had embarrassed Nikki.

After dinner David told everyone that it was time to cheer up. In an attempt to improve the atmosphere he offered to build a cozy fire. But when he descended to the basement, he suffered the shock of seeing yellow crime scene tape around his own basement stairs. It brought back the gruesome image of Hodges' body.

David gathered the wood quickly and dashed back upstairs. Normally he wasn't superstitious or easily spooked, but with the recent events he was becoming both.

After building the fire, David began to talk enthusiastically about the upcoming winter and the sports they would soon enjoy: skiing, skating, and sledding. Just when Angela and Nikki were getting in the spirit he'd hoped, headlight beams traversed the wall of the family room. David went to the window.

"It's a state police van," he said. "What on earth could they want?"

"I totally forgot," Angela said, getting to her feet. "When the crime scene people were here today they asked if they could come by when it was dark to look for bloodstains."

"Bloodstains? Hodges was killed eight months ago."

"They said it was worth a try," Angela explained.

The technicians were the same three men who had been there that morning. Angela was impressed with the length of their workday.

"We do a lot of traveling around the state," Quillan said.

Angela introduced Quillan to David. Quillan seemed to be in charge.

"How does this test work?" David asked.

"The luminol reacts with any residual iron from the blood," Quillan said. "When it does, it fluoresces."

"Interesting," David said, but he remained skeptical.

The technicians were eager to do their test and leave, so David and Angela stayed out of their way. They started in the mud room, setting up a camera on a tripod. Then they turned out all the lights.

They sprayed luminol on the walls using a spray bottle similar to those used for window cleaner. The bottle made a slight hiss with each spray.

"Here's a little," Quillan said in the darkness. David and Angela leaned into the room. Along the wall was a faint, spotty, eerie fluorescence.

"Not enough for a picture," one of the other technicians said.

They circled the room but didn't find any more positive areas. Then they moved the camera into the kitchen. Quillan asked if the lights could be turned off in the dining room and the hallway. The Wilsons readily complied.

The technicians continued about their business. David, Angela, and Nikki hovered at the doorway.

Suddenly portions of the wall near the mud room began to fluoresce.

"It's faint, but we got a lot here," Quillan said. "I'll keep spraying, you open the shutter on the camera."

"My God!" Angela whispered. "They're finding bloodstains all over my kitchen."

The Wilsons could see vague outlines of the men and hear them as they moved around the kitchen. They approached the table which had been left behind by Clara Hodges and which the Wilsons used when they ate in the kitchen. All at once the legs of the table began to glow in a ghostly fashion.

"My guess is this is the murder site," one of the technicians said. "Right here by the table."

The Wilsons heard the camera being moved, then the loud click of its shutter opening followed by sustained hissing from the spray bottle. Quillan explained that the bloodstains were so faint, the luminol had to be sprayed continuously.

After the crime-scene investigators had left, the Wilsons returned to the family room even more depressed than they had been earlier. There was no more talk of skiing or sledding on the hill behind the barn.

Angela sat on the hearth with her back to the fire and looked at David and Nikki, who had collectively collapsed on the couch. With her family arrayed in front of her, a powerful protective urge swept through Angela. She did not like what she had just learned: her kitchen had the remains of blood spatter from a brutal murder. This was the room that in many ways she regarded as the heart of their home and which she had thought she had cleaned. Now she knew that it had been desecrated by violence. In Angela's mind it was a direct threat to her family.

Suddenly Angela broke the gloomy silence. "Maybe we should move," she said.

"Wait one second," David said. "I know you're upset; we're all upset. But we're not going to allow ourselves to become hysterical."

"I'm hardly hysterical," Angela shot back.

"Suggesting that we have to move because of an unfortunate event which didn't involve us and which occurred almost a year ago is hardly rational," David said.

"It happened in this house," Angela said.

"This house happens to be mortgaged to the roof. We have both a first and second mortgage. We can't just walk away because of an emotional upset."

"Then I want the locks changed," Angela said. "A murderer has been in here."

"We haven't even been locking the doors," David said.

"We are from now on and I want the locks changed."

"Okay," David said. "We'll change the locks."

Traynor was in a rotten mood as he pulled up to the Iron Horse Inn. The weather seemed to fit his temperament: the rain had returned to tropical-like intensity. Even his umbrella proved uncooperative. When he couldn't get it open, he cursed and threw it into the back. He decided he'd simply have to make a run for the Inn's door.

Beaton, Caldwell, and Sherwood were already sitting in a booth when he arrived. Cantor got there just after him. As the two men sat down, Carleton Harris, the bartender, came by to take their drink orders.

"Thank you all for coming out in this inclement weather," Traynor said. "But I'm afraid that recent events mandated an emergency session."

"This isn't an official executive board meeting," Cantor complained. "Let's not be so formal."

Traynor frowned. Even in a crisis, Cantor persisted in irritating him.

"If I may continue," Traynor said, staring Cantor down.

"For chrissake, Harold," Cantor said, "get on with it."

"As you all know by now, Hodges' body turned up in rather unpleasant circumstances."

"The story has attracted media attention," Beaton said. "It made the front page of the Boston Globe."

"I'm concerned about this publicity's potentially negative effect on the hospital," Traynor said. "The macabre aspects of Hodges' death may attract still more media. The last thing we want is a bunch of out-of-town reporters poking around. Thanks largely to Helen Beaton, we've been able to keep word of our ski-masked rapist out of the headlines. But big-city reporters are bound to stumble across that brewing scandal if they're in town. Between that and Hodges' unseemly demise, we could be in for a slew of bad press."

"I've heard from Burlington that Hodges' death is definitely being ruled a homicide," Cantor said.

"Of course it will be ruled a homicide," Traynor snapped. "What else could it be ruled? The man's body was entombed behind a wall of cinder blocks. The issue before us is not whether or not his death was a homicide. The issue is what can we do to lessen the impact on the hospital's reputation. I'm particularly anxious about how these events impact our relationship with CMV."

"I don't see how Hodges' death is the hospital's problem," Sherwood said. "It's not like we killed him."

"Hodges ran the hospital for twenty-plus years," Traynor said. "His name is intimately associated with Bartlet. Lots of people know he wasn't happy with the way we were running things."

"I think the less the hospital says the better," Sherwood said.

"I disagree," Beaton said. "I think that the hospital should issue a statement regretting his death and underlining the great debt owed him. The statement should include condolences to his family."

"I agree," Cantor said. "Ignoring his death would seem peculiar."

"I agree," Caldwell said.

Sherwood shrugged. "If everyone else feels that way, I'll go along."

"Has anyone spoken to Robertson?" Traynor asked.

"I have," Beaton said. "He doesn't have any suspects. Braggart that he is, he surely would have let on if he had."

"Hell, the way he felt about Hodges he could be a suspect himself," Sherwood said with a laugh.

"So could you," Cantor said to Sherwood.

"And so could you, Cantor," Sherwood said.

"This isn't a contest," Traynor said.

"If it were a contest, you'd be a leading contestant," Cantor said to Traynor. "It's common knowledge how you felt about Hodges after your sister committed suicide."

"Hold on," Caldwell said. "The point is that no one cares who did it."

"That might not be entirely true," Traynor said. "CMV might care. After all, this sordid affair still reflects poorly on both the hospital and the town."

"And that's why I think we should issue a statement," Beaton said.

"Would anyone like to make a motion for a vote?" Traynor said.

"Jesus, Harold," Cantor said. "There are only five of us here. We don't have to follow parliamentary procedure. Hell, we all agree."

"All right," Traynor said. "Does everybody concur that we should make a formal statement along the lines Beaton discussed?"

Everyone nodded.

Traynor looked at Beaton. "I think it should come from your office," he said.

"I'll be happy to do it," Beaton said.