Fatal Cure

23

Although Nikki suffered from abdominal cramps and diarrhea throughout the night, by morning she was better. She still wasn't back to one hundred percent, but she was clearly on the mend and had remained afebrile. David was vastly relieved. None of his hospital patients had showed this kind of improvement once their symptoms had started. He was confident that from here on Nikki's course would mirror his own and that of the nurses.

Angela woke up depressed about her job situation. She was surprised that David's spirits were so high. Now that Nikki was so much better, he confessed his darker fears to Angela.

"You should have told me," she said.

"It wouldn't have helped," David said.

"Sometimes you make me so angry," Angela said. But instead of pouting, she rushed to David and hugged him, telling him how much she loved him.

The phone interrupted their embrace. It was Dr. Pilsner. He wanted to find out how Nikki was doing. He also wanted to put in another plug for continuing her antibiotics and respiratory therapy.

"We'll do it as often as you tell us," Angela said. She was on the phone in the bedroom while David listened on the extension in the bathroom.

"Sometime soon we'll explain why we spirited her away," David said. "But for now, please accept our apology. Taking Nikki out of the hospital had nothing to do with the care you were providing."

"My only concern is Nikki," Dr. Pilsner said.

"You're welcome to stop by," Angela said. "And if you think that continued hospitalization is needed, we'll take her into Boston."

"For now, just keep me informed," Dr. Pilsner said curtly.

"He's irritated," David said after they'd hung up.

"I can't blame him," Angela said. "People must think we're nuts."

Both David and Angela aided Nikki in her respiratory therapy, taking turns thumping her back as she lay in the required positions. "Can I go to school on Monday?" she asked once they were done.

"It's possible," Angela said. "But I don't want you to get your hopes up."

"I don't want to get too far behind," Nikki said. "Can Caroline come over and bring my schoolbooks?"

Angela glanced at David who was petting Rusty on Nikki's bed. He returned Angela's gaze, and a wordless communication flashed between them. Both understood that they could no longer mislead Nikki no matter how much they hated to tell her the sad truth.

"There's something we have to tell you about Caroline," Angela said gently. "We're all terribly sorry, but Caroline passed away."

"You mean she died?" Nikki asked.

"I'm afraid so," Angela said.

"Oh," Nikki said simply.

Angela looked back at David. David shrugged. He couldn't think of what else to add. He knew that Nikki's nonchalance was a defense, similar to her response to Marjorie's death. David felt anger tighten in his throat as he recognized that both deaths could have been the work of the same misguided individual.

It took even less time than it had with Marjorie for Nikki's facade to crumble. Angela and David did what they could to console her, and her anguish tormented them. Both of them knew it was a devastating blow for her; not only had Caroline been her friend, but throughout her short life Nikki had been fighting the same disease from which Caroline had suffered.

"Am I going to die too?" Nikki sobbed.

"No," Angela said. "You're doing wonderfully. Caroline had a high fever. You have no fever at all."

Once they had calmed Nikki's fears, David set out for the hospital on his bike. Once he arrived, he went to medical records and immediately set about matching social security numbers and birth dates to the list of names he and Calhoun had compiled.

With that out of the way, David began to call up each medical record to sift through for descriptions of the tattoos. He hadn't gotten far when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to face Helen Beaton. Behind her was Joe Forbs from security.

"Would you mind telling me what you are doing?" Beaton asked.

"I'm just using the computer," David stammered. He hadn't expected to run into anyone from administration, particularly not on a Saturday morning.

"It's my understanding that you are no longer employed by CMV," Beaton said.

"That's true," David said. "But…"

"Your hospital privileges are awarded in conjunction with your employment by CMV," Beaton said. "Since that's no longer the case, your privileges must be reviewed by the credentials committee. Until that time you have no right to computer access.

"Would you please escort Dr. Wilson out of the hospital?" Beaton said to Joe.

Joe Forbs stepped forward and motioned for David to get up.

David knew it was pointless to protest. He calmly gathered up his papers, hoping Beaton wouldn't strip him of these documents. Luckily, Forbs simply escorted him to the door.

Now David could add "bodily thrown out of a hospital" to his brief and ignominious career record. Undaunted, he proceeded to the radiotherapy unit which was housed in its own ultra-modern building which had been designed by the same architect who had designed the Imaging Center.

The radiotherapy unit used Saturday mornings to see long-term follow-up patients. David had to wait half an hour before Dr. Holster could squeeze him in.

Dr. Holster was about ten years older than David, but he appeared even older than that. His hair was totally gray, almost white. Although he was busy that morning, he was hospitable and offered David a cup of coffee.

"So, what can I do for you, Dr. Wilson?" Dr. Holster said.

"You can call me David, for starters," David said. "Beyond that I was hoping to ask you some questions about Dr. Hodges."

"That's a rather strange request," Dr. Holster said. He shrugged. "But I guess I don't mind. Why are you interested?"

"It's a long story," David admitted. "But to make it short, I've had some patients whose hospital courses resembled some of Dr. Hodges' patients'. A few of these patients were ones you treated."

"Ask away," Dr. Holster said.

"Before I do," David said, "I'd also like to request this conversation be confidential."

"Now you're really piquing my curiosity," Dr. Holster said. He nodded. "Confidential it will be."

"I understand that Dr. Hodges visited you the day he disappeared," David said.

"We had lunch, to be precise," Dr. Holster said.

"I know that Dr. Hodges wanted to see you concerning a patient by the name of Clark Davenport."

"That's correct," Dr. Holster said. "We had a long discussion about the case. Unfortunately, Mr. Davenport had just died. I'd treated him for prostate cancer with what we thought was great success only four or five months prior to his demise. Both Dr Hodges and myself were surprised and saddened by his passing."

"Did Dr. Hodges ever mention exactly what Mr. Davenport died of?" David asked.

"Not that I recall," Dr. Holster said. "I just assumed it was a recurrence of his prostate cancer. Why do you ask?"

"Mr. Davenport died in septic shock after a series of grand mal seizures," David said. "I don't think it was related to his cancer."

"I don't know if you can say that," Dr. Holster said. "It sounds like he developed brain metastases."

"His MRI was normal," David said. "Of course, there was no autopsy so we don't know for sure."

"There could have been multiple tumors too small for the MRI to pick up," Dr. Holster said.

"Did Dr. Hodges mention that there was anything about Mr. Davenport's hospital course that he thought was out of the ordinary or unexpected?" David asked.

"Only his death," Dr. Holster said.

"Did anything else come up during your lunch?"

"Not really. Not that I can recall," Dr. Holster said. "When we were done eating I asked Dennis if he'd like to come back to the radiotherapy center and see the new machine he'd been responsible for us having received."

"What machine is that?" David asked.

"Our linear accelerator," Dr. Holster said. He beamed like a proud parent. "We have one of the best machines made. Dennis had never seen it although he'd intended to come by on numerous occasions. So we stopped in and I showed it to him. He was truly impressed. Come on, I'll show you."

Dr. Holster was out the door before David could respond one way or the other. He caught up with Dr. Holster halfway down a windowless hallway. David wasn't much in the mood to see a radiotherapy machine, but to be polite he felt he had little choice. They reached the treatment room and approached a piece of high-tech equipment.

"Here she is," Dr. Holster said proudly as he gave the stainless-steel machine an affectionate pat. The accelerator looked like an X-ray machine with an attached table. "If it hadn't been for Dr. Hodges' commitment to the hospital we never would have gotten this beauty. We'd be still using the old one."

David gazed at the impressive apparatus. "What was wrong with the old one?" he asked.

"Nothing was wrong with it," Dr. Holster said. "It was just yesterday's technology: a cobalt-60 unit. A cobalt machine cannot be aimed as accurately as the linear accelerator. It's a physics problem having to do with the size of the cobalt source which is about four inches in length. As a result, the gamma rays come out in every direction and are difficult to collimate."

"I see," David said, although he wasn't quite sure he did. Physics had never been his forte.

"This linear accelerator is far superior," Dr. Holster said. "It has a very small aperture from which the rays originate. And it can be programmed to have higher energy. Also, the cobalt machine requires the source to be changed every five years or so since the half-life of cobalt-60 is about six years."

David struggled to suppress a yawn. This encounter with Dr. Holster was beginning to remind him of medical school.

"We still have the cobalt machine," Dr. Holster said. "It's in the hospital basement. The hospital has been in the process of selling it to either Paraguay or Uruguay, I can't remember which. That's what most hospitals do when they upgrade to a linear accelerator like this one: sell the old machine to a developing country. The machines are still good. In fact, the old machines have the benefit of rarely breaking down since the source is always putting out gamma rays, twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine."

"I think I've already taken too much of your time," David said. He hoped to extricate himself from this meeting before Holster went on for another half hour.

"Dr. Hodges was quite interested when I gave him the tour," Dr. Holster said. "When I mentioned the fact that the old machines have this one benefit over the new ones, his face lit up. He even wanted to see the old machine. How about you? Want to run over there?"

"I think I'll pass," David said. He wondered how Helen Beaton and Joe Forbs would react if he returned to the hospital so soon after being shown the door.

A few minutes later David was on his bike crossing over the Roaring River on his way home. His morning had not been as productive as he would have liked, but at least he'd gotten the social security numbers and birth dates.

As he pedaled, his thoughts returned to what he had learned about Hodges' lunch with Dr. Holster. He wished that Hodges had shared whatever suspicions he'd been harboring with the radiotherapist. Then David recalled Dr. Holster's description of Hodges' face lighting up when he learned of the old cobalt machine's virtue of rarely breaking down. David wondered if Hodges had really been interested or if it was a case of Holster projecting his own enthusiasm on his captive audience. David figured it was probably the latter. Holster had probably come away with the impression that even David had been utterly riveted as far as the tour of the linear accelerator was concerned.

After sleeping late Calhoun didn't get back to Bartlet until midmorning. As he drove into town he decided to attack the list of hospital workers with tattoos alphabetically. That put Clyde Devonshire first.

Calhoun stopped off at the diner on Main Street for a large coffee to go, plus a look at the phone book. Armed with the five addresses, he set off for Clyde's.

Devonshire lived above a convenience store. Calhoun made his way up the stairs to the man's door and rang the bell. When there was no answer, he rang again.

Giving up after a third try, Calhoun went downstairs and wandered into the convenience store where he bought himself a fresh pack of Antonio y Cleopatra cigars.

"I'm looking for Clyde Devonshire," he told the clerk.

"He went out early," the clerk said. "He probably went to work; he works lots of weekends. He's a nurse at the hospital."

"What time does he usually return?" Calhoun asked.

"He gets back about three-thirty or four unless he does an evening shift."

On his way out, Calhoun slipped back up the stairs and rang Devonshire's bell yet again. When there was still no response, he tried the door. It opened in.

"Hello!" Calhoun called out.

One of the benefits of not being on the police force any longer was that he didn't have to concern himself with the niceties of legal searches and probable cause. With no compunction whatsoever, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

The apartment was cheaply furnished but neat. Calhoun found himself in the living room. On the coffee table he discovered a stack of newspaper clippings on Jack Kevorkian, the notorious "suicide" doctor in Michigan. There were other editorials and articles about assisted suicide.

Calhoun smiled as he remembered telling David and Angela that some strange things would pop up about their tattooed group. Calhoun thought that assisted suicide and euthanasia shared some areas of commonality and that David might like to have a chat with Clyde Devonshire.

Calhoun pushed open the bedroom door. This room, too, was neat. Going over to the bureau he scanned the articles on top, looking for photographs. There were none. Opening the closet Calhoun found himself staring at a collection of bondage paraphernalia, mostly items in black leather with stainless steel rivets and chains. On a shelf were stacks of accompanying magazines and videotapes.

As Calhoun closed the door, he wondered what the background computer search would uncover on this weirdo.

Moving through the rest of the apartment, Calhoun continued to search for photos. He was hoping to find one with Clyde displaying his tattoos. There were a number of photos attached to the refrigerator door with tiny magnets, but nobody in the pictures had any visible tattoos. Calhoun didn't even know which of the people photographed was Clyde.

Calhoun was about to return to the living room and go through the desk that he'd seen when he heard a door slam below, followed by footfalls on the stairs.

For an instant, Calhoun was afraid of being caught trespassing. He considered making a run for it, but then, instead of trying to flee, he went to the front door and pulled it open, startling the person who was about to open it from the other side.

"Clyde Devonshire?" Calhoun asked sharply.

"Yeah," Clyde said. "What the hell is going on?"

"My name is Phil Calhoun," Calhoun said. He extended a business card toward Clyde. "I've been waiting for you. Come on in."

Clyde shifted the parcel he was carrying to take the card.

"You're an investigator?" Clyde asked.

"That's right," Calhoun said. "I was a state policeman until the governor decided I was too old. So I've taken up investigating. I've been sitting here waiting for you to get home so I could ask you some questions."

"Well, you scared the crap out of me," Clyde admitted. He put a hand to his chest and sighed with relief. "I'm not used to coming home and finding people in my apartment."

"Sorry," Calhoun said. "I suppose I should have waited on the stairs."

"That wouldn't have been comfortable," Clyde said. "Sit down. Can I offer you anything?"

Clyde dumped his parcel on the couch, then headed into the kitchen. "I've got coffee, pop, or…"

"Have any beer?" Calhoun asked.

"Sure," Clyde called.

While Clyde got beer from the refrigerator, Calhoun took a peek inside the brown bag Clyde had come in with. Inside were videos similar in theme to those Calhoun had discovered in the closet.

Clyde came back into the living room carrying two beers. He could tell Calhoun had looked into his parcel. Putting the beers onto the coffee table, Clyde picked up the bag and carefully closed the top.

"Entertainment," Clyde explained.

"I noticed," Calhoun said.

"Are you straight?" Clyde asked.

"I'm not much of anything anymore," Calhoun said. He eyed his host. Clyde was around thirty. He was of medium height and had brown hair. He looked like he would have made a good offensive end in high-school football.

"What kind of questions did you want to ask me?" Clyde said. He handed a beer to Calhoun.

"Did you know Dr. Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

Clyde gave a short, scornful laugh. "Why on earth would you be investigating that detestable figure out of ancient history?"

"Sounds like you didn't think much of him."

"He was a tight-assed bastard," Clyde said. "He had an old-fashioned concept of the role of the nurse. He thought we were lowly life forms who were supposed to do all the dirty work and not question doctors' orders. You know, be seen but not heard. Hodges would have seemed outdated to Clara Barton."

"Who was Clara Barton?" Calhoun asked.

"She was a battlefield nurse in the Civil War," Clyde said. "She also organized the Red Cross."

"Do you know who killed Dr. Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

"It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking," Clyde said. "But if you find out, let me know. I'd love to buy the man a beer."

"Do you have a tattoo?" Calhoun asked.

"I sure do," Clyde said. "I have a number of them."

"Where?" Calhoun asked.

"You want to see them?" Clyde asked.

"Yes," Calhoun said.

Grinning from ear to ear, Clyde undid his cuffs and took off his shirt. He stood up and assumed several poses as if he were a bodybuilder. Then he laughed. He had a chain tattooed around each wrist, a dragon on his right upper arm, and a pair of crossed swords on his pectorals above each nipple.

"I got these swords in New Hampshire while I was in high school," he said. "The rest I got in San Diego."

"Let me see the tattoos on your wrists," Calhoun said.

"Oh, no," Clyde said as he slipped his shirt back on. "I don't want to show you everything the first time. You won't come back."

"Do you ski?" Calhoun asked.

"Occasionally," Clyde said. Then he added, "You sure do jump all over the map with your questions."

"Do you own a ski mask?" Calhoun asked.

"Everybody who skis in New England has a ski mask," Clyde said. "Unless they're masochists."

Calhoun stood up. "Thanks for the beer," he said. "I've got to be on my way."

"Too bad," Clyde said. "I was just starting to enjoy myself."

Calhoun descended the stairs, went outside, and climbed into his truck. He was glad to get out of Clyde Devonshire's apartment. The man was definitely unusual, maybe even bizarre. The question was, could he have killed Hodges? Somehow, Calhoun didn't think so. Clyde might be weird, but he seemed forthright. Yet the chains tattooed on each wrist bothered Calhoun, especially since he'd not had a chance to examine them closely. And he wondered about the man's interest in Kevorkian. Was it idle curiosity or the interest of a sort of kindred spirit? For now, Clyde would remain a suspect. Calhoun was eager to see what the background computer check would bring up on him.

Calhoun checked his list. The next name was Joe Forbs. The address was near the college, not too far from the Gannons'.

At Forbs' house, a thin, nervous woman with gray-streaked hair opened the door a crack when Calhoun knocked. Calhoun introduced himself and produced his card. The woman wasn't impressed. She was more New England-like than Clyde Devonshire: tight-lipped and not too friendly.

"Mrs. Forbs?" Calhoun asked.

The woman nodded.

"Is Joe at home?"

"No," Mrs. Forbs said. "You'll have to come back later."

"What time?"

"I don't know. It's a different time each day."

"Did you know Dr. Dennis Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

"No," Mrs. Forbs said.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Forbs is tattooed?"

"You'll have to come back," Mrs. Forbs said.

"Does he ski?" Calhoun persisted.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Forbs said. She shut the door. Calhoun heard a series of locks secured. He had the distinct impression Mrs. Forbs thought he was a bill collector.

Climbing back into the truck, Calhoun sighed. He was now only one for two. But he wasn't discouraged. It was time to move on to the next name on the list: Claudette Maurice.

"Uh oh," Calhoun said as he pulled up across the street from Claudette Maurice's house. It was a tiny home that looked like a dollhouse. What bothered Calhoun was that the shutters on the windows in the front were closed.

Calhoun went up to the front door and knocked several times since there was no bell. There was no response. Lifting the door to the mailbox, he saw it was almost full.

Stepping away from the house, Calhoun went to the nearest neighbor. He got his answer quickly. Claudette Maurice was on vacation. She'd gone to Hawaii.

Calhoun returned to the truck. Now he was only one for three. He looked at the next name: Werner Van Slyke.

Calhoun debated skipping Van Slyke since he'd talked to him already, but he decided to see the man anyway. On the first visit he'd not known about Van Slyke's tattoo.

Van Slyke resided in the southeastern part of the town. He lived on a quiet lane where the buildings were set far back from the street. Calhoun pulled to a stop behind a row of cars parked across the street from Van Slyke's home.

Surprisingly, Van Slyke's house was run-down and badly in need of paint. It didn't look like a house occupied by the head of a maintenance department. Dilapidated shutters hung at odd angles from their windows. The place gave Calhoun the creeps.

Calhoun lit himself an Antonio y Cleopatra and eyed the house. He took a few sips from his coffee which was now cold. There were no signs of life in and around the building and no vehicle in the driveway. Calhoun doubted anyone was home.

Figuring he'd take a look around the way he had at Clyde Devonshire's, Calhoun climbed out of the truck and walked across the street. The closer he got to the building, the worse its condition appeared. There was even some dry rot under the eaves.

The doorbell did not function. Calhoun pressed it several times but heard nothing. He knocked twice, but there was no response. Leaving the front stoop, Calhoun circled the house.

Set way back from the house was a barn that had been converted into a garage. Calhoun ignored the barn and continued around the house, trying to see into the windows. It wasn't easy since the windows were filthy. In the back of the house there were a pair of hatch doors secured with an old, rusted padlock. Calhoun guessed they covered stairs to the basement.

Returning to the front of the house, Calhoun went back up the stoop. Pausing at the door he looked around to make sure no one was watching. He then tried the door. It was unlocked.

To be absolutely certain no one was home, Calhoun knocked again as loudly as his knuckles would bear. Satisfied, he reached again for the doorknob. To his shock, the door opened on its own. Calhoun looked up. Van Slyke was eyeing him suspiciously.

"What on earth do you want?" Van Slyke asked.

Calhoun had to remove the cigar that he'd tucked between his teeth. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "I just happened to be in the area, and I thought I'd stop by. Remember, I said I'd come back. I have a few more questions. What do you say? Is it an inconvenient time?"

"I suppose now's all right," Van Slyke said after a pause. "But I don't have too much time."

"I never overstay my welcome," Calhoun said.

Beaton had to knock several times on Traynor's outer office door before she heard his footsteps coming to unlock it.

"I'm surprised you're here," Beaton said.

Traynor locked the door after letting her in. "I've been spending so much time on hospital business, I have to come in here nights and weekends to do my own," he said.

"It was difficult to find you," Beaton said as she followed him into his private office.

"How'd you do it?" Traynor asked.

"I called your home," Beaton said. "I asked your wife, Jacqueline."

"Was she civil?" Traynor asked. He eased himself into his office chair. Piled on his desk were various deeds and contracts.

"Not particularly," Beaton admitted.

"I'm not surprised," Traynor said.

"I have to talk to you about that young couple we recruited last spring," Beaton said. "They've been a disaster. Both were fired from their positions yesterday. The husband was with CMV and she was in our pathology department."

"I remember her," Traynor said. "Wadley acted like a dog in heat around her at the Labor Day picnic."

"That's part of the problem," Beaton said. "Wadley fired her, but she came in yesterday and complained about sexual harassment, threatening to sue the hospital. She said she'd gone to Cantor well before being fired to register a complaint, a fact Cantor has confirmed."

"Did Wadley have cause to fire her?" Traynor asked.

"According to him, yes," Beaton said. "He'd documented that she'd repeatedly left town while on duty, even after he specifically warned her not to do so."

"Then there's nothing to worry about," Traynor said. "As long as he had reason to fire her, we'll be fine. I know the old judges that would hear the case. They'll end up giving her a lecture."

"It makes me nervous," Beaton said. "And the husband, Dr. David Wilson, is up to something. Just this morning I had him escorted out of medical records. Yesterday afternoon he'd been in there accessing the hospital's computer for death rates."

"What on earth for?" Traynor asked.

"I have no idea," Beaton said.

"But you told me our death rates are okay," Traynor said. "So what difference does it make?"

"All hospitals feel that their death rates are confidential information," Beaton said. "The general public doesn't understand how they're figured. Death rates can be a public relations disaster, something that Bartlet Hospital certainly doesn't need."

"I'll agree with you there," Traynor said. "So we keep him out of medical records. It shouldn't be hard if CMV fired him. Why was he fired?"

"He was continually at the lower end of productivity," Beaton said, "and at the upper end of utilization, particularly hospitalization."

"We certainly won't miss him," Traynor said. "Sounds like I should send Kelley a bottle of scotch for doing us a favor."

"This family is worrying me," Beaton said. "Yesterday they came flying into the hospital to yank out their daughter, the one with cystic fibrosis. They took her out of the hospital against medical advice from their pediatrician."

"That does sound bizarre," Traynor said. "How's the child? I guess that's the important issue."

"She's fine," Beaton said. "I spoke to the pediatrician. She's doing perfectly well."

"Then what's the worry?" Traynor said.

Armed with the social security numbers and birth dates, Angela headed into Boston. She'd called Robert Scali that morning so he'd expect her. She didn't explain why she was coming. The reason would take too long to explain and besides, it would sound too bizarre.

She met Robert at one of the numerous small Indian restaurants in Central Square in Cambridge. As Angela entered, Robert got up from one of the tables.

Angela kissed him on the cheek, then got down to business. She told him what she wanted and handed Robert her list. He eyed the sheet.

"So you want background checks on these people?" he said. He leaned across the table. "I was hoping that you had more personal reasons for calling so suddenly. I thought you wanted to see me."

Angela immediately felt uncomfortable. When they'd gotten together before, Robert had never intimated anything about rekindling their old flame.

Angela decided it was best to be direct. She assured Robert that she was happily married. She told him that she'd come purely because she needed his help.

If Robert was disheartened, it didn't show. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm glad to see you no matter what the reason," he said. "I'll be happy to help. What is it you specifically want?"

Angela explained to Robert that she'd been told that a good deal of information could be obtained about a person through computer searches using just the social security number and the birth date.

Robert laughed in the deep, husky manner that Angela remembered so vividly. "You have no idea how much is available," he said. "I could get Bill Clinton's Visa card transactions for the last month if I were truly motivated."

"I want to find out everything I can about these people," Angela said, tapping the list.

"Can you be more specific?" Robert said.

"Not really," Angela said. "I want everything you can get. A friend of mine has described this process as a fishing trip."

"Who's this friend?" Robert asked.

"Well, he's not exactly a friend," Angela said. "But I've come to think of him that way. His name is Phil Calhoun. He's a retired policeman who's become a private investigator. David and I hired him."

Angela went on to give Robert a thumbnail sketch of the events in Bartlet. She started with Hodges' body being discovered in their basement, then went on to describe the fascinating clue of the tattoo, and finished up with the theory that someone was killing patients in a form of misguided euthanasia.

"My God!" Robert said when Angela ended her tale. "You're shooting holes in my romantic image of the peaceful country life."

"It's been a nightmare," Angela admitted.

Robert picked up the list. "Twenty-five names will yield a lot of data," he said. "I hope you're prepared. Did you come in a U-Haul?"

"We're particularly interested in these five," Angela said. She pointed to the people who worked in the hospital and explained why.

"This sounds like fun," Robert said. "The quickest information to get will be financial since there are quite a few databases we can tap with ease. So we'll soon have information on credit cards, bank accounts, money transfers, and debt. From then on it gets more difficult."

"What would the next step be?" Angela asked.

"I suppose the easiest would be social security," Robert said. "But hacking into their data banks is a bit trickier. But it's not impossible, especially since I have a friend here at MIT who is conveniently working on database security for various government agencies."

"Do you think he'd help?" Angela asked.

"Peter Fong? Of course he'll help if I ask him. When do you want this stuff?"

"Yesterday," Angela said with a smile.

"That's one of the things I always liked about you," Robert said. "Always so eager. Come on, let's go see Peter Fong."

Peter's office was hidden away at the rear of the fourth floor of a cream-colored stuccoed building in the middle of the MIT campus.

It looked less like an office than an electronics laboratory. It was filled with computers, cathode ray tubes, liquid crystal displays, wires, tape machines, and other electronic paraphernalia Angela couldn't identify.

Peter Fong was an energetic Asian-American with eyes even darker than Robert's. It was immediately obvious to Angela that he and Robert were the best of friends.

Robert handed Peter the list and told him what they wanted. Peter scratched his head and pondered the request.

"I agree social security would be the best place to start," Peter said. "But an FBI database search would also be a good idea."

"Is that possible?" Angela asked. The world of computer information was new to her.

"No problem," Peter said. "I've got a colleague in Washington. Her name is Gloria Ramirez. I've been working with her on this database security project. She's on line with both organizations."

Peter used a word processor to type out what he wanted. Then he slipped it into his fax. "We usually communicate by fax but for this she'll respond by computer. With that amount of data it will be faster."

Within minutes, data was pouring directly into his hard disk drive. Peter pulled some of the material up onto his screen.

Angela looked over Peter's shoulder and scanned the screen. It was a portion of the social security record on Joe Forbs, indicating the recent jobs he'd held along with his payments into the social security pool. Angela was impressed. She was also dismayed at how easy it was to get such information.

Peter activated his laser printer. It began spewing forth page after page of data. Robert walked over and picked up a sheet. Angela joined him. It was the social security file on Werner Van Slyke.

"Interesting," Angela said. "He was in the navy. That's probably where he got his tattoo."

"A lot of the enlisted men think of a tattoo as a rite of passage," Robert said.

Angela was even more surprised later when the criminal records began coming in on another printer. Peter had to activate a second machine since the first was still busy with the social security material.

Angela hadn't expected much criminal information since Bartlet was such a small, quiet town. But like so much else about Bartlet, her assumption was wrong. The most significant item, as far as she was concerned, was the discovery that Clyde Devonshire had been arrested and convicted of rape six years earlier. The incident had taken place in Norfolk, Virginia, and he had served two years in the state penitentiary.

"Sounds like a charming fellow to have in a small town," Robert said sarcastically.

"He works in the ER at the hospital," Angela said. "I wonder if anyone knew of his record."

Robert went back to the other printer and rummaged through the data until he found Clyde Devonshire's information.

"He was in the navy too," Robert called over to Angela, who was transfixed by the criminal material still coming out. "In fact, the dates seem to indicate that he was in the navy when he was arrested for rape."

Angela stepped over to Robert to look over his shoulder.

"Look at this," Robert said as he pointed to the sequence of dates. "There are a number of gaps in the social security history after Mr. Devonshire got out of prison. I've seen records like this before. Such gaps suggest that he either did more time or was using aliases."

"Good Lord!" Angela said. "Phil Calhoun said we'd be surprised by what turned up. He certainly was right."

Half an hour later, Angela and Robert walked out of Peter's office with several boxes full of computer paper. They headed for Robert's office.

Robert's work space looked much the same as Peter's as far as equipment was concerned. The one significant difference was that Robert had a window overlooking the Charles River.

"Let's get you some financial information," Robert said as he sat down at one of his terminals. Before long, material started coming back across his screen as if a hole had been poked in a dam.

As Robert's printers snapped into operation, pages flew into the collection trays with surprising rapidity.

"I'm overwhelmed," Angela admitted. "I've never thought such reams of personal information could be obtained with such ease."

"For fun, let's see what we can get on you," Robert said. "What's your social security number?"

"No, thank you," Angela said. "Knowing the amount of debt I have, it would be too depressing."

"I'll try to get more material on your suspects tonight," Robert said. "Sometimes it's easier at night when there's less electronic traffic."

"Thank you so much," Angela said as she tried to pick up the two boxes of material.

"I think I'd better give you a hand with all that," Robert said.

Once the material was stored in the trunk, Angela gave Robert a long hug.

"Thanks again," she said. She gave him an extra squeeze. "It's been good to see you."

Robert waved as Angela drove away. She watched his figure recede in her rearview mirror. It had been nice to see him, except for the brief moment of discomfort when she'd first arrived. Now she was looking forward to showing David and Calhoun all this material.

"I'm home!" Angela shouted as she entered through the back door. Hearing no response, she went back for the second box of information herself. When she returned, the house was still silent. With a growing sense of unease, Angela passed through the kitchen and dining room on her way to the stairs. She was startled to find David reading in the family room.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Angela asked.

"You said you were home," David said. "I didn't feel that required a response."

"What's the matter?" Angela asked.

"Nothing at all," David said. "How was your day with your old boyfriend?"

"Oh, is that what this is about?" Angela said.

David shrugged. "It seems strange to me that you've kept quiet about this man from your past for the four years we lived in Boston."

"David!" Angela said with a touch of exasperation. She walked over and threw herself into David's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I didn't mean to keep Robert secret. If I'd meant to keep him a secret, do you think I would have named him now? Don't you know I love you and no one else." She kissed him on the nose.

"Promise?" David asked.

"Promise," Angela said. "How's Nikki?"

"She's fine," David said. "She's napping. She's still terribly upset about Caroline. But physically she's doing great. How did you do?"

"You won't believe it," Angela said. "Come on!"

Angela dragged David into the kitchen and showed him the boxes. He took out a few pages to look at them. "You're right," he said. "I don't believe it. This will take us hours to go through."

"It's a good thing we're unemployed," Angela said. "At least we have plenty of time."

"I'm glad to hear your humor's back," David said.

They made dinner together. When Nikki woke up she joined in, though it was difficult for her to move around since she still had an IV running. Before they sat down to eat, David called Dr. Pilsner. Together they decided that Nikki's IV could be pulled and the antibiotics continued orally.

During dinner David and Angela talked about having to break the news about their employment status in Bartlet to their parents. Both were reluctant.

"I don't know what you're worried about," David questioned. "Your mother and father will probably cheer. They never wanted us to come up here anyway."

"That's the problem," Angela said. "It will drive me bananas when they start in with the 'I told you so' routine."

After dinner while Nikki watched television, David and Angela began the chore of going through the computer data. David was progressively amazed and appalled at the wealth of the material accessible to hackers.

"This will take us days," David complained.

"Maybe we should concentrate on those with connections to the hospital," Angela said. "There are only five."

"Good idea," David said.

Like Angela, David found the criminal information the most provocative. He was particularly taken by the news that Clyde Devonshire had not only served time for rape but had also been arrested in Michigan for loitering outside Jack Kevorkian's house. Assisted suicide and euthanasia shared some philosophical justifications. David wondered if Devonshire could be their "angel of mercy."

David was also amazed to learn that Peter Ullhof had been arrested six times outside Planned Parenthood centers and three times outside of abortion clinics, once for assault and battery of a doctor.

"This is interesting," Angela said. She was looking through the social security material. "All five of these people served in the military, including Claudette Maurice. That's a coincidence."

"Maybe that's why they all have tattoos," David said.

Angela nodded. She remembered Robert's comment about tattoos being a rite of passage.

After helping Nikki do her respiratory therapy, they put her to bed. Then they returned downstairs and brought the computer printouts into the family room. They began to sift through again, creating a separate pile for each of the five hospital workers.

"I expected Calhoun to have called by now," Angela said. "I was looking forward to getting his opinion on some of this information, particularly regarding Clyde Devonshire."

"Calhoun's an independent sort," David said. "He said he'd call when he had something to tell us."

"Well, I'm going to give him a call," Angela said. "We have something to tell him."

Angela only got Calhoun's answering machine. She didn't leave a message.

"One of the things that surprises me," David said when Angela was off the phone, "is how often these people have changed jobs." David was going over the social security data.

Angela moved next to him and looked over his shoulder. All at once she reached over and took a paper that David was about to put on Van Slyke's pile.

"Look at this," she said, pointing to an entry. "Van Slyke was in the navy for twenty-one months."

"So?" David questioned.

"Isn't that unusual?" Angela asked. "I thought the shortest stint in the navy was three years."

"I don't know," David said.

"Let's look at Devonshire's service record," Angela said. She leafed through Devonshire's pile until she found the appropriate page.

"He was in for four and a half years."

"My God!" David exclaimed. "Will you listen to this? Joe Forbs has declared personal bankruptcy three times. With that kind of history, how can he get a credit card? But he has. Each time he's gotten all new cards at another institution. Amazing."

By eleven o'clock, David was struggling to keep his eyes open. "I'm afraid I have to go to bed," he said. He tossed the papers he had in his hand onto the table.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Angela said. "I'm bushed too."

They went upstairs arm in arm, feeling satisfied they'd accomplished so much in one day. But they might not have slept so soundly had they any inkling of the firestorm their handiwork had ignited.