Duby's Doctor (2 page)

“I can’t say.”

She sighed again. “Second John Doe we’ve had
since midnight.” She nodded to the adjacent cubicle, where no one
was working on the patient. “And our average isn’t good, so
far.”

Stone perked up with new interest. “You had
another John Doe last night?”

She nodded. Then, in response to a gesture
from Stone, the doctor showed him into the dead John Doe’s cubicle.
A body on a gurney was draped completely. Stone walked to the head
of the gurney, lifted the sheet, and looked at the man’s ashen,
lifeless face.

Then he dropped the sheet, moved to the foot
of the gurney, and lifted the covering over the corpse’s feet. A
bar-coded toe tag identified the man as “John Doe.”

“Whattaya know about this guy?” asked
Stone.

“Homeless. Hit and run on I-95 near Biscayne.
Looks like he’d been living under the overpass.”

Stone snatched the toe tag off the body and
shoved it into the doctor’s hands.

“For the record, and for the press, I hereby
officially identify this dead man as Special Agent Yves Dubreau of
the Federal Department of Homeland Security. He has obviously been
the victim of a freak fishing accident while on annual leave.”
Stone pointed to the cubicle where multiple professionals were
attempting to stabilize the man brought in by Coast Guard
helicopter. “That one is John Doe. Comprende?”

Dr. Mitchell Oberon stared in horror at this
scruffy man, whom she liked less with every passing second.
Mitchell led the life of a prudish spinster with time for little
outside her work; she kept her person and her surroundings clean
and tidy. She drove the speed limit exactly, stopped for yellow
lights, followed rules to the letter. This sloppy, round, absurdly
demanding person wanted her to flout the law. It was almost
incomprehensible to her. Speechless, she turned and led Stone out
of the dead man’s cubicle.

Mitchell took Stone to the admitting desk,
where she retrieved the electronic tablet containing the medical
chart for the corpse. She shook the chart in Stone’s face.

“The answer is no. First of all, that would
be lying, and I don’t lie. Second, if I did what you’re asking me
to do, I could be in serious trouble for falsifying medical
records,” she said.

“Not. Asking.” Stone spoke barely above a
whisper. “Listen very carefully, Doctor: Some very bad people want
this guy dead.”

He pointed to the cubicle of the injured man.
“So, he better be well and truly dead. ‘Cause you ain’t seen
trouble until the bad guys learn he ain’t dead, and they come in
here looking to correct their little oversight.”

He picked up the stylus from the admitting
desk and tapped the electronic chart belonging to the dead man.
“Besides, you won’t get in trouble for doing what the law requires
you to do. And today I am The Law. Now, mark the chart.”

Mitchell glared at the determined man. “Even
if the law is willing to overlook it, my conscience will know what
I’ve done is wrong.”

He stared at her.

“Let me see that badge again.”

He stared at her while he again took out his
wallet and flipped it open to reveal his official
identification.

Mitchell studied the badge carefully. She was
ninety per cent certain it was the real thing. She recalled all the
news stories she had read and heard about the nearly limitless
power of the DHS. They said even the FBI and CIA had no standing to
curb the activities of Homeland Security. She lifted her gaze from
the man’s badge to his visage.

He stared at her.

As she looked into his face, she felt cold
fingers of fear tickling the edges of her mind. Her brow crinkled.
“Are you telling me I really don’t have a choice?”

He stared at her.

So she took the stylus from him grudgingly
and began to delete the name “John Doe” from the dead man’s chart.
“You’ll have to spell that agent’s name for me,” she said.

On the edge of Coconut Grove loomed an
impressive Mediterranean-style mansion with castle-like towers and
tile-roofed cupolas. Broken glass studded the top of the stone wall
surrounding the estate. All its metal gates were electrified.

A muscular man patrolled inside the wall with
a leashed attack dog. As he passed the swimming pool, he waved to
the armed sentry who paced in a tower overlooking the pool and
tennis court.

Kyle Averell enjoyed an elegant breakfast on
a vast teak deck with a view of the courts, where his adult
daughter, Carinne, and her coach, Trish, were playing a
half-hearted tennis match. Averell looked up when his bodyguard,
Rico, emerged from the house with the morning paper.

Rico folded the paper carefully and placed it
before his boss, jabbing at a news item with one heavy finger.

Averell put his coffee cup down and picked up
the article to read. A moment later he replaced the paper on the
table and lifted his coffee cup toward the waiting carafe. As Rico
refilled his jefe’s cup, Averell commented with mock
sentimentality.

“Oh dear, oh dear. A Homeland Security agent
killed – while on a fishing vacation, of all things. How ironic to
survive vicious terrorists and criminals only to be done in by a
mullet. Life is cruel.”

More sternly, he added: “Carinne will not see
the papers today.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Averell.”

Down on the tennis court, Trish was shouting
cheerily at her opponent, attempting to generate enthusiasm.
Averell watched them as Rico took the newspaper away. Carinne
seemed weary of the game and of life in general. He hoped his
daughter would not become the sort of problem her unfortunate
mother had been.

Hector Velez enjoyed his job as a hospital
orderly. He worked alongside polite, educated people, many of whom
were young and female. His muscles often came in handy for heavy
lifting in the course of his duties, and he was a compassionate and
kind caregiver.

All of this, combined with a decent salary
and the ability to live economically at home with his parents,
boded well for Hector’s social life. He was saving up for his
eventual home, wife, and kids, but there was no reason not to enjoy
life in the meantime.

Hector was an excellent orderly. He was
inventive when necessary, and he learned from his mistakes. So,
after a week of dealing with the new John Doe, Hector had devised
certain procedures.

He pushed the tall, stainless steel food cart
down the hallway. He stopped at a room, checked his tickets,
verified the room number and name on the door, selected a tray, and
carried it in.

Then he emerged and pushed his cart on to the
next room. The plastic whiteboard beneath the room number said
“John Doe,” but some wag had drawn a line through that and inserted
with a felt-tip pen: “
Jean Deaux
.”

When Hector arrived at this door, he reached
under the covered tray on the bottom shelf of his cart and pulled
out a catcher’s mask. Then he selected a meal tray, squared his
shoulders, and marched into the room.

A moment passed in silence. Then a string of
loud French epithets resounded in the room, followed by crashing
and clanging of utensils and dinnerware. Hector backed out of the
room, holding an empty tray, cursing under his breath in Spanish,
and wearing a waterfall of spaghetti and meatballs on his mask.

Outside the door, Nurse Erskine passed him in
the hall, acting as if this were an everyday occurrence – because
it was. “If at first you don’t succeed...,” she teased.

Elsewhere on that floor of the hospital,
Frank Stone stepped off the elevator and ambled down a white-tiled
corridor. He gestured to staff members and patients; he was
familiar with his route. Near the end of the corridor he opened a
door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.”

It was a supply closet.

Crowded into it were two people and a vanload
of electronic listening gear. The woman looked up at Stone without
surprise. The man concentrated on his headphones and digital
recorder.

“Anything yet?” Stone asked.

The woman answered him with a heavy French
accent. “Random profanities. One or two meaningless words. Typical
with a head injury, we are told. He doesn’t know what he is saying
most of the time.”

“No names?”

“
Non.”

“Anything in English? Anything at all?”

The woman shook her head. Stone looked at the
man and raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” the man said.

Stone turned to leave, making no effort to
hide his frustration. He stopped before opening the door.

“He’s got the results of an entire
investigation locked up in his head, and I don’t want to miss
anything, anything that might manage to leak out. You get down
every word, every syllable, every grunt, every creak of that
mattress. If he breaks wind, I want it recorded. You hear me?”

“
Oui, monsieur
,” said the woman.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Several days later, Dr. Mitchell Oberon
entered Jean Deaux’s room on her daily rounds and found Hector, in
his catcher’s mask, once again wearing the patient’s meal – chicken
à la king this time. The fastidious Mitchell hated a mess, and she
picked her way across a floor covered with food and dishware,
gesturing to Hector to clean it up.

She ignored Jean’s angry glare and the
bandage on his head. Mitchell was there to examine the bandaged and
braced left knee. After removing the brace and bandage, she poked
and prodded gently, receiving no more grunts of patient discomfort
than expected. She smiled at the knee’s healing progress and took
more than a little pride in the reconstructive work she had done.
She efficiently applied a fresh bandage and refastened the Velcro
of the brace.

Finished with the knee, she lifted her eyes
and smiled at Jean.

“You know, Johnny,” she said, “you have to
start eating, so we can cut loose these IVs and get you more
mobile.”

Quicker than a mongoose, Jean lunged for
Mitchell, took a stranglehold on both her lapels with one mighty
hand and with the other whipped Mitchell’s pen from her pocket. He
began drawing frantically on Mitchell’s white lab coat.

Hector, though muscular, was no match for the
larger man on the bed. Rather than rush to the doctor’s defense, he
yelled, “I’ll get security!”

“No, wait!” called Mitchell. “Wait. Look.
C’mere and look. What is it?”

Hector moved very carefully to a place where
he could see Jean’s art taking shape. “It looks like – Oh, gross,
man! It’s a chicken – with its head cut off! I knew it, man! This
dude is one of them Haitian voodoo priests or a Santeria or
something!”

Jean drew a huge “X” through the chicken with
a flourish, made eye contact with Mitchell (whose undivided
attention he definitely had), and began drawing again.

Because of his hold on her lapels, Mitchell
could not look down at her coat to see what he was drawing. She
looked to Hector. “Okay. Okay, what’s this now? Can you see it?
What is it?”

“Your big old bicep’s in the way, man. Move
your freakin’ arm, Hercules,” said Hector.

Mitchell choked out, “Hector! I’m expiring
here! Quit foolin’ around. What is it? Hurry!”

“
Madre de Dios
,” said Hector.

“What! What is it?”

Jean released Mitchell’s lab coat and
subsided onto the bed. He used his hands to adjust his injured leg,
grimacing with pain, and leaned back into his pillow with a tired
sigh.

Mitchell finally got a look at the finished
work. Then she and Hector said the same word – but with different
inflections: “Vegetables!”

“That’s the answer, Hector. Our bloodthirsty
savage is a vegetarian. Get me an apple or something.”

When Hector didn’t move, she added, “Now,
before he throttles me again!”

Hector ran to the food cart in the hallway
and came back with a large apple. He threw it. Jean caught and ate
it like a starving jackal.

“
Madre de Dios
,” said Hector.

“Exactly,” said Mitchell. She picked up the
pen Jean had dropped on the bed and began making notes in his
chart. “I think a change of diet will make a big difference around
here.”

Then Mitchell put the pen down on the bed in
front of Jean and tore blank pages from the back of the chart to
put there as well.

“Okay, Johnny. If you can’t give us words,
give us some pictures.”

After that, Hector made certain to keep Jean
supplied with drawing paper and markers. Nurses quickly learned
that Jean could make his thoughts known through his art, and with
easier communication came less frustration for both caregivers and
patient. Jean even began to smile occasionally and to display signs
of a friendly nature beneath his scarred and muscular exterior.

Many days later, Dr. Mitchell Oberon entered
Jean’s room on her daily rounds, well accustomed by now to the
drawings of fruits, vegetables, desserts, and beverages taped to
the walls and window shades. Her step faltered, however, at the
sight of Jean. He was sitting on his bed, drawing as usual, but she
had never seen him this way.

He had tossed his hospital gown over the
nearest chair and wore only his boxer shorts. Mitchell’s lungs
emptied, forcing her to gasp audibly, and she nearly got tangled in
her own feet before she disciplined herself to keep calm and walk
normally.

Her consternation was forgivable,
understandable, and probably inevitable. The spinsterish surgeon
had never actually been in a room alone with an undraped naked man
– at least, not one who was fully conscious. And even though Jean
was not totally naked, Mitchell had never seen him with so little
covering. Even in the operating room, she had seen the leg she was
repairing and little else.