“Like someone blindly jamming a hemostat into a patient’s brain, fishing for a bullet?”

“Exactly. That’s Dr. Prichap. As far as I know, he’s a decent-enough neurosurgeon, but I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

“It may be a while before you see anyone do it again,” Lou said. “What else?”

“Dr. Meacham is going downhill fast, but no one seems all that alarmed. Do you know him?”

“For a few years. We’ve actually gotten to know one another pretty well. This came right out of the blue. I can’t believe he did it.”

“He’s over there in three. Dr. Schwartz, the intensivist, has been in and out, but mostly it’s been Dr. Prichap. It looks as if things have quieted down now. Prichap may have given up hunting for the bullet.”

“I hope so,” Lou said, almost to himself.

Lou followed Sara into the cubicle, which was crowded to near overflowing with nurses, radiology, lab, and respiratory techs, what appeared to be a resident, and a short, copper-skinned man—probably from India. ANTHAR S. PRICHAP, M.D. was stitched in blue over the breast pocket of his lab coat. Although he wore scrubs beneath his white coat, it appeared that he had performed surgery just as he was. Next to Prichap was a tray with bloody sponges and instruments piled on it.

No bullet.

On the bed, barely visible in the crowd, was John Meacham. His trachea had been intubated through his mouth, and he was being ventilated mechanically by a state-of-the-art machine that occupied most of the space the crush of bodies did not. A tall man—six feet or so—Meacham looked lost, almost diminutive. He appeared to be unconscious. His eyes were taped shut, and his head had been shaved on the right side. The bullet hole, just above his right ear, seemed to have been widened. On the wall view-box were anterior–posterior and lateral skull films showing a deeply embedded slug, fragmented into one small and two larger pieces, none of which were easily accessible to the entrance wound itself.

Dr. Schwartz, the hospital-employed intensivist, was apparently off with other patients. Why hang around for a plain old everyday gunshot wound to the head?

Lou introduced himself to Prichap, and received an uninterested nod in return. No handshake. Then, without a word, the neurosurgeon drifted into the background as Lou conducted a quick visual scan of Meacham. What he saw immediately disturbed him. There were two intravenous lines—one inserted in the elbow crux of Meacham’s left arm, and the other at the wrist of the right. The line at the elbow was barely running, despite a blood pressure reading on the monitor screen that demanded fluids and pressor medications—eighty over forty. Surrounding the spot where the catheter had been inserted was a large swelling. The line was infiltrated, and rather than pouring life-supporting fluid into the circulatory system, it was pooling fluid in the tissues.

Careless, dangerous medicine.

“Sara, that needs to be replaced,” he said, pointedly ignoring Prichap, who, at that moment, was looking rather pleased with himself for whatever reason.