The first time, conserving wind, Adam didn’t answer. But when the question was placed again each time he circled the block, he began to fling replies like mini-confessions.
“Susan Garland.”
“Myron Silberstein.”
“Spurgeon Robinson.”
“Gaby Pender.”
He suffered a compulsion to answer the question honestly. Therefore as he came around the block on his final trip, legs pumping and arms flailing, “I’m chasing myself!” he flung over his shoulder at the child.
The morning they discussed the case of Susan Garland he discovered something new about the Mortality Conference.
He learned that when you were personally involved in a case being scrutinized, the Death Committee suddenly became a different animal.
It was the difference between playing with a house cat and with a leopard.
He sipped coffee that gave him an immediately acid stomach while Meomartino presented the case history and then Dr. Sack gave the post-mortem report.
The autopsy had revealed that there had been nothing wrong with the transplanted kidney, which let Meomartino off the hook immediately.
There had been no problem with the anastomoses or any other factor in Dr. Kender’s transplantation technique.
That left only one man, Adam realized.
“Dr. Silverstone, at what time did you last examine her?” Dr. Longwood asked.
He was aware suddenly of the eyes of everybody at the meeting. “Just before nine p.m.,” he said.
The Old Man’s eyes looked larger than usual because the weight loss had made his long ugly facial features almost gaunt. Dr. Longwood ran his fingers through his thin white hair thoughtfully. “There was no sign of infection?”
“None at all, sir.”
The nurse had found her dead at 2:42 a.m.
Dr. Sack cleared his throat. “The time isn’t relevant. She would have bled to death in a relatively short period. Perhaps an hour-and-a-half.”
Dr. Kender knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. “Did she complain of anything?”
She wanted her hair washed, Adam thought idiotically. “General malaise,” he said. “Some abdominal pain.”
“What were the signs?”
“Her pulse was up slightly. Her blood pressure had been elevated but was normal when I checked it.”
“What did that fact say to you?” Dr. Kender asked.
“At the time, I thought it was a favorable sign.”
“What does it indicate to you now, knowing what you do?” Dr. Kender said, not unkindly.
They were being easy on him, Adam realized; perhaps it was a sign they thought well of him. Still, he felt nauseated. “I imagine she was already losing blood internally when I examined her, which accounted for the lowered blood pressure.”
Dr. Kender nodded. “You simply hadn’t seen a sufficient number of transplant patients. You can’t be blamed for that.” He shook his head. “I wish to make it clear, though, that in the future when you’re faced with something inexplicable in one of my patients, you are to summon one of the staff men. Any Visiting Surgeon on this Service would have known immediately what was taking place. We could have given her blood, gone in like Flynn and attempted to repair the artery, placed a deep drain behind the kidney and shot her full of antibiotics. Even if the kidney had been irreparable, we could have removed it.”