The waiter arrived with more coffee. “Murder victims come back,” I said, picking up the cup. “No one else faced with death does. Except when dispatchers are involved.” I waved in the direction of the hospital. “I just dispatched a seventy-eight-year-old man who was about to die on the operating table. The operation had gone bad. It’s possible the surgeon could have pulled it out, but at what cost? The trauma to the body was so significant at that point that the patient was never likely to get back to where he was before the operation, in terms of quality of life. He would have been a mess, his insurance would have to shell out, his family would have been overwhelmed with dealing with the cost of the operation and the aftermath. If he survived.”

Langdon smiled. “I see where this is going.”

“Then tell me.”

“You’re detailing this nightmare scenario and now you going to tell me how you offer a better alternative.”

“You got it. I dispatch the patient. Yes, there’s a small chance of him dying, but what’s more likely to happen—and what did happen—is he ends up at home.”

“With his chest open and heart exposed.”

I shook my head. “No, because whatever trauma the body’s experienced just prior to dispatch disappears. The patient in this case is back home, uncarved. He still needs a heart operation, and will probably die without one, is my best guess. But if he goes under the knife again, they don’t have to work around any previous operation. Clean start. Plus they know what went wrong last time and can factor that in for the next time.”

“You’re saying you’re psychologically equipped for your job because you’re prolonging lives, not ending them.”

“No. I’m psychologically equipped for my job because whoever is using my services was already about to die. I’m increasing their odds of survival. If they still die, it’s not because I didn’t offer them a better chance to live.”

“So it’s not your fault.”

“No more than it’s a doctor’s fault if a severely injured patient dies on the table.”

“But the doctor is working to save their life.”

“So am I.” I drank from my coffee.

Langdon watched me drink. “Does it work?”

“Does what work?”

“That rationalization.”

“It works so far.”

“But you haven’t lost anyone yet.”

“No,” I admitted.

“Have you known any dispatchers who’ve had a failed dispatch?”

“Sure. A couple of the dispatchers in my class.”

“How did they deal with them?”

“One of them quit,” I said. “The last I heard she’s working at an orphanage in Mexico or something like that. The other one handled it just fine. She’s working Mercy Hospital most days.”

“What about Jimmy?”

“Are you asking if he’s had any failed dispatches?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of.”

“He wouldn’t tell you?”