rolled up to the ER. He wasn’t the only one watching closely. There were four police officers stationed at the ambulance bay by Captain Stottlemeyer, and they immediately put their hands on their guns and scanned for trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked, joining Monk.
He turned and looked past her to the two guards in front of the operating room doors. They were also on alert, braced for trouble.
“This could be a trick,” Monk said. “An attempt to break Dale out of the hospital.”
“But he’s on an operating table getting his fat sucked out,” Julie said. “It’s not a great time for an escape.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
One ambulance after another arrived and injured people were rolled in on gurneys. The police officers kept a close eye on everybody who came in, quickly searched each gurney and bag, and patted down each person just in case any of them was attempting to bring in a weapon.
Each victim was met by Dr. Stubble, a nurse, and some orderlies. The doctor did a quick exam, then took out a red, yellow, or green pen from his lab coat pocket and made a big X on the patient’s wrist while giving out orders to the nurses.
The nurses and orderlies then took the victim to the proper room for the care they needed.
Anyone who left the ER, such as the paramedics and ambulance personnel, were closely scrutinized by the officers and Monk.
Once the ambulances and paramedic units had all left and things returned to the previous level of activity, Monk rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and then went to a nurse’s station, where he helped himself to several red, yellow, and green pens, which he clutched in one hand since he had no pockets on his surgical scrubs.
“What are those for?” Julie asked, gesturing to his fistful of pens.
“It’s triage color coding,” Monk said, heading for the treatment room, Julie in tow. “The doctor marked each patient with a color that represents the severity of medical need. Red is the most serious, and those people are already in the trauma rooms. Yellow is for major burns, multiple fractures, that sort of thing. Green is for minor fractures or simple cuts and abrasions.”
He approached the first patient he saw, a man sitting on the edge of a bed, clutching what looked like a broken arm with his left hand, which had a green X on the wrist.
“Remain very still,” Monk said, then drew a green X on the man’s broken arm. “You’re going to be fine now.”
Monk tossed the green pen in the hazardous materials bin and headed for the next patient. Julie hurried after him.
“You’re not a doctor,” she said.
“I know that,” Monk said.
“Then what are you doing?”
“What the captain asked me to do,” Monk said. “Making sure everything is in order.”
“I’m pretty sure that he was referring to hospital security,” Julie said.
“That’s exactly what I am doing.”
Monk whipped back the curtain around the next bed, revealing a woman with a badly broken leg—a big shard of jagged bone jutting from her bloody flesh—and startling the nurse, who was injecting something into the IV.
“What are you doing?” the nurse asked.
“This won’t take a moment,” Monk said. He carefully applied a yellow X to the patient’s other arm, then gave the nurse a nod. “Carry on.”
Monk slipped out again, drawing the curtain behind him, and tossed the pen in the hazardous materials bin. He was about to go to the next curtained area when Dr. Stubble appeared and cut him off.
“I’m Dr. Frank Jessup, and this is my ER. Who the hell are you?”
“Adrian Monk. I’m a consultant to the San Francisco Police and this is Julie Teeger, my assistant. We’re here as part of the security detail assigned to Dale the Whale, the morbidly obese homicidal maniac from San Quentin who is being operated on down the hall.”
“That doesn’t explain what you are doing here meddling with my patients.”
“We were just
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked, joining Monk.
He turned and looked past her to the two guards in front of the operating room doors. They were also on alert, braced for trouble.
“This could be a trick,” Monk said. “An attempt to break Dale out of the hospital.”
“But he’s on an operating table getting his fat sucked out,” Julie said. “It’s not a great time for an escape.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
One ambulance after another arrived and injured people were rolled in on gurneys. The police officers kept a close eye on everybody who came in, quickly searched each gurney and bag, and patted down each person just in case any of them was attempting to bring in a weapon.
Each victim was met by Dr. Stubble, a nurse, and some orderlies. The doctor did a quick exam, then took out a red, yellow, or green pen from his lab coat pocket and made a big X on the patient’s wrist while giving out orders to the nurses.
The nurses and orderlies then took the victim to the proper room for the care they needed.
Anyone who left the ER, such as the paramedics and ambulance personnel, were closely scrutinized by the officers and Monk.
Once the ambulances and paramedic units had all left and things returned to the previous level of activity, Monk rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and then went to a nurse’s station, where he helped himself to several red, yellow, and green pens, which he clutched in one hand since he had no pockets on his surgical scrubs.
“What are those for?” Julie asked, gesturing to his fistful of pens.
“It’s triage color coding,” Monk said, heading for the treatment room, Julie in tow. “The doctor marked each patient with a color that represents the severity of medical need. Red is the most serious, and those people are already in the trauma rooms. Yellow is for major burns, multiple fractures, that sort of thing. Green is for minor fractures or simple cuts and abrasions.”
He approached the first patient he saw, a man sitting on the edge of a bed, clutching what looked like a broken arm with his left hand, which had a green X on the wrist.
“Remain very still,” Monk said, then drew a green X on the man’s broken arm. “You’re going to be fine now.”
Monk tossed the green pen in the hazardous materials bin and headed for the next patient. Julie hurried after him.
“You’re not a doctor,” she said.
“I know that,” Monk said.
“Then what are you doing?”
“What the captain asked me to do,” Monk said. “Making sure everything is in order.”
“I’m pretty sure that he was referring to hospital security,” Julie said.
“That’s exactly what I am doing.”
Monk whipped back the curtain around the next bed, revealing a woman with a badly broken leg—a big shard of jagged bone jutting from her bloody flesh—and startling the nurse, who was injecting something into the IV.
“What are you doing?” the nurse asked.
“This won’t take a moment,” Monk said. He carefully applied a yellow X to the patient’s other arm, then gave the nurse a nod. “Carry on.”
Monk slipped out again, drawing the curtain behind him, and tossed the pen in the hazardous materials bin. He was about to go to the next curtained area when Dr. Stubble appeared and cut him off.
“I’m Dr. Frank Jessup, and this is my ER. Who the hell are you?”
“Adrian Monk. I’m a consultant to the San Francisco Police and this is Julie Teeger, my assistant. We’re here as part of the security detail assigned to Dale the Whale, the morbidly obese homicidal maniac from San Quentin who is being operated on down the hall.”
“That doesn’t explain what you are doing here meddling with my patients.”
“We were just
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