No Hope for Gomez! by Graham Parke Page B

see Joseph Miller’s doctor. I played it cool and told her I was a distant relative, managed to get her help without identifying myself. (Which was cool and edgy). The nurse talked on the phone for a bit, then gave me directions to a cluster of offices. When I got there, I had to wait in a small waiting area.
    Time passed.
    I kicked myself for not bringing my laptop. Why did I never see this coming?
    Was about to leave when one of the office doors finally opened and a middle-aged man in a white coat with grey hair came striding out. I jumped up to block his path. “I am Gomez Porter,” I said, holding out my hand for him to shake it. “I’m a distant relative of Joseph Miller.”
    “What?” The doctor stopped in his tracks, stared at my hand. “Ah, yes.” he said. “I’m sorry, you wanted to discuss the Miller case.” He checked his watch. “Please come in. This must be a difficult time for you.” He gestured me back to his office.
    “It is a difficult time,” I said. “Which is probably why I forgot to bring a passport to prove I’m a distant relative. And, sadly, I have no cell with which to call other relatives so they might vouch for me.”
    “I’m doctor Tiernan,” the doctor said as we sat down. “I’m afraid you caught me at a very busy time, so forgive me if I seem a little distracted.” He smiled apologetically and took a folder from a stack on his desk. Apparently he’d laid it out after the call, but then forgot about it. “Joseph’s case was a very unfortunate one,” he said. “You see, he came to us so very late. There was little we could do for him.”
    “I could get my driver’s license,” I offered. “But it’s in my car, out in the parking lot, and I’m parked all the way at the back. You’d think there’d be one or two places at the front, just by chance, but there weren’t. Plus, I might’ve left my license in my other pants.”
    “Yes,” Dr. Tiernan said, “that can be annoying.” He showed me a page from the folder. It had some charts on it. “Joseph had been comatose for several days,” he explained. “Without food and water, the internal organs simply shut down. It’s all a matter of getting to the patient in time.”
    I nodded thoughtfully. My identity-ruse seemed to be working. I decided to relax and concentrate on the subject at hand. “Did you discover what made Joseph pass out in the first place?”
    Tiernan checked a few more papers, then shook his head. “Blood was clean,” he said. “No needle marks, no contusions.” He folded his hands over the folder. “I’m afraid we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”
    “Any signs of allergies? Animal hair, that kind of thing?”
    “Sorry,” he said, “we found no indications of any such complications.”
    “What about poisons? Aren’t there compounds that can knock you out and then dissolve without a trace?”
    “There are,” Dr. Tiernan said, “but we found no traces of such chemicals. To be absolutely sure, you’d have to check with the coroner.”
    Ah, the coroner.
    “Is there anything else you could tell me?” I knew the answer to my follow up question, but I had to be thorough. “Any signs of interactions? Experimental drugs interfering with each other maybe?”
    Dr. Tiernan shook his head. He browsed the file once more for good measure, and found a sticky note tacked to the back of one of the forms. “Hmm…” he said. “This is strange. I didn’t notice this before…”
    “What is it?”
    “One of the nurses found a bruise on Joseph’s neck. Says here, the bruise wasn’t visible when Joseph was admitted.”
    “What does that mean?”
    Tiernan shrugged, “Probably nothing.” He put the note back and closed the folder. “Sometimes bruises take a while to surface. Could be something he sustained in his fall, could be something that happened later. Whatever it was, it’s unlikely to have complicated his condition. Joseph died of malnutrition and dehydration. His