Patient One by Leonard Goldberg Page B

stocked with bottles of tablets and liquids and plastic bags of IV fluids. A locked narcotics cabinet was off to the side. There were no windows or other connecting doors.
    “Okay,” Wells said, backing out.
    Carolyn showed him the way into the nurses’ station. A husky young African American man with very broad shoulders and hands the size of hams was sitting behind the desk. He quickly got to his feet and straightened his tie.
    “This is Jarrin Smith, our ward clerk,” Carolyn said.
    “I’ve got to search you,” Wells informed the clerk.
    “No problem,” Jarrin said, turning around with his hands held up high.
    Wells frisked him and found only a small nail clipper. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
    “No problem,” Jarrin said again.
    Carolyn led the way across the corridor and into the nearby nurses’ lounge. It was spotless, with a refrigerator, microwave oven, coffeemaker, and two couches. The tall metal lockers were open and held only jackets and umbrellas. A bathroom at the rear had been recently scrubbed.
    As they left the lounge, Wells asked, “The guy at the front desk is big as a tree. Is there a reason for having a clerk that large?”
    “His size is irrelevant,” Carolyn replied. “He’s a sophomore in medical school, and works some of the night shifts because he needs the money.”
    They hurried on and came to the treatment room. In its center was an operating table with overhead lights. There were two metal stools around the table, and behind them a glass cabinet filled with medicines and supplies. Off to the side was a basin and, next to it, a countertop that held blood-drawing equipment. The walls were covered with white tiles, the ceiling with removable synthetic panels.
    “Can they do emergency operations in here?” Wells inquired.
    “Only minor procedures,” Carolyn replied. “Things like tracheotomies and thoracenteses.”
    “What is the last thing you said?”
    “Thoracentesis. It’s the removal of fluid from the chest using a needle.”
    They continued on to the end of the corridor and entered a windowless room that had stacks of serving trays and gleaming silverware. A cabinet off to the side contained linen napkins, fine glassware, and colorful tablecloths.
    “This is where we get our patients’ meals,” Carolyn said.
    Wells glanced around, looking for ovens and stoves or adjoining rooms. There weren’t any. “Where is the food prepared?”
    “Down one level,” Carolyn replied. “The Beaumont Pavilion has its own chefs, and all meals are ordered by the patients from a menu. The meals are sent up to us on the dumbwaiter next to the cabinet.”
    Wells went over and carefully examined the dumbwaiter. It was small, not more than three feet across and three feet in height, with four adjustable shelves. “Who controls it?”
    Carolyn pointed to a switch beneath the small elevator. “We can send it down by pushing that button. The light next to it stays green while the dumbwaiter is up here. It turns red when we send it down.”
    “Can the people in the kitchen bring the dumbwaiter down?” Wells asked.
    Carolyn shook her head. “They can only send it up. When it’s on its way up, our light will turn green and begin to flash. When it reaches the Pavilion, the flashing stops.”
    Wells narrowed his eyes. “Why do you have all these precautions?”
    “It’s really not a precaution,” Carolyn said with a shrug. “It just prevents the kitchen from sending up meals that could sit around and become cold.”
    Wells nodded and moved over to a metal crank on the side of the dumbwaiter. “And what’s this for?”
    “In an emergency we can manually operate the elevator,” Carolyn told him. “But we almost never—”
    Abruptly, Wells brought his hand up, interrupting her. He listened intently to the message coming in over his earphone, then turned for the door. “The President is on his way up.”
    They dashed into the corridor, which was now clear of beds and