Working Stiff by Annelise Ryan

pleasure?”
    â€œActually, I’m here to see David, but I figure they won’t let me into the OR on my own. I want to talk to him about Karen Owenby.”
    â€œKaren Owenby?” Molinaro sits up straighter, her tone as wary as her expression. “What business do you have with Karen?” She probably thinks I’m here to exact some sort of revenge. Apparently she doesn’t know someone beat me to it.
    â€œNone. I need to see David.”
    â€œKaren’s not here today, anyway,” she adds quickly. “She took a few personal days.”
    More than a few, I think. “I guess you haven’t heard yet. Karen’s dead. Someone broke into her house last night and shot her.”
    Molinaro’s reaction surprises me. There isn’t one. Finally she says, “You’re serious?”
    â€œDead serious,” I answer, an admittedly bad choice of words.
    â€œHow do you know about it already?” Molinaro asks, her eyes narrowing.
    â€œI was there.”
    Molinaro’s right hand drops off the desk toward her lap. I imagine she is fingering the revolver she keeps strapped to her leg, trying to get it loose without snagging any hairs.
    â€œI was there officially,” I explain. “I work in the ME’s office now.” I pull out my badge and flash it at her.
    She weighs the facts a moment and apparently finds something amusing in them, because a hint of a smile curls her mustache.
    â€œAnyway, I need to talk to David.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I don’t think telling her I need to rule him out as the killer will open many doors for me, so I opt for evasiveness. “Official business. Part of my new job and all. You know.”
    Molinaro stares at me for the longest time and I find myself feeling relieved it isn’t a Friday. “He’s not in the OR,” she says finally. “He’s down in the ER. We had a multicar pileup this morning and there are several surgical candidates in the aftermath.”
    There is an undeniable tone of glee in Molinaro’s voice. No doubt she hears the ka-ching of dollar signs adding up. Multiple trauma on young patients with insurance is good business for a hospital, especially if they end up in the OR, where the rooms are rented by the minute and the average markup on items is somewhere around 2,000 percent. For the price of one OR Band-Aid you can buy ten cases of the suckers at Wal-Mart.
    â€œCome on,” Molinaro says, rising from her chair. “I’ll take you down there.”
    Â 
    Walking into the hustle and bustle of the ER is like a ride in a time machine. Izzy was right, damn it. I hadn’t merely liked working in the ER, I’d loved it. The sounds and smells of the place bring back a delicious feeling of anticipation.
    As I follow Molinaro toward the main desk, the curtain on one of the cubicles we pass is flung aside and Phyllis Malone steps out. “Mets!” she hollers when she sees me. “Good to see you again.”
    â€œYou, too, Syph.”
    Syph is short for syphilis. Nurses in the ER have a tendency to refer to patients by their disease or diagnosis rather than their name. Instead of Mr. Jones or Mrs. Smith, it’s “the Leg Fracture in Bed Two” or “the Kidney Stone in Bed Six.” Back when I worked in the ER, we sat around one night discussing this habit, then decided to pick out nicknames for ourselves that were both a disease and somewhat close to our real names. It took a while but eventually everyone had a nickname and, over time, they stuck. The best we came up with for Mattie was Mets—short for metastases, the term used for the spread of cancer. It isn’t great—not nearly as good as Ricky’s Rickets or Lucy’s Lupus—but at least I fared better than Phyllis.
    â€œWe’re looking for Dr. Winston,” Molinaro announces in her haughty, lisping tone.
    Syph says, “I think he’s in Bed One with the