“No ID. At the moment anyway,” the head of the trauma team said to the ER nurse holding a tablet in her hand, entering notes. “List him as a John Doe—”
“His name is Sal,” George interrupted. “Salvatore DeAngelis. He lives at 1762 South Bentley Avenue, apartment 1D.”
The group turned to him with surprised, quizzical looks.
“He is my neighbor.”
George walked off down the hall as Sal’s body was covered by a white sheet. Another iDoc patient was dead!
So, other than his Alzheimer’s symptoms,” the LAPD detective said to George, “were there indications of any other factors at play? Drugs, alcohol?” The detective was trying to be gentle, obviously picking up on the fact that George had an emotional attachment to the victim beyond being a neighbor.
“No. Nothing,” George replied. He was at a table in the ER staff lounge, his head in his hands, still trying to digest what had happened. The detective, seated across from George, was typing notes into his smartphone.
“Had he been drinking much lately?” he asked. “I mean, did he drink during the day as far as you know?”
“No. Sal didn’t drink alcohol, not even beer.”
“Were you aware he had been diagnosed with depression and was taking medication to treat it?” The detective asked.
“No — I mean, he hadn’t mentioned it. But I wouldn’t have expected him to, either. A lot of people, even someone as open as Sal was, don’t talk about psychological problems. He was a gentle, seemingly cheerful guy. I’ve never known him to have ever done anything reckless or illegal.”
“I understand.” The detective took some more notes.
George eyed the policeman’s phone, noticing a thin red bar across the top of the display face. Even though he was reading upside down, he was pretty sure the word in the bar was RECORDING.
“Are you taping this?” George asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” the detective replied. “It makes things easier later. People tend to forget details.” He glanced up.
“Don’t you have to ask my permission first?” George asked. He was surprised and, needing something to take his mind off the reality of Sal’s death, found himself irritated that he was being recorded without his knowledge.
“No. It doesn’t work that way,” the detective responded offhandedly. He returned to his line of questioning. “Were you aware that Mr. DeAngelis had an appointment here today?”
George ignored the question. “If you’re recording the conversation, why are you taking notes, too?”
The detective stopped typing and looked up. “I take notes of my initial thoughts of questions that may not be appropriate at the time. Or maybe my own reaction about something that was said. I know how to do my job, Dr. Wilson. As I assume you know how to do yours.”
“I’m sorry,” George said. “I’m upset.”
“It’s okay.”
“Anyway, I was not.”
The detective looked confused. “You were not what?”
“I was answering your question. You asked me if I was aware that Mr. DeAngelis had an appointment at the medical center today. I was not. I knew he had been coming here for tests recently, but he hadn’t shared the details about them, and I didn’t ask. We have HIPAA rules. A right to privacy. That extends beyond these walls.” George had done his fair share of violating HIPAA rules, especially after Kasey had passed away, but without knowing why, he wanted to rub this guy’s nose in it. “You probably shouldn’t have even told me he was taking medication for depression when you get right down to it. I’m not his personal physician. His current doctor is a…” George motioned to the detective’s cell phone. He trailed off, unsure of just what he meant to say.
“Is a what?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
The detective stared at George in silence. “His family,” he finally said, moving on to another topic.
“Estranged at some level. I’d met his two sisters once. Actually I had been thinking about trying to contact them this week.”
“Why was that?”
“Because Sal’s Alzheimer’s was advancing. I was hoping to get them involved in his life.”
The detective nodded. “Okay.” He stood up. “I think I have the gist of it. Thanks for your help.”
“Sure. What is the ‘gist’ that you got, anyway?”
“That the man got confused and overwhelmed while driving his vehicle. Likely due to his Alzheimer’s. And a tragic accident resulted. We’re lucky no one else was injured. Or killed. Remember that crash out at the Santa Monica farmers’ market a few years back? A gentleman, in his mid-eighties, I think, plowed his car right through the market’s produce stands, killing nine people, including a three-year-old girl. Another fifty-some people were injured. By comparison, we got off easy here today.”
“Yeah. Easy,” George mumbled.
“Thanks again for your time.” George watched the officer turn off his phone and then leave.
George made his way back to the ER reading room and threw himself into a chair. Carlos was glad to see him, since a number of X-rays needed review. George thought keeping busy might be the best thing he could do to feel better. He delved into them but struggled to keep his mind focused. He had the paranoid feeling that death was mocking him. He knew such thoughts were irrational, but that didn’t make them any less disturbing.
“There’s one more,” Carlos said, bringing up an X-ray of an arm fracture on the monitor. “I think it’s a—”
“Excuse me,” George said, cutting off Carlos as he abruptly stood. “I need to step out a moment.”
Carlos looked at him surprised. “Yeah. Sure. Everything okay?”
George remained silent a moment. “Not really.” He turned and left the room.
“Will you be back soon so we can finish?” Carlos called, but the door had already closed, and George apparently hadn’t heard him.
15
Bradley Thorn’s office was on the top floor of the tallest building in Century City. It was both extravagant and massive. His ego demanded it, as did his sense of inferiority, instilled in him at a young age by a domineering, sadistic father. Bradley heard “the hospital must have switched babies” routine too many times to count. It was mean and abusive on his father’s part. But then his father’s personality had enabled him to rise to the top of the health care game. The father had been ruthless, developing a computerized method of paying doctors as little as possible and delaying the payment for as long as possible, which had amassed him a fortune and ultimately the leadership of Amalgamated Healthcare.
Bradley inherited control of the company just two short years earlier, after the senior Thorn suffered a massive stroke. It was a tragedy for the previously robust Robert Thorn. For his son, it had been a godsend.
Bradley was physically fit and in excellent health. He was confident women found him attractive, although he was never sure if that was enhanced by thoughts of his money or not.
At the moment, Thorn was meeting with Marvin Neumann, a celebrated hedge fund genius who was thinking of putting some $500 million into Amalgamated to take iDoc international. His money would also help with the acquisition of more hospitals. Thorn had told him that’s where the big profits were, especially since Amalgamated would be paying itself for hospital services.
Neumann in turn told Thorn he had some demands to go with his money. He wanted a seat on the board of either Amalgamated or iDoc. Which one, he hadn’t decided. Neumann also cited medicine’s tendency to overemphasize the good and ignore the bad in their testing results. He wanted to be absolutely certain that iDoc’s beta test had been as well received as Thorn had reported at the presentation.