She stopped running and looked out at Mount Vernon Street through the glass door. Bellows! He had seen her in the lounge. He was the only one who knew that she had not given up her search. She had shown him the charts. She started running in place again, cursing her own paranoia. Then she stopped as she remembered about Bellows being involved with the drugs that were found in the locker room, about Bellows being the one who found Walters, after Walters had committed suicide.
Susan turned her head and looked through the glass of the locked inner door. The stairway rose upward, its steps covered with a red runner. Could Bellows be involved? The possibility penetrated Susan’s overworked brain and fatigued body. She was beginning to suspect everyone. She shook her head and laughed; the paranoia was too obvious. Yet it started her thinking, and the thoughts troubled her.
Her watch said two-seventeen. Bellows was going to be in for a surprise, having a caller at such an hour. At least Susan thought he’d be surprised. What if he were surprised only because he expected her to be quite occupied elsewhere—that he knew all about D’Ambrosio. Susan decided impulsively that was nonsense. She pushed the buzzer with determination. She had to push it again and hold it before Bellows responded.
Susan started up the stairs. She was midway up the second flight when Bellows appeared above in his bathrobe.
“I might have known. Susan, it’s after two A.M.”
“You asked me if I wanted a drink. I’ve changed my mind. I want one.”
“But that was at eleven.” Bellows disappeared into his apartment, leaving the door ajar.
Susan reached Bellows’s floor and entered his apartment. He was nowhere to be seen. She closed the door and locked it, throwing both bolts. She found Bellows already back in bed, the covers up under his chin, his eyes closed.
“Some hospitality,” said Susan sitting on the edge-of the bed. She looked at Bellows. God, she was glad to see him. She wanted to throw herself onto him, feel his arms around her. She wanted to tell him about D’Ambrosio, about the freezer. She wanted to scream; she wanted to cry. But instead she did nothing. She sat there just looking at Bellows, her mind vacillating.
Bellows didn’t budge, not at first Finally the right eye opened, then the left. Then he sat up. “Damn, I can’t sleep with you sitting here.”
“How about that drink, then? I need it!” Susan forced herself to be calm, analytical. But it was hard. Her pulse was still over one hundred fifty per minute.
Bellows eyed Susan. “You’re really too much!” He got up and put his robe back on. “OK, what will you have?”
“Bourbon, if you have it. Bourbon and soda, light on the soda.” Susan looked forward to the fiery fluid. Her hands were still visibly trembling. She followed Bellows into the kitchen.
“I had to come over, Mark. I was attacked again.” Susan’s voice reflected her forced calmness. She watched Bellows’s reaction to the information. He stopped with his hands in the freezer, taking out an ice tray.
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“Same person?”
“Same person.”
Bellows went back to the ice tray, chipping at it with a fork. Finally it came away. Susan felt that he was surprised at the news but not overly surprised, and not terribly concerned. Susan felt uneasy.
She tried another tack.
“I found something else out when I visited the OR. Something very interesting.” She waited for a response.
Bellows poured the bourbon, then opened a bottle of soda and poured it over the ice. The ice snapped in the glass. “OK, I believe you. Are you going to tell me or not?” Bellows handed Susan her drink. She took a slug.
“I traced the oxygen line from room No. 8 up in the ceiling space. Just before it turns down the main chase there is a valve in it.”
Bellows took a sip from his drink, motioning for them to return to the living room. The dock over the fireplace chimed. It was two-thirty.
“Gas lines have valves,” said Bellows at length.
“The others didn’t have them.”
“You mean a type of valve which would allow gas to be introduced into the line?”
“I think so. I don’t know much about valves and the like.”
“Did you trace the others to each room to be sure?”
“No, but room eight was the only line with a valve at the main chase.”
“Simply having a valve doesn’t surprise me. Maybe they all have one someplace in their lines. I wouldn’t use that valve to draw my conclusions, at least not until I had traced all the lines.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence, Mark. All these cases apparently happened in room No. 8, and room No. 8 has an oxygen line that has a valve in it at a funny place, rather well concealed.”
“Susan, look. You’re forgetting that some twenty-five percent of your supposed victims weren’t even near the OR, much less room No. 8. Now, even under the best of circumstances, I find your crusade ridiculous and threatening. And when I’m exhausted, I find it numbing. Can’t we talk about something soothing, like socialized medicine?”
“Mark, I’m sure about this.” Susan could sense the exasperation in Bellows’s voice.
“I’m sure you’re sure, but I’m also sure I’m unsure.”
“Mark, the man who attacked me this afternoon warned me, and then he returned tonight, and I don’t think he wanted to talk. I think he wanted to kill me. In fact, he tried to kill me. He shot at me!”
Bellows rubbed his eyes, then the sides of his head. “Susan, I don’t know what to even think about that, much less have something intelligent to say. Why don’t you go to the police if you’re so sure?”
Susan did not hear Bellows’s last comment; her mind was racing ahead. She started to speak out loud. “It has to be from lack of oxygen. If they were given too much succinylcholine or curare, must enough so that the people would have a hypoxic episode…” Susan trailed off, thinking. “That could be why respiratory arrest occurred. The one they autopsied, Crawford.” Susan took out her notebook. Bellows took another drink. “Here it is, Crawford. He had severe glaucoma in one eye and was on phospholine iodide. That’s an anticholinesterase and that means that his ability to break down the succinylcholine would have been impaired and a sublethal dose could be lethal.”
“Susan, I’ve already told you that succinylcholine would not work in the OR, not with the surgeon and the anesthesiologist right there. Besides you cannot give succinylcholine by gas… at least, I’ve never heard of it. Maybe you could, but anyway, they’d just keep respiring the patient until it was gone; there wouldn’t be any hypoxia.”
Susan took another slow sip from the bourbon.
“What you’re saving is that the hypoxia in the OR has to occur without the color of the blood changing so the surgeon stays nice and happy. How could that be done?… You’d have to block the use of oxygen by the brain somehow… maybe at the cellular level… or block the release of oxygen to the brain cells. It seems to me there is a drug that can block oxygen utilization, but I can’t think of it offhand. If the valve on the oxygen line were significant, it would have to be a drug that comes in a gas form. But there’s another way to do it. You could use a drug that blocks the uptake of oxygen on the hemoglobin and yet still keeps the color…. Mark, I’ve got it!” Susan sat bolt upright, her eyes wide open, her mouth forming a half-smile.
“Sure you do, Susan; sure you do,” soothed Mark sarcastically.
“Carbon monoxide! Carefully bled-in carbon monoxide, by way of the T-valve, titrated to cause just the right amount of hypoxia. The blood color would stay the same. In fact it would get even brighter red, cherry red. Even a very small amount would cause the oxygen to be displaced from the hemoglobin. The brain is starved of oxygen and—coma. In the OR everything has seemed absolutely normal. Then the patient’s brain dies; there is not a trace of the cause.”