What are the charges, Erico asked himself. Rene Boniface smiles. He visits patients. The patients smile. When a patient dies, Rene shows up without being called. Not exactly Jeffrey Dahlmer stuff. Erico Ramos shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. I guess I spoke out of turn.”
“Erico,” said Dr. Landry, “If you know something, or even suspect something, I need to know. If we’re going to make any mistakes around here, I want them to be on the side of caution.”
“I don’t suppose I have anything more on Rene than that the guy gives me the creeps. All of those patients he visited all died with big happy smiling faces. The one he didn’t have a chance to visit just looked dead; cold, gray, sour, dead. And you never have to call the guy when there’s someone to be taken down to the morgue. He’s always there.”
Landry frowned and clasped her hands together. “Euthanasia? Are you suggesting Rene Boniface is killing these patients?”
“No … maybe. I don’t know. Look, I said I was out of line, and I was. I had a feeling, okay? It bothered me and I said something about it, and now I’m sorry I did.”
Dr. Landry held up her hand. “As I said, Erico, with the cost of being sorry so terribly high, being safe is all we can afford.”
“This is idiotic,” declared Dr. Kramer. “Look, these patients died with smiles on their faces. What’s wrong with that? Erico, you have something against happiness? Rene shows up without being called. Did you ever stop to think that someone might’ve called him and didn’t tell you?”
“Why?”
“Maybe they forgot. It’s not a crime not to tell you every time someone makes a phone call.” He grinned wickedly. “Just maybe everybody’s hip to how flaky you’re getting about this thing and they’re pulling your leg.”
Someone began humming the theme from Twilight Zone and another round of giggles made its way around the room.
Erico felt his face getting red. “Okay, doc. But what about him visiting the patients? What’s it do to our bedside manner to have a morgue orderly dropping in to see our terminal patients? Before even we know they’re terminally ill, I might add. Two of those patients were expected to recover. Rene visited them anyway. And they died, big happy smiles and all.”
Dr. Kramer, an exasperated expression on his face, turned to Dr. Landry. “Janice, I fear young Ramos has gone off the deep end.”
“Does Rene Boniface visit the patients?” asked Landry.
“Sure. So do I. So do you. So do all the medical, administrative, and housekeeping staff. So what? A relative, a friend, maybe just some nice person, an old lady or a little kid who could use a little company. What’s wrong with that?”
“What Erico said about a morgue orderly dropping in on the patients. Don’t you think that might be a shade morbid? He might become something of a death angel sort of thing, frightening the patients. We don’t need anything like that.”
“Especially in the newspapers,” added the attorney.
“Nonsense,” said Dr. Kramer. “Rene Boniface has a perfectly respectable job. As for dropping in on patients unannounced, I don’t know about the others, but I can certainly speak to his visit with Rachael Raddenburg. She requested him.”
“Requested him?” repeated Nurse Ramos.
“That’s right. And before you accuse him of lying to me about it, I was the one who took the call from her and passed the message on to Rene. She asked for him by name. Early in the afternoon two days ago, she telephoned and asked for him to come up to her room in ICU.”
A week passed and no one seemed to be concerned about the morgue geek, Rene Boniface. Erico Ramos didn’t like looking ridiculous, hence he never mentioned the subject again. When he should chance to pass Rene in a corridor, he would look through him or turn the other way. It was true, he argued with himself, that he had begun being obsessed by Rene and his association with the morgue and the terminally ill patients — obsessed with death; with the fear of death. Erico Ramos had to get at least that honest with himself. It was death and Rene’s seemingly friendly relationship with death and the dying that had caught his attention. If he didn’t put it away soon, he, not Rene, would be the one who would be asked to leave Northvale. He put it away and did his job.
Two more days later a little girl of thirteen, Alicia Fuentes, was brought in from an auto accident on the interstate. The paramedics had been covered with blood. Alicia’s family car had rear ended a truck carrying an overhanging load of sheet metal and pipe. Alicia’s left kidney was crushed, her right kidney severed, her liver shattered, and her spinal cord cut through. Nearly all of her bodily functions needed artificial assistance. Despite the Demerol drip, she was awake, in pain, and she was dying. Her mother, father, and sister hadn’t survived the crash.
In theory, if several improbable accidents happened within an extremely narrow time window, if the victims of those accidents were matchable organ donors, and if by some stroke of number magic Alicia could be moved to the top of the eight month long waiting list, the girl might’ve lived if they could’ve done the operations on that night, providing she had been strong enough to withstand the procedures. None of those improbabilities, however, materialized. There was no well-heeled nationwide TV campaign to come up with organs, waivers, pressure, and the green stuff that made everything happen. Not for Alicia Fuentes. There wasn’t time enough to get her on 60 Minutes. Besides, there were lots of little girls dying in the world. No one was making a special place at life’s table for them, either. Alicia was just waiting to lie down, mortally speaking.
The night shift again. Erico Ramos stood next to Alicia’s bed checking the drip that fed the pain killer into her tiny wrecked body. Without looking at her large brown eyes, he checked the video monitor and the automatic cuff. “Are you having any pain?” he asked automatically, his own feelings frozen from the sheer terror of what the little girl faced.
“No,” she whispered.
“You look like you're having some discomfort.” Erico kicked himself for saying “discomfort” instead of “pain.” Patients knew that it didn’t matter what you called it, pain hurts. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
“Anything more and I’d go to sleep. I don’t want to sleep before I have to. What’s your name?”
“Erico Ramos. I’m going to be one of your nurses tonight.”
“Funny,” she said, “a man being a nurse.”
“Lots of men are nurses. Do you think it’s funny for women to be doctors?”
“No. My doctor’s a woman. Dr. Landry. Do you know her?”
“Very well. She’s a terrific doctor. Can I get you anything? Some ice to suck on? Want me to turn on the TV? You’re allowed to have it on as late as you want.”
“Is it all right if I call you Erico?”
Erico Ramos looked at the girl’s eyes for the first time. Her eyes were huge, clear, intelligent, and did not waver from his for a split second. “Sure. You can call me Erico. Is it all right if I call you Alicia?”
“At home they call me Ally. I prefer Alicia, though. Erico, if I ask you a hard question, will you answer me with the truth?”
It was Erico Ramos’s second worst nightmare. Please, the doctors won’t tell me. Will I ever walk again? Did my baby live? Can I see my daughter? When the bandages come off will I be able to see? Erico, am I going to die? The family’s keeping secrets from me, the doctor has a yellow streak a yard wide, and the nurses won’t talk. Erico, am I going to die?