"Sunny Day doesn't have an overnight physician, understand. There's a four-hour gap in service, with what you might call a skeleton crew on hand. Any crisis after midnight, the nurses call nine-one-one-just as you might at home. Myself, along with Doctors Todd Barclay, Claire Dayton, and John Miller…we're the only doctors on staff full time."
Warrick asked, "How are the shifts split up?"
Whiting said, "We split the two shifts, seven days a week. Claire and I are a team, as are Todd and John. We do three ten-hour shifts, then we're off two days. A few of these patients are visited by their own personal physicians…but not many."
Vega frowned. "You work fifty hours a week?"
"Plus overtime," Whiting said. "And there's plenty of that to go round, too."
"Sounds brutal," Warrick said.
"It is," Whiting said.
Catherine said, "What about that slower pace you say you crave?"
A grin blossomed-the first sign of spontaneity from this controlled interview subject. "Compared to having a private practice, and seeing thirty to forty patients every day, six to seven hundred a week? I prefer to see fifty patients today, the same fifty I saw yesterday, and the same fifty or so I'll see tomorrow. Where a physician in private practice will have a roster of over a thousand patients, mine is fifty and I get to spend considerably more time with each one of them."
"More personal," Warrick said.
"Much," Whiting confirmed. "The pace is a lot different than private practice. The vast majority of these patients never walk out of Sunny Day, remember. Those of us who work here do our best to provide them care and comfort before they are, frankly, rolled out."
Flipping his notebook closed, Vega said, "We'll likely be in touch again, Doctor."
"Let me know how I can help," Whiting said.
The trio marched from the administrative wing and back down one of the hallways lined with patient rooms. An attractive African-American woman in white slacks and a floral smock came out of a room, head lowered, studying a chart as she walked right into Warrick, the chart popping out of her hands.
Warrick caught it.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, a hand shooting to her mouth. "Didn't see you there." The hand came away and revealed an attractive smile. "Nice catch."
Catherine read the woman's nametag: Kenisha Jones. Since Warrick was closer to the nurse, Catherine waited for him to say something. He didn't-he was looking at the woman with the glazed, dazed expression of a hypnotist's volunteer on stage in a casino lounge.
The power of a beautiful woman over a man had always amused Catherine, and for a number of years, she'd made a good living taking advantage of that male trait. And this was a handsome woman so Warrick could hardly be blamed.
The woman's long neck-a stethoscope her necklace-rose gracefully to a heart-shaped face dominated by full lovely lips, a straight nose, and wide brown eyes with dark, narrow brows. Tight banana curls erupted out of the nurse's upswept black hair-she was a lovely Medusa who had turned Warrick Brown to stone.
Finally, Warrick managed, "Hey, no problem," and handed back the chart, as if presenting her with an award.
Cutting this mating dance short, Vega stepped forward and flashed his badge. "Kenisha Jones?"
Her head reared back. She gestured to the nametag, saying, "Uh…yes." The "duh" implied….
"I'm Detective Vega and this is Catherine Willows from the crime lab. You've already met Warrick Brown-he's also from the crime lab."
The nurse nodded sagely. "Ah-you must be here about Vivian."
"That's right," Warrick said.
They smiled at each other, and Vega-who appeared to have no romance in his soul, at least right now-said, "Somewhere we could talk?"
"Look," she said, her eyes finding Vega's past Warrick, "I'm fine with answering questions about Vivian; but this is not a good time. I'm the only dayshift nurse for this wing."
"If you get called away," Warrick said, "we'll wait for you."
"Well…" She smiled, shrugged. At Warrick. "All right…"
She led them into a small breakroom with just room enough for three round tables, a counter (with a microwave and a coffeepot), a refrigerator, and the four of them.
"Help yourselves to coffee," the nurse said. "Water and soda in the fridge."
No one took her up on it, but Kenisha got herself a bottle of water. "Gotta stay hydrated," she said.
"I hear that," Warrick said, rather nonsensically, since he hadn't bothered to get anything to drink.
They sat around a table.
The nurse asked, "What can I tell you about Vivian?"
The detective said, "First, you need to know-Vivian Elliot's death was a murder."
Kenisha Jones shrugged. "And?"
Warrick and Catherine traded raised eyebrows; Vega just stared at the woman in his cold unblinking way.
"You don't seem terribly surprised," Catherine said.
"Figured as much."
The woman had known from jump that they were here to talk about Vivian; since the CSIs and Vega had been here yesterday looking into the death that assumption made sense. But knowing that it was murder…?
Vega said, "You…figured as much?"
"Do I sound cold?"
Warrick said, "A little."
"Don't mean to be. But this wing is not home to a lot of happy endings, right?…People come here to take their time dying, to not suffer while they're doin' it…but nobody's making big plans, post-Extended Care wing."
"Granted," Warrick said. "But you don't get murders every day."
"Not every day…. Hey, she was a healthy woman-plus, she was gettin' better. Suddenly, she has a heart attack and dies? There was not a damn thing wrong with Mrs. Elliot-hell, she was in better shape than me. Up and died? I didn't buy it. I don't buy it. And if you're here saying she was murdered, you don't, either."
Catherine watched Warrick as the young woman got a smile out of him with her sassy, smart attitude. With the barest nod of her head, Catherine signaled Warrick.
Without missing a beat, Warrick said, "Ms. Jones, you're right. We are here looking into it. Which is why we need your help. You were on duty, when she coded?"
"Yes," Kenisha said, adding emphasis with several nods. "I looked in on her, then went down the hall to check on Mrs. Jackson. Vivian was fine when I left her, and less than ten minutes later…damn. She coded, all right. All the way."
Catherine and Vega were hanging back now, letting Warrick talk to the young woman, who seemed to feel as comfortable with him as he did with her.
Warrick asked, "And what'd you do then, Ms. Jones?"
" 'Kenisha.' Your name's what again?"
"Warrick."
"Warrick, the whole damn crash team came in. First team, off the bench and in the game-Doctor Whiting, myself, and the two staffers from the other wing, Nurse Sandy Cayman and Doctor Miller."
Vega checked his notebook and put in: "Doctor John Miller?"
"Yes."
Warrick resumed the lead. "So, Kenisha-what happened next?"
"Well, I was the closest," Kenisha said. "Got there first. Only…she was already gone, poor thing. Only 'poor thing,' that's not right, really…. Warrick, that woman was healthy as a horse. No way she shoulda died. Vitals were strong just, what…ten minutes before. She was one of the handful, ya know."
"Handful?"
"The handful who had a future. The handful who walk outta here into some more life. No walker, no wheelchair-under her own damn speed. We savor those. This…this…should not have gone down like that."
"Place like this," Catherine put in. "Don't these things happen?"
Kenisha's eyebrows rose. "Little too many of these things are just 'happening' round here, you ask me."
Catherine said, "We are asking you, Kenisha. And I'm Catherine."