“So the woman really has breast cancer.”
“Had, I hope. The cancer was about two and a half centimeters, but the sentinel lymph node Susan took was negative. The thing is, the cancer that was removed might not be the one depicted on her mammogram.”
Cameron stopped after three floors to catch his breath.
“Tsk, tsk, Gordo,” Will said, “too many doughnuts, not enough treadmill.”
He was pleased with the doughnut reference even though it had been unintentional.
“Ach, laddie, you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s nothing I do wrong, it’s just my hereditary, familial, inherited, genetic bronchitis. It acts up every year on precisely this day. There, it’s already better. So,” he went on as they headed up the last flight, “let me get this straight. The radiologist mixed up her films with someone else’s, but that person happened to have a cancer in the same quadrant of the same breast as our patient.”
“I think that about sums it up.”
“That’s one lucky radiologist.”
“I should say.”
Cameron paused outside the Sears Conference Room.
“So what do you make of it all?” he asked.
“Don’t know. But I do know I’m not done thinking about it.”
Or about whether you’re the one.
The chairs in the conference room, which were normally set up in rows, were stacked along the walls, except for those dozen or so that were spaced around a large cherry-wood table. Hospital president Sid Silverman was seated on the far side, flanked by cardiologist Dr. Hans Gehringer and an attractive, conservatively dressed brunette who just had to be a lawyer. Silverman inadvertently caught Will’s gaze and nodded a weak greeting, his expression that of a man about to be sick. To Gehringer’s left were Susan Hollister and Jim Katz. Cameron took the chair between Katz and Patty’s nemesis, Wayne Brasco.
Occupying the two seats to Brasco’s left were bookend women in business suits-also attorneys, Will guessed. He suspected they might be connected with the Board of Registration in Medicine. He hesitated briefly, then took the middle of the three remaining empty chairs. There was no sense in even trying not to stand out in this group.
Apparently it had been decided that Silverman was going to run the show.
“Well, thank you all for coming on such short notice,” he began. “I assure you we are confronting an emergency of the highest order and that every one of us needs to be here.”
He then asked for introductions around the table.
“Hans Gehringer, medical chief of staff here at FGH.”
“I’m Susan Hollister, a surgeon in the same practice as Will Grant. I am also a supporter and long-standing friend of his.”
“James Katz, also a member of the practice and the reason for this meeting.”
“Gordon Cameron. What Susan said goes double for me. I know Will Grant is a good man and a great surgeon, and I feel we should do whatever we can to help him get through this mess.”
“Detective Lieutenant Wayne Brasco, Massachusetts State Police. I’ve been directing the team assigned to the managed-care killings. We expect to bring this criminal to justice, and quickly.” He looked directly at Will. “His reign of terror and death will be brought to an end one way or the other.”
Will’s dislike for the man, already fully formed, mushroomed. Brasco was arrogant, self-serving, and violent-a man to be feared. It was no wonder Patty had had such a difficult time with him.
As he suspected, the two women to his right were both from the Board of Registration in Medicine. One, Jane Weiss, introduced herself as the chief counsel, and the other, Diana Emspak, was the head of the investigation and enforcement unit-process server Sam Rogers’s boss, Will supposed.
“I’m Will Grant,” he said when it was his turn. “I never willingly took any drugs. I haven’t done anything wrong. I have never wanted to be anything other than a good doctor. I understand your needs to protect the patients of this hospital and the people of the state, but terrible action has been taken against me without consideration of the lack of any corroborating behavior in my past.”
“We appreciate your feelings,” Silverman said, his tone patronizing and insincere enough to knot the muscles in Will’s neck.
At that moment, Tom Lemm, the president of the Hippocrates Society, entered the room, wearing a navy sports coat and perfectly knotted iridescent blue bow tie. It seemed that Lemm took too long searching for a seat before he realized that both of the two available chairs were next to Will. He settled into one, shook Will’s hand uncomfortably, and accepted Silverman’s introduction.
“Dr. Lemm, we appreciate your being able to get here on such short notice. I know it was a long drive for you. Jill?”
“I’m Jill Leary,” the dark-haired woman on Silverman’s right said, “chief counsel for the hospital.”
Silverman cleared his throat for transition.
“We are here because of something that has happened involving Dr. Grant and Dr. Katz and, indirectly, all the rest of us. Dr. Katz?”
Katz straightened some notes on the table in front of him. It was only then that Will realized the man did not look at all well. He was pale, almost ashen, and there was a slight tremor in his hands as well as the faintest tic at one corner of his mouth. Katz coughed, swept an errant wisp of thinning hair from his forehead, and poured a glass of ice water.
“At eight o’clock this morning,” he began, “a call came for me at home on a line that is unlisted. The voice was electronically altered in the way Dr. Grant has described. Initially I thought it was a crank call of some kind, but after a few words I had no doubt it was the killer. I was in my study at the time and had a pad of paper close at hand, so I wrote down what he-what it-had to say and typed my notes out immediately afterward. I believe my recording of the incident is quite accurate. If I may:
“Dr. Katz, listen to me and listen to me carefully. I will not repeat myself. Dr. Willard Grant is being treated poorly by those who do not understand what a martyr he is in the struggle to avenge the harm brought down on so many by those companies that control health care. In all likelihood, framing him for drugs was the work of one of those companies-retribution for his victory over them at Faneuil Hall perhaps, or more likely because we have chosen him to speak for us as he has done so eloquently for the Society. He should not be suspended from his hospital and his profession. Rather, he should be honored. You have been chosen to right the wrongs that have been done to this man, a leader in the war against managed care.
“Dr. Willard Grant’s reputation is crucial to our mission. He must be quickly restored to the practice of medicine, to the staff of your hospital, and to his position within the Hippocrates Society, or punishment will be meted out, and you, Dr. James Katz, will be the recipient. This is no idle threat. We hope you know by this time that we are very good at what we do, and very determined to have our point driven home about the dangers of managed care. You have seven days from this noon to use your influence to see to it that our demands come to pass. In the top right drawer of your desk at work are two envelopes-one is for you, and one for Dr. Grant.
“We have chosen Dr. Grant to present our views and grievances to the public. For him to do so effectively, the stain currently on his reputation as a physician must be removed. We want you to see to it that Dr. Grant is in the position to state our position publicly as we have written it for him. You are either with us on this, Dr. Katz, or you are against us. There is no middle ground. I hope for your sake that is clear.”
Katz actually sloshed water from his glass trying to raise it to his lips. Even though the years had taken some toll on the man, he still was a skillful surgeon who lived his life with quiet dignity. Will ached to see him in such a state. Even though he had predicted to Patty that the killers might make some effort to restore his decimated credibility, he was stunned at the cruelty of their threat. It was quite apparent that the others were, too.