Healing Wolves
Part Six - The Hospital
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., Amblin Entertainment, and ConstantC productions, used here without permission. This story has been written entirely for entertainment value. No copyright infringement is intended, and no form of profit is being made on this work. Any errors in continuity, characterization, or common sense may be blamed entirely on me. Sorry. If this hasn't given you eyestrain already, read on.



Chicago, Chicago. That toddlin' town. What other city could lay claim to the likes of Mayor Daley, Al Capone, Michael Jordan and the Blues Brothers? In contrast to the relatively laid-back LA, the Chicago traffic reminded me of George Carlin's three types of drivers: Idiots (anyone slower than me), Maniacs (anyone faster than me), and Me. I was driving in a rented Buick LeSabre, scanning the radio dial for a classic rock station that might play the Beatles, or some Talking Heads. After some fiddling, I got the Pretenders. "Time, the Avenger." Ehh, close enough for jazz.

During my flight, I had tried to read a book someone loaned me, "Reborn in the West", by Vicki MacKenzie, but instead I spent most of the time examining my own motives in coming to Chicago. I had no illusions that I could swoop in like Mighty Mouse and save the day. Survivor's Guilt, maybe? Could be, but I had felt it before, without feeling compelled to fly halfway across the country. Richard Wintergreen would tell me that a good detective must practice professional detachment, and that my desire to be the "good guy" often blinded me to reality. Kerry Weaver said something similar. Maybe that was it. Maybe I should give up this private eye stuff and get a real job and become a selfish rat bastard like everyone else.

Arriving at County General, I wrangled a parking space and walked into the emergency room. At the admissions desk, I asked a guy who was big enough to have played Mongo in "Blazing Saddles" where I could find Dr. Mark Greene. He asked me if Dr. Greene was expecting me, and I lied and said yes. I said, "My name is Daniel Fox. I'm a detective from Los Angeles."

Mongo's eyebrows went up. "Oh. Yeah, the other detective is with him now. They're up in Dr. Anspaugh's office." He looked around, then said, "Dr. Benton!"

A tall black man with a lean, athletic build, in blue scrubs, looked up. "What is it, Jerry?"

"You're going up to Dr. Anspaugh's office, right?" Jerry asked him.

"Going by there, why?"

"Could you show Detective Fox where it is?"

Benton glanced at me, like I was just one more thing for him to deal with. "Yeah, okay," he said, motioning for me to follow him.

"Thank you, Jerry," I said as I went around the desk. I felt bad for Jerry when they found out he'd sent me in without asking to see a badge or anything. I hadn't claimed to be a police detective, technically, but I'd allowed him to assume. There is always a karmic deficit for lying, and I knew I'd be paying it sooner or later.

I followed Dr. Benton past a variety of staff and patients, including one delirious woman on a gurney who kept tunelessly singing, "We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, we all live..." As a Beatles fan, I found this hard to take.

We stepped into an elevator, and I put out my hand. "Daniel Fox."

"Peter Benton," he said, shaking it absently.

"Surgeon?" I guessed.

"Yeah, surgical resident." He was more interested in the charts in his hand than in conversation. Maybe he didn't like cops. I didn't think I was dressed too much like a cop, in my jeans and sweater and gray suede windbreaker, but I've been told I have the look.

When the elevator stopped, Benton said, "Dr. Anspaugh's office is down that way, turn right. Excuse me." He turned away and went in the opposite direction.

"Thanks," I said to his back, and went looking for Dr. Anspaugh's office.

I found it just as the door was opening and three men were emerging. None of them had much hair left. Two wore white lab coats, the third an off-the-rack suit. I made off-the-rack for a cop. The older lab coat, a beefy guy with a permanently sour expression, was probably Anspaugh, and I figured the other, a taller guy with glasses, for Mark Greene. He had a face that matched his voice.

"Excuse me, Dr. Anspaugh?" I said, getting their attention, "My name is Daniel Fox, I'm a private investigator from Los Angeles."

"Fox!" Off-the-rack stabbed a finger at me. "You're the PI from LA!" Wow. This guy must be a cop, 'cause he doesn't miss a thing, does he?

"That's right," I said. Maybe I should put that on my business cards. Daniel Fox, PILA.

He flipped open a badge. "Wasserstein, Robbery/Homicide," he snapped. I bet he lives for that. "Didn't Jacobs tell you to sit tight?"

"He told me to remain available for questioning, yes."

"Yeah, and?" Wasserstein seemed determined to get in my face. Anspaugh was sort of scowling at both of us. Greene was shifting nervously.

I spread my hands. "I'm right here, you want to question me."

"Do more than that if you get smart with me, boy. How about I charge you with unlawful flight to evade the authorities?"

I stared at him. "Come on," I said.

"You were told to stay put, and you immediately hop a plane and leave the state?!"

"Yeah, Wasserstein, I was so afraid you'd look at me that I fled right into your lap. That makes sense."

"Gentlemen, if you please," Anspaugh interrupted us firmly, "We all have work to do." I figured him for an army man. He had the edge in his voice I remembered.

Wasserstein gave me one more dirty look for good measure before he left. Eeek.

Anspaugh shook my hand perfunctorily. "Donald Anspaugh, hospital Chief of Staff," he said, "Our ER attending, Mark Greene."

"We spoke on the phone," I said. Greene nodded and we shook.

"I'm not entirely certain of your purpose in being here, Mr. Fox," Anspaugh said to me. "If you were under the impression that someone here would hire you to look for Dr. Weaver, I assure you..."

"No, no, nothing like that, Dr. Anspaugh," I said. "I'm not here angling for work. This is strictly a personal visit."

"I see," he said, softening a little. "Did you know Kerry well?"

"Met her twice," I said.

"I see," he said again, though it was clear he didn't. "I'm afraid we've no good news to give you. Lieutenant Wasserstein has been unable to establish even a motive. We don't know if Kerry Weaver's abduction was personally motivated, or a random crime of passion."

"Maybe she was taken by radical economists who didn't want to reform," I said, facetiously.

What little civility had entered Anspaugh's face and voice disappeared again. He glared at me, and you could see the thunderclouds building inside him. I was very close to being struck down by lightning.

"I'm sorry," I said, "That was inappropriate of me."

"It certainly was," he rumbled. "There is absolutely nothing humorous about this situation!"

"No, you're absolutely right..."

"Good day, Mr. Fox," Anspaugh said, turning pointedly away from me. Methinks I had been dismissed. And don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. He looked at Greene. "Mark, are you certain you don't want me to make the announcement?"

Greene didn't look certain at all, but he said, "No, I'll do it."

Anspaugh patted his shoulder sympathetically, then went back into his office without looking at me. I didn't blame him. I must have been jet-lagged to make a crack like that. I felt lower than whale snot.

Greene glanced at me, and said, "Why don't you come with me, Mr. Fox. You should probably hear this, too." I obediently followed him back to the elevators and we descended to the emergency room in silence.

As he stepped off the elevator, Greene snagged the first person he saw, a large black woman in a nurse's uniform, and said, "Haleh, would you get hold of everyone you can and have them meet me in Trauma One, please?" Haleh nodded and left. Greene repeated this with a male nurse named Malik, a student named Lucy, and a doctor named Maggie. I trailed along behind him, keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I should practice doing that more.

I saw some people gathering in a centrally located room with yellow walls, lined with high-tech equipment and other supplies. Figuring this was Trauma One, I decided to wait in there with everyone else, rather than follow Greene and get in his way.  hile I was waiting, I got into a conversation with a couple of the nurses who had beat me there.

"You're not related to a Doug Ross, by any chance, are you?" asked an attractive woman named Chuni Marquez. She was giving me a good appraisal. You can spot single women anywhere.

"Not that I know of," I said. "Why?" I vaguely remembered Kerry Weaver mentioning the name.

"You look kind of like him. Doesn't he?" Chuni addressed the question to Lydia Wright, an obvious veteran.

"Yeah, kinda," Lydia said. "Not really the same, like blood relations, but you do remind me a little of him."

"Reminds you of who?" said a dark-haired woman with striking eyebrows as she entered. Lydia and Chuni clammed up. Foot in mouth disease.

"Harrison Ford, maybe around 'Raiders'," I said to her. "I get that a lot."

"Yeah, him," Lydia mumbled.

The dark-haired woman looked at me. "Oh. Yeah, I can see that," she lied, politely, "Chuni, I need a hand in Curtain Two. Lydia, tell Mark we'll be back in a second." She walked out, with Chuni Marquez in tow.

"Carol Hathaway used to be engaged to Dr. Ross," Lydia whispered to me.

"Aha," I said. I thought that Hathaway had seemed a little ambivalent around me.

A few minutes later, when every available staff member had been assembled, Mark Greene entered and faced the group. "I have some very disturbing news," he began, then had to clear his throat.

"Is it Kerry?" asked a woman with skin the color of coffee with cream. The question that everyone dreaded, but someone had to ask.

"Yes, Jeannie, I'm afraid it is," Greene said. I felt the room growing colder. Everyone else did, too. "The police have informed Dr. Anspaugh and myself that they picked up a homeless man for drunken disorderliness earlier today. The man was wearing a woman's overcoat with Kerry Weaver's name written in the collar. He claims that he found it in a dumpster, along with several other articles of clothing that might have been worn by Dr. Weaver. The coat and the clothes were soaked with a large amount of type AB blood. Dr. Weaver's files indicate that she has blood type AB."

If you could see emotions as physical forces, you would have seen the wave of shock and horror that rippled through everyone in the room. When it dissipated, it seemed to take every bit of hope with it, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud and you knew it wasn't coming back. Ever.

"The police have assured us that this is not conclusive evidence, in itself," Greene went on. "It is still possible that Kerry Weaver is alive and unharmed, but they are not optimistic. I think we must all be prepared to face the worst of possibilities." Someone was crying softly. Nobody else knew what to say.

"I know that many of us had personal difficulties with Kerry," Greene said, "but she always strove to act in the best interests of this hospital. She didn't have many friends here, but..." He didn't know how to continue.

"She was family," Carol Hathaway said. Looking around, she added, "We all are."

There was silence for a while, and then everyone shuffled back to work.

I leaned against the wall and felt sick. There is no joy in Muddville, I thought, Mighty Kerry has struck out.