The Victims Game
Part Four - the Job
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

There's a kind of Catch-22 involved in obtaining the medical records for an unspecified group of clinic patients. You can't look at their records without their consent. And you can't locate and identify them to get their consent without at least their names and last known addresses, which are - guess where? - in their records. What then, as Linda Hunt once said, must we do?

I spent a good deal of the next day at the public library, looking over old newspaper articles on microfilm. Specifically, I was looking for anything on County General in general, pardon the pun, and the clinic in particular. There wasn't very much. Just the usual bare-bones announcement of the clinic's opening, a year or two ago, in the Metro section of the local papers, stating its location and times of operation and not much else. Then, several months ago, an almost unnoticeable two-incher stating that the hospital had closed the clinic, no reasons given.

Charitable operations like that were a real bitch to get off the ground, as I understood it, and the fact that she'd managed it in the first place spoke highly of Carol Hathaway. She'd probably sweated blood and bent over backward to set up and run the clinic, just so the city's downtrodden masses would have some kind of resource in times of sickness or injury. It's this sort of quiet, invaluable effort that makes human civilization possible, and it never, ever, gets the recognition it deserves. And now it was gone, with virtually no notice. It goes that way, sometimes.

At any rate, the initial problem remained: how to talk to the clinic's patients and determine the cause of its downfall. For the first, all I needed was some names and addresses. But how to get them? I went back to my hotel room and meditated on the problem. Well, I say 'meditated' in the loosest sense. Mainly I lay in bed, ordered room service, and veged-out watching pay-per-view. My idea of a spiritual mantra is to play 'Synchronicity' by the Police, over and over again. Not the whole album, just the title song.

After a long while, after I had turned out the lights, the thought came to me in the form of a little voice from the back of my head: ever think of just asking?

Well, duh, I thought back at it, but ask who? Mark Greene or Kerry Weaver could probably answer my questions and authorize me a look at the patient records. The question is, would they? Doubted it. As Attending Physicians, they were too closely tied to the administration, and I wouldn't feel good about putting them in that position. Besides, bringing the matter to their attention was precisely what Millicent Carter and Walter Montgomery had asked me to avoid.

That line of thought reminded me of something else that Montgomery had said. Perish forbid I ever take advice from a slick attorney like him, but he did have a point: being a familiar face at County might give me a slight advantage over other PI's. One lesson I learned from the Air Force that's carried over to civilian life: if you want the real scoop on things, you don't go to the top brass or the company spokespeople. You ask the secretaries and the supply sergeants and the guys who take out the trash every night for low pay. To get to the bottom of things, go straight to the bottom. Ages-old wisdom, Fox-style.

With that in mind, I asked Randi Fronczak out to lunch the next day.

We made light chatter about our respective jobs while putting away a pretty good pasta and salad. I avoided the meat sauce for a change, mindful of Kerry Weaver's observation of the other day. Was I really putting on weight? I told Randi about some of the wilder things I'd seen as a detective, and she managed to top them all with various tales of life in the ER. The food was good, and the company was better, and I gave the meal an 8 out of 10. It would have been a ten, but it lost a couple of points because I felt bad about taking advantage of her.

I gradually brought the conversation around to her coworkers in the ER, asking what was new with the assorted people whose names I recalled. She happily supplied the appropriate gossip, and I oohed and ahhed over it.

Among the things she mentioned was Kerry Weaver's thinly disguised bitterness at not being considered for the position of Chief of Emergency Services. As I understood it, she had stepped in to fill that slot when the old Chief, a guy named Morganstern, took ill, and she had assumed that it would be made permanent. But when it came time to appoint someone officially, the Board of Supervisors had dropped Kerry like a hot rock, choosing to bring in someone from outside, rather than keep the one who'd already proven herself capable. That's bureaucracy for you.

According to Randi, Kerry Weaver's micromanaging style hadn't been very popular with the staff while she held the job, but everyone started to appreciate her more after the string of head cases that the Board hired to replace her. The first was a pompous creep who traded the job in for a better one before he'd done a single day's work. The second seemed fine at first, but later turned out to be a full-blown lunatic whose name was now a sort of running-gag and boogeyman in the ER's little culture. By the time they appointed the third, a shmuck who called himself Roger Ramjet or something like that, Kerry didn't even bother applying. It was clear they didn't want her. At least, that's what Randi heard. Sounded to me like this place was even crazier than Hollywood.

I let most of the gossip go in one ear and out the other, as it didn't seem to have much relevance to my situation. Finally, I asked about Carol Hathaway.

"Haven't seen her for a couple weeks," Randi said, around a forkful of salad, "She's out on maternity leave."

"No kidding?" I enthused, "Well, mazeltov for her, huh?"

"Better make that a double," she said, "It's twins."

"Hoo boy! Diapers in stereo!" I was honestly surprised. It was only about six months ago that I had seen Carol Hathaway, and she hadn't shown any signs back then. Actually, that would have been pretty early in the pregnancy, so I guess there's no reason I should have noticed at the time. Still... "Is she going to keep working here, do you think?"

"I dunno. Don't think she's made up her mind, really, or at least I haven't heard anything." She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "And if I haven't heard it, believe me, it ain't there to be heard."

I washed down a mouthful of pasta with some Diet Sprite. "I can't imagine her not working full-time," I said, "Didn't she used to run a free clinic in addition to her regular duties?"

"Actually, she hired someone to handle the day-to-day stuff, but yeah," Randi said, "It was a great idea, even if she was totally inept with her budgets."

A little warning flag went up in my head. "Oh? How so?"

"Well, maybe not TOTALLY inept, but money management was never really her forte, you know? I mean, Carol's really pretty organized in other regards, but she's never had much of a head for finances. One time, she had to cut the nurses' budget, which was driving her nuts, and I had to show her how to avoid firing a couple of people. Then, she bought a house, once, and it was a real fixer-upper, to be kind. She couldn't really afford it, and ended up trying to unload it again. And she passed up the chance to go to medical school and be a doctor herself, which would have upped her income. That sort of thing."

"Uh-huh?"

"Don't get me wrong, Carol's clinic was working out really well for a while. She was doing a great job with it, and helping a lot of people who had no other place to go."

"So why'd it close down, then?"

Randi rolled her eyes at the memory. "Oh, man, that whole fiasco with the kid..." She sighed. "Well, to make a long story short, the clinic had some kind of pain-regulating equipment on loan from some other department, or something, and she was using it to try and help ease this terminally ill kid's suffering. And then Do-someone reset it to, well, to help put the kid out of his misery. One of those assisted suicide deals, you know what I mean?"

I nodded.

"You ask me, it was the kindest thing anyone could'a done for the poor kid, but apparently his father didn't see it that way. There was a big scandal about it, and the cops came in, and Carol's clinic could have been held liable, since she supplied the equipment, and...jeez, it was all so screwed up, because of a moment of kindness, you know?"

"Yeah. No good deed, et cetera."

"Anyway, the hospital managed to keep a lid on things, but..."

"The clinic was thrown to the wolves, I'm guessing."

"Yeah, pretty much. Sucks, huh?"

Figured.

"All things considered, it's probably a good thing for Carol that she turned out to be pregnant."

"How do you reckon?"

"Well, I mean, what with her clinic being taken away, and Doug Ross leaving town - you know they were engaged, right? - she really needed something positive to keep her going. She tried to kill herself once, you know?"

I put down my fork. "No, I didn't know that."

"Least, that's what I heard. I wasn't around yet when it happened."

"Wow. Sounds like Carol's had her share of troubles," I said.

"Who hasn't?" Randi ate another bite, then said, "But, yeah, she's been dumped on a lot. I also heard she once left her fiancee at the altar, and I know she later broke up with this paramedic she was seeing, 'cause he couldn't get over the death of his partner." She suppressed a shudder, and I had the fleeting impression that the death she mentioned had affected her as well. "Oh, and she also tried to adopt this little girl from Russia, who had AIDS. Nobody else wanted her, but Carol did. Then they tell her she's not suitable, because of the suicide attempt, or some stupid reason like that. This is, like, the most thoughtful, devoted woman you've ever met, and they tell her she's not qualified to take care of a kid?"

I remained silent, thinking. I didn't like the picture that was being painted. A string of failed relationships, persistent money troubles, marked forever as an attempted suicide, and now twins on the way, with all the expenses they would incur. When you're looking into fraud and mismanagement of funds, you're looking for patterns and personalities. People who are otherwise good and selfless, but have had a run of bad luck, can often start feeling unappreciated, or even cheated by life. Then, they start thinking, why not take the money? The Foundation's not gonna miss it...

My train of thought must have registered on my face, because Randi had stopped speaking, and was giving me a long, measured look. "You know, Foxy," she ventured, "for someone who doesn't seem to know much about Carol Hathaway, you seem awful interested in her. Should I be jealous, or something?"

I gave her a little Groucho. "Are you kidding? You're the one I'm having lunch with; if anything, she should be jealous of you." Ooh, smooth one, Fox.

She gave me who-do-you-think-you're-fooling eyes, with the half-smile. "Simple fact of life: guys only ask me out if they want something from me."

"Above and beyond the pleasure of your company, you mean?"

"Well, usually it's the pleasure of gettin' laid in my company they're after, but somehow, I'm thinkin' you've got something else in mind. I'm just trying to decide whether to be relieved or insulted, is all."

"Hey, believe me, Randi," I said, "if I was living in this city, I'd be all over you like white on rice." Fox, you silver-tongued romantic, you. "But I'm only here temporarily, and I've never been one to start a relationship I wasn't in a position to finish."

She shrugged. "Okay, Foxy, your loss." The half-smile again. "So, we're back to you wanting something from me, right?"

I made a noncommittal head shrug. "Like what?"

"Given the context, it's probably something involving Carol and her clinic. Am I warm?"

A wide variety of punch lines sprang immediately to mind, but I just said, "Pretty warm."

Randi finished her coffee, then leaned forward, elbows on the table, and fixed me with No-BS eyes. "Okay, so what is it?"

When all else fails, tell the truth. Or a variation on it, at least. I said, "Yeah, I'm curious about the clinic. Or, rather, my clients out West are. They're thinking of setting up something similar, in Los Angeles. If it worked at County, maybe it'll work at Cedars-Sinai. But they want to get a better sense of how successful Carol's clinic was before they do anything. They want to know what aspects they should emulate, what mistakes they should avoid, stuff like that."

She nodded, in a 'go on' way.

"Thing is, when they asked County management about it, straight out, they kind of got the tourist brochure version, and not much else. They're concerned that your administration is giving them the airbrushed, glossy picture of the clinic, rather than the honest one, warts and all."

She nodded again, this time in agreement. "Yeah, that sounds about right. County's not gonna want its dirty laundry aired in public." She popped a stick of gum in her mouth, and offered me one. "And brother, have we got a lotta laundry. But you didn't hear that from me."

I took a stick and unwrapped it. "Everyone does, I've found," I said, thinking of Councilman Bob and his wife. The gum was sugarless.

"So what were you hoping to get from me, if not my nubile young body?" Randi gave me a provocative little wiggle, her eyes dancing devilishly.

Trying not to blush, I said, "You've already given me part of it..."

"Really? Which part? And was it good for you?"

"Not that," I said, feeling the blush winning out. She laughed, pleased at having deliberately embarrassed me. "I meant you've already given me part of the information I was looking for. I needed to know whether the clinic was brought down due to ineptitude or mismanagement on Carol Hathaway's part-"

"It wasn't," she said, emphatically, turning serious, "Like I said, Carol got caught in this scandal with the kid, through no fault of her own. Up 'til then, she was doing a terrific job with it."

"Okay, that's good to hear. Job's half done, then."

"What's the other half?"

"I'm supposed to track down a sampling of the patients who received treatment at the clinic, and get their view of things. Sort of a customer-satisfaction survey, you might say."

Randi came up with a wry, aha-there-it-is smile. "But you can't do that without knowing their names and last-knowns, from their records, right? And you figure admin's gonna stonewall you on that."

"That's what I figure."

"You figure right."

I spread my hands. "All I want to do is talk to some of the patients, ask if they have any gripes about the clinic, make sure they got treated right, and get them to sign a form saying my clients can look at their records if they need them. Then, I give the clients the forms, along with my opinion of the clinic, either a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, and I'm done. It's like you say it is, then everything's cool, and I'll actually be giving Carol and County a good review."

She nodded. "So, you want me to pull a few names for you, is that it?"

"That's what I'm asking you for, Randi."

"You know, I'm not supposed to give out that kind of info."

"Yeah, I know," I said, and left it at that. Either she'd help me or she wouldn't.

The waiter dropped off the check. We ignored it for the moment, looking steadily at each other. Randi blew a bubble, which went from Ping-Pong ball size...to tennis ball size...to grapefruit size...

Pop.

"I get off shift at six," she said, standing up, "I'll have an answer for you then." And she left.

A good, definite 'maybe'. Well, it's better than 'no'. I tried blowing a bubble of my own, but couldn't get it past marble size. How did she do that?

Having rarely spent any time East of the Rocky Mountains, I took the opportunity to spend the afternoon wandering around Chicago and taking in the sights. Every city has a distinct personality of its own, but I wasn't having much luck pinning this one down. I was mostly thinking about where things were headed on the job front.

I had decided that if Randi refused to help me, that would be the end of it. I'd go tell Millicent Carter and Walter Montgomery that, as far as I could tell, Carol Hathaway's clinic was shipshape and perfectly legit. Granted, that was based entirely on Randi's word and my gut feeling, rather than hard evidence, but there you go. Worse came to worst, and that didn't satisfy them, I'd refund the check Montgomery had written me, and let them sulk about it.

If that sounds like I'm blowing this off and doing a really half-assed investigation, consider this: Randi had mentioned that Kerry Weaver had held the position of Chief of Emergency Services during the period when Carol was setting up her clinic. As I understand it, that meant that Kerry was responsible for overseeing pretty much everything that went on in the ER. Even after she lost that position, she - and Mark Greene, for that matter - remained high-profile fixtures in the ER all throughout the clinic's operation. I found it hard to imagine that they would be unaware of any shady doings in the clinic run by their head nurse, with whom they worked closely. The idea that they were aware of such doings and overlooked or condoned them was even more difficult for me to conceive.

Of course, just because I can't picture it happening doesn't make it impossible, but I was prepared to take a few things on faith at this point. Richard Wintergreen would probably say that I wasn't being very professional, and that I had a responsibility to my paying client to be more thorough, but I wasn't really doing this job for the money. I was doing it to satisfy my own curiosity, and I believed that had been achieved.

After a few hours of wandering around, refining this argument in my head, I was actually hoping that Randi would turn me down, so I'd be off the hook. I arrived at the ER just as Randi was coming out of it, and we met under a basketball hoop that someone had put up in the alleyway. She looked at me, one eyebrow arched, and said nothing.

I raised both eyebrows, questioningly, and also said nothing.

She pulled a plain, white envelope out of her coat pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a single, printed sheet with about fifty names and last-known addresses on it. Looks like I was going back to work, after all. I said, "Thank you."

Randi nodded once, then said, "Now ask me why."

I said, "Why?" We are nothing if not obliging.

"You made a hell of an impression on everyone around here the last time you came to visit, pal," she said, "I was always kinda sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you then."

I gave her the Kelsey Grammer smile. "Sorry, there was only so much of me to go around."

"Yeah. Anyway, I spent most of this afternoon asking about you. Everyone said you were cool."

"Everyone?"

"Well, Lydia, Jerry, Maggie, Carter, Lily, Chuni, Mark, Lucy, Malik, Haleh..." she ticked them off on her fingers. "Weaver even said she'd trust you with her life. That's all she said, but I figure, if that ain't endorsement enough for a few names, what is?"

Aw, hell. The collective confidence of these people was one of the most unconditional compliments I had ever received, but it just made me feel low. High praise from the people I'm taking advantage of. Bad show, Fox.

"You don't seem real happy about it."

"Yeah, uh...look, Randi, don't mistake me, I appreciate it. But if you're just helping me because I've got some kind of heroic reputation, then maybe you should take this back." I held the envelope toward her. "I'm no hero, not like you guys. You save lives every day, I just dig up dirt on people."

"Come on, you saved Weaver's life, once."

"That was just a matter of dumb luck and sheer mule-headedness."

She shook her head and didn't take the envelope. "Got news for ya, Foxy. Same with us, when you get down to it." She gave me both halves of the smile, and turned to leave.

I put the envelope in my pocket.

Randi stopped a ways away, and turned back to me, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Randi Fox," she mused, "Now THERE'S a porn star name for you." Then she walked away.

Oooooooookay...



"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid