So who the hell was keeping her from going to pee?

The individual clicked off the computer, plunging the lab back into total darkness, but the thin beam of what must have been a penlight snapped on. The user walked it toward the far corner of the lab, passing between columns of fluorescent digital readouts and rows of black microscopes barely visible in the ambient light. He, or she, paused by a rack of unused petri dishes – round shallow containers lined with bouillon agar used to grow bacteria cultures – and slipped one of them into the pocket of the white coat, then continued to where the incubators glinted in the dim illumination.

A click, and one of the counter lights came to life. The black silhouette pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a nearby box, reached into the hood, and began to retrieve stack after stack of petri dishes, laying them out on the counter so that the identifying labels would have been visible, then returning them to the incubator. After five interminable minutes – Donna was crossing her legs and gritting her teeth – the person laid a specific dish aside, carefully lifted off the glass lid, located a supply of culture tubes on the lab bench, and, using the sterile Q-tip from one, scooped up a good-sized chunk of agar. Retrieving the unused container pocketed earlier, the figure then ran the swab over its surface, presumably plating out whatever organism had been harvested. Returning the original sample to its place in the incubator, the silhouette then extracted a Ziploc bag from another pocket, sealed the newly plated dish in it, snapped off the gloves, dumped them into a wastebasket, and turned off the counter light. Once more the thin beam of the penlight cut through the darkness, moving toward the door. The snap of the lock opening sounded loud in the absolute silence, and the white-coated visitor, momentarily framed in the faint light from the hallway, was gone.

Pretty fuckin’ furtive, thought Donna, intrigued enough by what she’d just seen to forget the urgency of her previous problem.

She had her own small light to get around, a tiny red bulb on her key chain, and used it to make her way to the computer where the visitor had been working. Entering the access code, she clicked up the most recently viewed page.

Whoever it was had been after the preliminary culture results of specimens currently being incubated in the lab. Scrolling down the screen she saw:

Neisseria gonorrhea.

Streptococcus pneumoniae.

Staphylococcus aureus.

From her studies, Donna knew they were nasty bugs, but nothing out of the ordinary for a hospital.

Campylobacter jejuni.

A commonplace pathogen ingested from undercooked beef or chicken that could cause enteritis, or the runs. Easily treated with ciprofloxacin.

Salmonella.

Shigella.

More serious causes for the runs. Quick to act, would have victims shitting blood, but again, readily treated.

Escherichia coli 0157:H7.

Oh, oh. This one was trouble.

Her memory spit out the pathogenesis. As few as ten organisms could cause an infection. The symptoms were puking and pouring out bloody diarrhea within forty-eight hours. But it was the toxins released by these particular bacteria that could really hit the victim. Ten percent of the time they produced a nightmare condition called hemolytic uremic syndrome by attaching themselves to receptor sites on the inside surface of a patient’s blood vessels. This would cause red cells to rupture, platelets to fall, bleeding to increase, kidneys to fail, and the brain to seize. Once it got that far, the victim had a 50 percent chance of ending up on dialysis and at least a 5 percent chance of winding up on a slab in the morgue. For Escherichia coli 0157:H7 was the organism responsible for what the media called Toxic Hamburger Disease, but it could also be transmitted in water.

At least, that was what she remembered reading in her books.

Troubled, she went over to check out the incubator. Everything seemed in order. But other than going through each culture to see which had had a scoop removed, there was no way of knowing which dish had been sampled, or why, or even if there was anything amiss in what had been done. Perhaps it was only a graduate student doing research who needed a specimen of a particular organism for some project.

One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to say anything. Otherwise, she’d have to explain why she’d been in here.

Her beeper went off, and she jumped, the high-pitched signal splitting through the quiet like a burglar alarm. The tiny message plate indicated the telephone number for ER. They’d need bloods drawn and analyzed or urines spun and looked at under a microscope.

But first, she had to find a bathroom. And her glasses.

Later that same morning, Tuesday, November 20, 8:10 A.M.

Geriatric Wing,

New York City Hospital

The aroma of a geriatric ward in the morning always got to Earl. It wasn’t just the hint of human waste mingled with the smells of coffee, eggs, bacon, or other offerings on the breakfast menu – he encountered those every day in ER. It was the staleness of the air. It seemed as locked in as the patients, and had both a sour and soapy-sweet odor that hung heavy, a pungent reminder of failing flesh.

As he made his way toward the reception desk through the flow of orderlies, nurses, and elderly patients, a young woman of medium height dressed in a jogging outfit stepped up to him and eyed his identity badge. “Ah, Dr. Garnet. I’ve been expecting you.”

Her shaved haircut made him wonder if she’d either had chemo, treated herself for lice, or done a recent stint in the Marines. Her ID read NURSE TANYA WOZCEK.

“Hi,” he said, shaking her hand. “Are you one of the people taking care of Bessie McDonald?” From her civies he figured she was off duty.

“Yes, I’m also the only staff person willing to talk with you. Want a coffee?”

“What?”

“Do you want a coffee?”

“No, I mean yes, I do. But what’s this about there being no one else-”

“First, I suggest you see Bessie and speak with the resident who was on duty the night she became comatose. He’s with her now.” Without giving him a chance to reply, she led the way down the hallway, navigating between the shuffling men and women in housecoats, most inching along with the aid of walkers. “You and I can speak afterward,” she added, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

“But what about the other nurses-”

“Everyone knows you’re investigating something in connection with Kelly McShane’s murder and that it involves Chaz Braden. They aren’t willing to speak out and risk his reprisals.”

Caught off guard, Earl reflexively went on the offensive. “Who told you such nonsense?” Damn that talkative Lena Downie. She must have spilled the beans after all. So much for keeping his interest in the case on the quiet side. But maybe he could still bluff it out. “That kind of rumor is far from helpful-”

“Come off it. We figured it out as soon as the request to see Bessie’s charts for 1974 came through. Since Chaz Braden was her doctor at the time, and the coroner who made the application for the files is the one investigating the killing – it wasn’t hard. What we can’t put together is the tie-in between Kelly’s death and Bessie.”

“Oh?” It was all he could think of to say.