disease-related information; they can only be obtained directly through the physician. But then you're not interested in any of that; you'd think I was tahkin' to one of those damned insurance sneaks." She gave him the file. "There's a table at the end of the aisle. When you're finished, just leave the foldah on my desk." "That's okay," said Bray, knowing better. "I'll put it back; no sense bothering you. Thanks again." "Thank you." Scofield read through the pages rapidly to get a general impression.
Medically, most of what he read was beyond his comprehension, but the conclusion was inescapable. Joshua Appleton had been more dead than alive when the ambulance had brought him to the hospital from the collision on the turnpike. Lacerations, contusions, convulsions, fractures, along with severe head and neck wounds painted the bloody picture of a mutilated human face and body. There were lists of drugs and serums used to prolong the life that was ebbing, detailed descriptions of the sophisticated machinery employed to stop deterioration. And ultimately, weeks later, the reversal began to take place. The incredibly more sophisticated machine that was the human body started to heal itself.
Bray wrote down the names of the doctors and the attending nurses listed in the floor and O.R. schedules. Two surgeons, one a skin-graft specialist, and a rotating team of eight nurses appeared consistently during the first weeks, then abruptly their names were no longer there, replaced by two different physicians and three private nurses assigned to eight-hour shifts.
He had what he needed, a total of fifteen names, five primary, ten secondary. He would concentrate on the former, the last two physicians and the three nurses; the earlier names were removed from the time in question.
He replaced the folder and went back out to the clerk's desk. "All done," he said, then added as if the thought had just struck him. "Say, you could do me-the Senator ---one more favor, if you would." "If I can, sure." "I've got the names here, but I need a little updating. After all, it was twenty-five years ago. Some of them may not be around any longer. It would help if I got some current addresses." "I can't help," said the clerk, reaching for the phone on her desk, "but I can send you upstairs. This is patient territory; they've got the personnel records. Lucky bahstaads, they're computerized." "I'm still very concerned about keeping this confidential." "Hey, don't you worry, you've got Peg Flannagan's word for it. My girlfriend runs that place." Scofield sat next to a bearded black college student in front of a computer keyboard. The young man had been assigned to help by Peg Flannagan's girlfriend. He was annoyed that his office-temp job had suddenly required him to put down his textbooks.
"I'm sorry to bother you," said Bray, wanting a temporary friend.
"It's nothin', man," answered the student, punching the keys. "It's just that I got an exam tomorrow and any piss ant can run this barbarian hardware." "What's the exam?" "Tertiary kinetics." Scofield looked at the student. "Someone once used the word 'tertiary' with me when I was in school around here. I didn't know what he meant." "You probably went to Harvard, man. That's turkeytime. I'm at Tech." Bray was glad the old school spirit was still alive in Cambridge. "What have you got?" he asked, looking at the screen above the keyboard. The black had keyed in the name of the first doctor.
"I've got an omniscent tape, and you've got nothin'." "What do you mean?" "The good doctor doesn't exist. Not as far as this institution is concerned. He's never so much as dispensed an aspirin in this joint." "That's crazy. He was listed in the Appleton records." "Speak to the lord-of-the-phi's, man. I punched the letters and up comes No Rec." "I know something about these machines. They're easily programmed." The black nodded. "Which means they're easily deprogrammed. Rectified, as it were. Your doctor was deeleted. Maybe he stole from Medicare." "Maybe. Let's try the next." The student keyed in the name. "Well, we know what happened to this boy.
Ceb. Hem. He died right here on the third floor. Cerebral hemorrhage.
Never even got a chance to get his tuition back." "What do you mean?" "Med school, man. He was only thirty-two. Hell of a way to go at thirty-two." "Also unusual. What's the date?" "March 1, 1954." "Appleton was discharged on the thirtieth," said Scofleld as much to himself as to the student. "These three