Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green Page 0,37

a British-accented voice reading the words of John LeCarre’s newest fiction. Tommy adjusted the volume and settled in for the ride. Books were better than music, he figured. Music was a diversion; books were an absorption, displacing all other thoughts except the story unfolding. That’s what he wanted right now—to push aside all thoughts of George Calhoun and his date with the executioner.

Meadowbrook Hospital looked like most other community hospitals: a faded brick façade four stories high surrounded by acres of parking spots filled with cars. Tommy drove around for five minutes before he caught a blue Toyota pulling out and managed to beat out a Mercedes for the empty space. He figured he’d start with the hospital before trying to track down the doctor whom George claimed had treated his daughter. Even if he found the doctor—and without a name, he gave it a slim chance—it was so long ago that maybe the doctor wasn’t even practicing anymore. Maybe he wasn’t even alive. Hospitals kept records, though. If he could get a look at them, they could tell him whether George had been truthful about his daughter. At least the part about her being sick. The rest of his story seemed too cockeyed to believe. He couldn’t imagine walking away from one of his kids. Not for any reason. And especially not if they were sick. That’s when his kids needed him the most.

Tommy walked through the parking lot to the main entrance. As he stepped through the revolving door, the odor of ammonia mixed with decay hit him. He walked to the information desk and smiled at the elderly woman sitting behind it. “Hello, dear. Can you tell me where I can find the guy in charge of this hospital? I’m not sure what his title might be. Maybe ‘executive director’?”

The woman knitted her brow and seemed momentarily lost. “Oh, my. I’ve never been asked that question before. Usually I’m asked for directions to a patient’s room or the cafeteria or even the restrooms.” She smiled shyly. “I’m just a volunteer, you see. Two afternoons a week. It helps the time go by.”

Tommy pointed to the phone on her desk. “Maybe you could call somebody and ask.”

“How silly of me. Of course. I’ll do just that.”

Twenty minutes later, Tommy sat on a chair in the office of Ronald Cornwall, director of operations for Meadowbrook Hospital. The administrator held the medical-records release signed by George Calhoun in his hands.

“Mr. Noorland, I’ve already explained to you that we have procedures here. This release will be sent to our records department and they’ll do a search. If we have anything, we’ll send it to you. The process usually takes several weeks.”

“And I keep explaining to you that our client doesn’t have several weeks,” Tommy answered, barely able to control his frustration with this bureaucrat.

Cornwall shook his head. “Even if I wanted to circumvent our procedure, you’ve said these records are from twenty years ago. We didn’t computerize everything then. It’ll take that amount of time for our records clerk to search through our archives—and that’s assuming I push this ahead of other record requests that are pending.”

Tommy leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “Well, we’ve got to figure something out, ’cause I’m sure you don’t want an innocent man to die just because your people are too busy to look through a shit load of papers.”

Cornwall’s face blanched. “Surely it can’t come down to our records.”

“It just may.”

“But—but—he’s been in jail, you said, for seventeen years. How could it be that you’re now first asking for our records? You can’t just lay this on me—you must know you’re being unfair.” Cornwall’s voice had risen in pitch and his widened eyes practically pleaded with Tommy to lift the burden he’d placed on him.

Although skeptical of finding documents that would jibe with Calhoun’s story, Tommy conducted all his investigations as if he believed his clients. He was a trained investigator, comfortable with himself only when he knew he’d been thorough. Shortcuts weren’t an option for him. He didn’t plan on walking away from the hospital empty-handed.

“Listen, I can help your guys look through the boxes.”

Cornwall shook his head. “No, that’d violate privacy laws.”

“Fuck privacy laws.”

Cornwall’s shoulders drooped. “I’d like to help you, really I would. But I’m not a miracle worker. Doctors make miracles, not hospital administrators.”

“I’m not looking for a miracle, just information. Seems pretty simple to me.”

The two men stared stonily at each other, like gunslingers waiting to