about her
clinical work she was very aware of the human side of all the medicine and the technology. She
made sure her people were on the same page she was: To work in the chute, you had to be able
to do both sides of the job, you needed the battlefield mentality and the bedside manner. As she
told her staff, there was always time to hold someone's hand or listen to their worries or offer a
shoulder to cry on, because in the blink of an eye you could be on the other side of that
conversation. After all, tragedy didn't discriminate, so everyone was subject to the same whims
of fate. No matter what your skin color was or how much money you had, whether you were gay
or straight, or an atheist or a true believer, from where she stood, everyone was equal. And loved
by someone, somewhere.
A nurse came up to her. «Dr. Goldberg just called in sick.»
«That flu?»
«Yes, but he got Dr. Harris to cover.»
Bless Goldberg's heart. «Our man need anything?»
The nurse smiled. «He said his wife was thrilled to see him when she was actually awake. Sarah
is cooking him chicken soup and in full fuss mode.»
«Good. He needs some time off. Shame he won't enjoy it.»
«Yeah. He mentioned she was going to make him watch all the date movies they've missed in the
last six months on DVD.»
Jane laughed. «That'll make him sicker. Oh, listen, I want to do grand rounds on the Robinson
case. There was nothing else we could have done for him, but I think we need to go over the
death anyway.»
«I had a feeling you'd want to do that. I set it up for the day after you get home from your trip.»
Jane gave the nurse's hand a little squeeze. «You are a star.»
«Nah, I just know our boss, is all.» The nurse smiled. «You never let them go without checking
and rechecking in case something could have been done differently.»
That was certainly right. Jane remembered every single patient who had died in the chute,
whether she had been their admitting physician or not, and she had the deceased cataloged in her
mind. At night, when she couldn't sleep, the names and faces would run through her head like an
old fashioned microfiche until she thought she would go mad from the roll call.
It was the ultimate motivator, her list of the dead, and she was damned if this incoming gunshot
was going on it.
Jane went over to a computer and called up the low-down on the patient. This was going to be a
battle. They were looking at a stab wound as well as a bullet in his chest cavity, and given where
he'd been found, she was willing to bet he was either a drug dealer doing business in the wrong
territory or a big buyer who'd gotten the shaft. Either way, it was unlikely he had health
insurance, not that it mattered. St. Francis accepted all patients, regardless of their ability to pay.
Three minutes later, the double doors swung open and the crisis came in at slingshot speed: that
Mr. Michael Klosnik was strapped to a gurney, a giant Caucasian with a lot of tattoos, a set of
leathers, and a goatee. The paramedic at his head was bagging him, while another one held the
equipment down and pulled.
«Bay four,» Jane told the EMTs. «Where are we?»
The guy bagging said, «Two large-bore IVs in with lactated ringers. BP is sixty over forty and
falling. Heart rate is in the one-forties. Respiration is forty. Orally intubated. V-fibbed on the
way over. Shocked him at two hundred joules. Sinus tachycardia in the one-forties.»
In bay four, the medics stopped the gurney and braked it while the chute's staff coalesced. One
nurse took a seat at a small table to record everything. Two others were on standby to bust out
supplies at Jane's direction, and a fourth got ready to cut off the patient's leather pants. A pair of
residents hovered to watch or help as needed.
«I got the wallet,» the paramedic said, handing it over to the nurse with the scissors.
«Michael Klosnick, age thirty-seven,» she read. «The picture on the ID is blurry, but… it could
be him, assuming he dyed his hair black and grew the goatee after it was taken.»
She handed the billfold over to the colleague who was taking notes and then started removing the
leathers.
«I'll see if he's in the system,» the other woman reported as she logged onto a computer. «Found
him-wait, is this… Must be an error. No, address is right, year's wrong.»
Jane cursed under her breath. «May be problems with the new electronic
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