“Yes, yes, of course.” Gage nodded his head and led the way to a door marked PHYSICIANS’ CONFERENCE ROOM. “You look familiar—”
“I did my residency here several years ago, then did an infertility fellowship in Chicago,” he replied, taking a seat at the table. Blazing fluorescent light bounced painfully from white walls, pearl file cabinets, beige carpeting. Some obscure kidney function calculation was scribbled on the whiteboard. In the corner, a skeleton wearing a top hat browsed through a faded copy of the
“Marley, Marley,” Gage whispered to himself, as though he were turning through a dictionary. “Seems I’ve heard that name before.”
“My wife’s a doctor as well,” Plato said. “One of the hospital pathologists. She’s in forensics. Tecumseh County coroner.”
Gage’s eyebrows blossomed in surprise. “Do they really need a forensic pathologist in TC? How long since there’s been a murder there?”
“A
“Seneca General isn’t exactly a center of academic medicine, either,” the digestive specialist agreed. “But we provide pretty good care here. And this is a good area to raise a family.”
His smile dissolved suddenly. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Jan Thorndyke is my daughter.” Gage grimaced, raised his voice. “That makes Rufus my son-in-law, though at his age, it’s hard to think of him that way. We were in college together, back east...”
The door burst open suddenly, and a stocky figure in white blew into the room.
“Thanks for calling me, Dr. Gage! Sorry I’m late.” The intern pulled a ragged mop of hair back from her forehead. Panting, she explained, “I got a dump admission from Urology. It took
Gage chuckled and pulled out a chair. “That’s quite all right. Have a seat. Linda Zamiella, I’d like to present Dr. Plato Marley. He’s an infertility specialist, but he was at the Thorndyke party last night and thought we might need his help.”
They shook hands. Zamiella’s white laboratory coat was spotless. The only flaw in her appearance was a menagerie of dogeared journal articles spilling from her pockets.
“I was explaining that some of Mr. Thorndyke’s symptoms seemed unusual for food poisoning,” Plato told her, ignoring Gage’s sarcastic introduction. “It’s hard to put a finger on it, but his case seemed different. Excruciating abdominal pain, far worse than the other victims. Pain on swallowing. Later, as you know, he became delirious.”
“There’ve been some cardiogram changes as well,” Linda added, tugging a tattered heart monitor tracing from her pocket. She handed it to Gage. “I think Dr. Marley’s right. I saw a lot of the other victims last night. Most of them have already gone home. The few who were hospitalized are doing well. Except Mr. Thorndyke.”
“And Felicia Martinez, Thorndyke’s maid. She’s even worse.” Gage frowned, then glanced at Plato. “Linda hopes to become a specialist in digestive diseases, like me. What’s your impression, Dr. Zamiella?”
Linda paused for a moment, eyes unfocused. She recited as if from a formula, “Mr. Thorndyke is a sixty-year-old male in otherwise good health who presents with sudden onset of abdominal pain and dysphagia, eventually lapsing into delirium. Signs of shock have been accompanied by an abnormal heart rhythm, but peritoneal signs are absent. My impression is that Mr. Thorndyke’s symptoms cannot be explained solely by spoiled food.”
“What can account for them?” Gage challenged.
Linda shrugged and knuckled her forehead. “What about some kind of non-bacterial poisoning, like mercury?” She dredged her capacious pockets again. Like hamsters pouching food, interns often tuck entire reference libraries into their coats. “I just read an article last month in the
Gage chewed a fingernail. “But where would Mr. Thorndyke have received such a dose of mercury? Even hatters don’t see much of it these days.”
“It’s common in some insecticides. And, well...”
“Besides, Linda, how are our patient’s kidney functions?”
She squirmed. “Umm, well—”
The old physician touched her arm gently. “It’s a good thought, but it doesn’t seem likely. At his age, those nonspecific changes could mean just about anything. Excessive stress. An underlying medical condition.”
He snapped the chart shut like a judge rapping a gavel, then delivered his verdict. “I think our diagnosis is very simple. Food poisoning, a la the crab Louis. Just like all the other patients.”
“Has he been worked up for an infection?” Plato asked, feeling like an intern again. Even though Seneca General was a community hospital, Gage had a national reputation.
