home and scale it. You said they looked like quarters flying off it. Always had a way with words.” She touched the stone.
“I miss you, Dad.” I miss us.
9
RENÉ ARRIVED AT BROADVIEW AROUND NINE the next morning. The receptionist told her the old 3-2-1 security code had been replaced by 63082, which struck her as excessive given that the ward was for dementia patients, most of whom were bereft of short-term memory. She tapped the code on the keypad and the door to the AD unit clicked open. She passed through and the door closed and locked behind her as it was supposed to. Just as she started down the hall, her attention was arrested by something above her head—the ceiling security camera.
Even though it was Sunday, Alice was in her office. “Her records aren’t back, if that’s what you’re wondering. The police still have them. Sorry.” She looked away and began shuffling papers.
“Okay. Then maybe you can call me when they’re back,” she said, wondering why Alice was acting as if René were a giant botulism spore.
“No problem,” Alice said without looking up.
“Oh, one more thing,” René said, as Alice started away. “The patient census you gave me? There are forty-two names and forty-six patients on the ward.”
Alice looked at her blankly.
“Mary Curley, Louis Martinetti, Anthony Marsden, and Gloria Breed. According to my records, none of these people are residents.”
Alice gathered her things. “Well, they’re under Dr. Carr’s care.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you should speak to him.” She began to move away from the desk.
“But you’re head nurse on the unit.”
“And Dr. Carr is head physician,” she snapped.
She tried to get away, but René stopped her, “Alice, are you telling me there are patients here whose medical records I don’t have access to?”
Alice took a deep breath, puffing up like a bird in defense. “Really, I have to go.”
“Sure, but maybe you can tell me about the security cameras.”
“What security cameras?” Alice’s voice skipped an octave.
“Outside the unit doors. Has anybody checked them?”
“Checked them?”
“To see who might have let Clara out of the ward?”
“Let her out? Nobody let her out.” Again she tried to get away.
But René took her arm. “Alice, I don’t know what’s going on here, but let me just say that if word got out to the state and federal regulatory boards that there are irregularities in the medical records of a patient arrested for murder, that there are more patients on the ward than listed, that critical pharmaceutical documentation is missing or locked away—there are going to be questions about patient neglect and patient abuse, and we could see a SWAT team of regulators come down on us like banshees demanding to know what other irregularities Broadview is up to, raising questions about patient security and wondering all sorts of things about the nursing staff and criminal negligence or, worse—that somebody here let Clara Devine out of the home, intent on murder. And since I’m professionally responsible for reporting irregularities in patients’ status, my job is on the line. So maybe somebody should tell me what’s going on or I’m calling the state.”
Alice stared at René for a long moment, her face rippling with expressions under the glare of René’s threat. Finally she sighed, and her body deflated like a balloon. She glanced down the hall to an aide. “Bonnie, I’ll be right back.” Then she nodded René inside a small back office and locked the door behind them. “They’ll probably have my head, but I’m sure you’ll find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
“You know nothing about this,” she whispered, her eyes full of pleading.
The axes of the room felt as if they had shifted a few degrees. René nodded. “Okay.”
Alice unlocked a desk drawer and removed a videocassette. On a table behind them was a television monitor and VCR where they often viewed
“I miss you, Dad.” I miss us.
9
RENÉ ARRIVED AT BROADVIEW AROUND NINE the next morning. The receptionist told her the old 3-2-1 security code had been replaced by 63082, which struck her as excessive given that the ward was for dementia patients, most of whom were bereft of short-term memory. She tapped the code on the keypad and the door to the AD unit clicked open. She passed through and the door closed and locked behind her as it was supposed to. Just as she started down the hall, her attention was arrested by something above her head—the ceiling security camera.
Even though it was Sunday, Alice was in her office. “Her records aren’t back, if that’s what you’re wondering. The police still have them. Sorry.” She looked away and began shuffling papers.
“Okay. Then maybe you can call me when they’re back,” she said, wondering why Alice was acting as if René were a giant botulism spore.
“No problem,” Alice said without looking up.
“Oh, one more thing,” René said, as Alice started away. “The patient census you gave me? There are forty-two names and forty-six patients on the ward.”
Alice looked at her blankly.
“Mary Curley, Louis Martinetti, Anthony Marsden, and Gloria Breed. According to my records, none of these people are residents.”
Alice gathered her things. “Well, they’re under Dr. Carr’s care.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you should speak to him.” She began to move away from the desk.
“But you’re head nurse on the unit.”
“And Dr. Carr is head physician,” she snapped.
She tried to get away, but René stopped her, “Alice, are you telling me there are patients here whose medical records I don’t have access to?”
Alice took a deep breath, puffing up like a bird in defense. “Really, I have to go.”
“Sure, but maybe you can tell me about the security cameras.”
“What security cameras?” Alice’s voice skipped an octave.
“Outside the unit doors. Has anybody checked them?”
“Checked them?”
“To see who might have let Clara out of the ward?”
“Let her out? Nobody let her out.” Again she tried to get away.
But René took her arm. “Alice, I don’t know what’s going on here, but let me just say that if word got out to the state and federal regulatory boards that there are irregularities in the medical records of a patient arrested for murder, that there are more patients on the ward than listed, that critical pharmaceutical documentation is missing or locked away—there are going to be questions about patient neglect and patient abuse, and we could see a SWAT team of regulators come down on us like banshees demanding to know what other irregularities Broadview is up to, raising questions about patient security and wondering all sorts of things about the nursing staff and criminal negligence or, worse—that somebody here let Clara Devine out of the home, intent on murder. And since I’m professionally responsible for reporting irregularities in patients’ status, my job is on the line. So maybe somebody should tell me what’s going on or I’m calling the state.”
Alice stared at René for a long moment, her face rippling with expressions under the glare of René’s threat. Finally she sighed, and her body deflated like a balloon. She glanced down the hall to an aide. “Bonnie, I’ll be right back.” Then she nodded René inside a small back office and locked the door behind them. “They’ll probably have my head, but I’m sure you’ll find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
“You know nothing about this,” she whispered, her eyes full of pleading.
The axes of the room felt as if they had shifted a few degrees. René nodded. “Okay.”
Alice unlocked a desk drawer and removed a videocassette. On a table behind them was a television monitor and VCR where they often viewed
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