The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [91]
Neelor made a face. “Simple, really. Each bag has a tag. When the tag’s attached, its number is logged in. When the bag is disposed of once and for all, the tag gets matched to the log, and everybody’s happy. It’s kind of like handling luggage at an airport.”
“Does the tagging include the contents?” Joe asked. “I mean, can you match the contents to who it belonged to?”
“The actual patient?” Neelor came back. “No. It’s more the level of waste than who produced it. Chances are, the same patient’s stuff is in the same bag, but it could be mixed in with someone else’s who was treated in the same way at the same time. Why would that matter?”
Joe honestly didn’t know. “No idea,” he answered. “I’m just asking. Was there anything else about all this that stood out?”
“Besides why it would happen in the first place? Nope. In fact, that’s what had us going—we couldn’t see the sense in it. You want to build a dirty bomb, for example, this isn’t a bad place to come to. We have some real hot stuff here. But it’s wrapped in lead, weighs a ton, and is harder than hell to move, even without security, which—not to brag—is pretty good.”
“I’m sure it is,” Joe said appeasingly, not that Neelor seemed to care. “Was there anything else—maybe not connected to the bag—that occurred around the same time?”
Neelor frowned. “Probably is connected, not that anything can be made of it, but one of the nurses got into a jam over her key. It was found dangling from the door lock where she left it. We’re assuming that’s how the bag grew feet—somebody took advantage of finding the key sticking out of the lock. She had no idea she’d left the damn thing behind—kind of thing that can happen to anyone.”
“This is the same door where the bag was locked?” Joe asked, intrigued.
“Yeah, there is only one, at least for the low-level stuff. The fry-your-nuts waste is kept elsewhere.”
“Is that nurse around today?” he asked.
Neelor reared back in his chair and checked one of the charts on his wall. “She should be,” he said, and gave Joe directions on how to find her.
Ten minutes later, Joe was introducing himself to Ann Coleman, who instantly struck him as the no-nonsense type of professional he most liked to deal with.
He told her why he was there.
She groaned and shook her head. “I caught hell for that,” she admitted. “Sad part is, I have no idea how it happened. I don’t do things like that. I’m a supervisor, for crying out loud. It’s my job to make sure other people don’t screw up in just those ways.”
“So you have no memory of leaving the key behind?” Joe asked.
“I have no memory of using it at all,” she said. “Disposing of trash is not one of the things I do anymore, unless there’s a shortage of people, and there hasn’t been in ages.”
They were chatting at the nurses’ station on one of the hospital’s lower levels. It was quiet and largely empty. Joe swept his hand around vaguely. “Where do you keep it?”
She patted her pocket. “Here, now. I used to keep it in that drawer.” She pointed to a section of the semicircular counter.
Joe crossed over and pulled at the drawer. It slid open without a sound, revealing a typical rabble of paper clips, rubber bands, pens, and pencils.
“Unlocked?” he asked.
She sighed. “I know, I know. But give me a break. What’re the chances, right?”
Joe held up both hands. “No argument from me. But if you didn’t use it, and you’ve ruled out all your colleagues . . . I’m assuming you have, right?”
“Absolutely,” she said emphatically.
“Then,” he continued, “it had to be somebody else—somebody out of the blue. Do people loiter around here at all, so they can see what you’re doing and mark your habits?”
As he spoke, he saw her face transform with enlightenment. “Oh, shoot,” she said. “The goddamn pendant.”
He merely raised his eyebrows.
“We had a thyroid patient—a terminal. She had a pendant that got thrown away by mistake. Her son asked me what we could do about retrieving it, and I bent the rules and took him downstairs to the low-level waste room. Found