The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [57]
Dockerty nodded the pathologist back to his row, whispering another “Thank you” at the same time. He searched the hall for a moment and was facing away from David when he said, “Dr. Shelton?”
Howard Kim reached up a massive paw and patted David on the back as he inched sideways past the giant and into the aisle. David had known for a day about the abnormal blood tests, had even heard the wildfire rumor around the wards that some kind of police investigation was under way. Although Dr. Armstrong had not told him that he would be asked to make a statement, he was not at all surprised to be called by the detective.
Dockerty smiled, shook his hand firmly, motioned him to the seat vacated by Hadawi, and then, seeming at times disinterested, led him minute by minute through the events that followed Charlotte Thomas’s cardiac arrest. Gradually David’s statements became free-flowing and animated. Dockerty’s style made it easy for him to talk. Soon he was sharing information with the disheveled lieutenant in the relaxed manner of two friends in an alehouse. Then, without changing the pace or tone of their conversation, Dockerty said, “Tell me, Dr. Shelton. I understand that shortly before Mrs. Thomas was found by you to be without pulse or respiration, you had a discussion about her and about seriously ill patients in general with Dr. Armstrong here and some of the nurses—namely, ah”—he consulted his notes—“nurses Edgerly, Gold, and Beall. Do you mind telling me what you had to say in that discussion?”
For five seconds, ten, fifteen, David was unable to speak. The question didn’t fit. It made no sense unless … His mind began spinning through the implications of Dockerty’s question to Hadawi as to which doctor had actually ordered the test that had disclosed the high morphine level. The indefinable sense of fear, so vague among his feelings that night on Four South, now thundered through him. His temples began to throb. His hands grew stiff and numb. Holy shit, he’s going after me! He’s going after me!
At that moment he realized that Dockerty’s eyes had changed from liquid to steel and were locked on him, probing, gauging, boring in. David knew it had already taken him too long—far too long—to react to the question. He inhaled deeply and fought the panic. Loosen up and stop reading so much into this, he thought. Just tell the man what he wants to know.
“Dr. Shelton, do you recall the incident I’m asking about?” The elaborate patience in Dockerty’s voice had a cutting edge.
Even before he answered, David sensed that his words would be stammered and clumsy. They were. Expressing his thoughts around “er’s” and “ah’s,” he said, “I simply told them … that a patient who is … in great pain with little hope of surviving his illness might … might be treated with some temperance. Especially if the therapy planned is … particularly painful or … dehumanizing … such as being put on a respirator.” He battled back the urge to say more, consciously avoiding the panicked talking that comes with trying to explain an explanation.
Dockerty ran his tongue slowly over his teeth. He bounced the eraser end of his pencil on the table. He scratched his head. “Dr. Shelton,” he said finally, “don’t you think that withholding treatment from a sick patient is a form of mercy killing? Of euthanasia?”
“No, I don’t think it’s a form of any kind of killing.” Molten drops of anger began to smolder beneath his fear. His voice grew strained. His words came too rapidly. “It is good, sensitive clinical judgment. It is what being a doctor is all about. For God’s sake, I’ve never advocated shutting off a respirator or giving anything lethal to a patient.”
“Never?” Dockerty delivered the spark softly.
David exploded. “Dammit, Lieutenant, I’ve had more than enough of your insinuations!” He was totally oblivious now to all the