“Then you’d better get one on the phone. Fast. Because, Doctor, you’re damn well going to need one.”
“Not necessarily. This is nothing but a big misunderstanding, Mr. Ransom. If you’ll just listen to the facts, I’m sure—”
“Hold on.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cassette recorder.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
He turned on the recorder and slid it in front of her. “I wouldn’t want to miss some vital detail. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.”
Furious, she reached over and flicked the Off button. “This isn’t a deposition! Put the damn thing away!”
For a few tense seconds they sized each other up. She felt a distinct sense of triumph when he put the recorder back in his briefcase.
“Now, where were we?” he asked with extravagant politeness. “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what really happened.” He settled back, obviously expecting some grand entertainment.
She hesitated. Now that she finally had his full attention, she didn’t know quite how to start.
“I’m a very…careful person, Mr. Ransom,” she said at last. “I take my time with things. I may not be brilliant, but I’m thorough. And I don’t make stupid mistakes.”
His raised eyebrow told her exactly what he thought of that statement. She ignored his look and went on.
“The night Ellen O’Brien came into the hospital, Guy Santini admitted her. But I wrote the anesthesia orders. I checked the lab results. And I read her EKG. It was a Sunday night and the technician was busy somewhere so I even ran the strip myself. I wasn’t rushed. I took all the time I needed. In fact, more than I needed, because Ellen was a member of our staff. She was one of us. She was also a friend. I remember sitting in her room, going over her lab tests. She wanted to know if everything was normal.”
“And you told her everything was.”
“Yes. Including the EKG.”
“Then you obviously made a mistake.”
“I just told you, Mr. Ransom. I don’t make stupid mistakes. And I didn’t make one that night.”
“But the record shows—”
“The record’s wrong.”
“I have the tracing right here in black and white. And it plainly shows a heart attack.”
“That’s not the EKG I saw!”
He looked as if he hadn’t heard her quite right.
“The EKG I saw that night was normal,” she insisted.
“Then how did this abnormal one pop into the chart?”
“Someone put it there, of course.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see.” Turning away, he said under his breath: “I can’t wait to see how this plays in court.”
“Mr. Ransom, if I made a mistake, I’d be the first to admit it!”
“Then you’d be amazingly honest.”
“Do you really think I’d make up a story as—as stupid as this?”
His response was an immediate burst of laughter that left her cheeks burning. “No,” he answered. “I’m sure you’d come up with something much more believable.” He gave her an inviting nod. In a voice thick with sarcasm, he jeered, “Please, I’m dying to know how this extraordinary mix-up happened. How did the wrong EKG get in the chart?”
“How should I know?”
“You must have a theory.”
“I don’t.”
“Come on, Doctor, don’t disappoint me.”
“I said I don’t.”
“Then make a guess!”
“Maybe someone beamed it there from the Starship Enterprise!” she yelled in frustration.
“Nice theory,” he said, deadpan. “But let’s get back to reality. Which, in this case, happens to be a particular sheet of wood by-product, otherwise known as paper.” He flipped the chart open to the damning EKG. “Explain that away.”
“I told you, I can’t! I’ve gone crazy trying to figure it out! We do dozens of EKGs every day at Mid Pac. It could have been a clerical error. A mislabeled tracing. Somehow, that page was filed in the wrong chart.”
“But you’ve written your initials on this page.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Is there some other K.C., M.D.?”
“Those are my initials. But I didn’t write them.”
“What are you saying? That this is a forgery?”
“It—it has to be. I mean, yes, I guess it is….” Suddenly confused, she shoved back a rebellious strand of hair off her face. His utterly calm expression rattled her. Why didn’t the man react, for God’s sake? Why did he just sit there, regarding her with that infuriatingly bland expression?
“Well,” he said at last.
“Well what?”
“How long have you had this little problem with people forging your name?”
“Don’t make me sound paranoid!”
“I don’t have to. You’re doing fine on your own.”
Now he was silently laughing at her; she could see it in his eyes. The worst part was that she couldn’t blame him. Her story did sound like a lunatic’s ravings.
“All right,” he relented. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re telling the truth.”
“Yes!” she snapped. “Please do!”
“I can think of only two explanations for why the EKG would be intentionally switched. Either someone’s trying to destroy your career—”
“That’s absurd. I don’t have any enemies.”
“Or someone’s trying to cover up a murder.”
At her stunned expression, he gave her a maddeningly superior smile. “Since the second explanation obviously strikes both of us as equally absurd, I have no choice but to conclude you’re lying.” He leaned forward and his voice was suddenly soft, almost intimate.
