Free Silent Fear, a Medical Mystery by Barbara Ebel

one of the OR nurses. I haven’t seen her most of the week. It may have been Monday or last week when I had cases with her.”
    On the table, Bill’s pager vibrated, causing it to slightly scurry along as Danny and Bill watched. “Let me get this,” Bill said, pushing away from the table.
    Danny reheated his coffee in the microwave while Bill answered his page. When he made it back to the table, Bill patted him on the shoulder. “Guess I’ll go downstairs to the ER first. The doc says it’s a hospital scrub nurse they just intubated and put on a ventilator. His mother found him unresponsive after he ran a fever all night. I’ll call you later.”
    As Bill turned, Danny hurriedly asked, “What’s his name?”
    “James something.”
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    The patient on the operating room table was turned prone. Danny had good exposure into the man’s back to work around the lumbar nerve roots and musculature. Considering every surgery Danny had seen through residency or knew about, back surgery most reminded him of butcher’s work - like splayed cattle meat on a table, red and raw. Things weren’t going so well, either. The man had a platelet disorder which made him bleed more profusely.
    Getting good visualization of his landmarks became increasingly difficult. At least he had Dean in the room, who had more of a challenge with the patient’s hematologic disorder than giving him anesthesia. Dean asked for two bags of platelets from the blood bank while he infused more IV fluids to compensate for the blood loss. Danny slowed down his pace so that the platelets could arrive and be transfused. They had to make headway in stopping the oozing.
    Danny kept the suction tip in the open gap while waiting. Slow, steady blood was sucked into the canister. He watched Dean, who stood so tall that the IV height was easily in reach.
    “I’ve never worked with you on a back before,” Dean said, glancing at Danny.
    “I do them, but rarely. The head cases pile up for me, so I do backs less and less. Actually, this is Harold’s patient.”
    “What’s going on with Harold? You were going to see him in the ER the other day.”
    “He’s in a coma,” Danny said, concern buttering his words.
    Under his mask, Dean’s expression registered alarm. His eyes widened. “No way.”
    Danny moved the tip away from the patient’s back for a moment. “Dr. Patogue is taking care of him. We’re getting an MRI of his head today.”
    “I hope that turns out okay. Last night I talked to Dr. Talbot. She’s headachy, crampy and not eating well, and sounded lethargic. She did see a doctor the other day. Despite a z-pack and aspirin for a fever, she’s not shaking it. I told her she needs to get in here today if she’s not getting better. Have one of our hospital staff or the ER take a look at her.”
    “She’s a tiny, healthy thing, and young. I can’t imagine her being ill.” Danny furrowed his brow. “Actually, Dr. Patogue said earlier that two of our OR staff are going to be seen soon, too.”
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    As Casey stood under the hospital overhang outside the ER, he waved to Mark to back the ambulance further in so the back doors would stay dry when opened. Their three-to-eleven shift had started with a thunderstorm. Mark got out and darted to the curb next to Casey.
    They opened the rear end and climbed in to run through their check list of supplies, oxygen, and housekeeping. Casey smiled his appreciation for the spotless, equipped vehicle. He took pride in their roving work place, and even cleaned and disinfected the small rubber floor mat practically next to the bumper.
    “Lousy Saturday we have,” Mark commented.
    Casey counted the IV fluid bags on one of the shelves. “I don’t mind it. Thunderstorms are smart precipitation. They take care of themselves.”
    Mark registered a quizzical expression as he opened new emesis basins.
    “You don’t have to scrape it off the driveway.” Casey said, and then jotted down his inventory