Free The Big Bad City by Ed McBain

she ends up on her back. She really should be a DNR, but she refuses to sign the permission forms.”
    “What’s that?” Brown asked.
    “DNR? Do Not Resuscitate. Big sign at the foot of the bed, DNR. Essentially, it means let ’em die.”
    Carella was thinking he wouldn’t do this kind of work for five million dollars.
    “One of our patients has prostate cancer that metastasized to bone,” Hall said. “Another has
lung
cancer that metastasized to bone and brain. We’ve got a bilateral amputee on the ward, he’s incontinent of stool, his skin’s broken down, and he’s got a permanent trache tube in his throat.”
    Not for
ten
million dollars, Carella thought.
    “This isn’t a fun ward,” Hall said.
    Mind reader, Carella thought.
    “Mary began working for me six months ago.Transferred here from a hospice in San Diego, which is where her mother house is. I believe she spoke to the major superior there, who referred her to the director of ministry. I’m glad they sent her here, believe me. Quite often, as was the case with Mary, a woman religious can be more devoted than the most dedicated doctor.”
    Carella, quick study that he was, figured that “woman religious” was the politically correct term for nun. Somehow, he preferred nun. Same way he preferred cop to police officer.
    “We have a hundred and ten beds here at St. Margaret’s,” Hall said. “Four hundred people on the staff, including the Christ’s Mercy nuns. The other hospital run by the order is even smaller. The government’s cutting back on funds, you know, and some seventy percent of our patients are either welfare or Medicaid recipients. The sisters are just scraping by, but they’re really committed to serving the poor. Last year St. Margaret’s had close to twenty-five-hundred admissions. There were twelve hundred clinic visits every month, nine hundred emergency-room visits, four hundred outpatient surgeries. This is a poor neighborhood. We’re much needed here. I’ll miss Mary sorely, I can tell you that. She was a thorough professional, and a wonderful person.”
    “Know anyone who may have felt otherwise?” Carella asked.
    “Not a soul. I’ve worked with nuns for the past ten years now, and they’re as different one from the other as any other women. I’m sure some of them may, in fact, be
exactly
like the childish little creatures or strict disciplinarians we see portrayed on television, giggling as they carry in the sheaves or snarling as they crack a ruler over the knuckles of a schoolboy. But I’ve neverpersonally met a nun who fits the stereotype. For the most part, they are complex, intelligent women who share only one trait—their complete devotion to God. Mary considered her work here a divinely inspired gift. The nuns call it charism, you know, the work chosen for them by God. Mary’s work was particularly difficult. She labored for God tirelessly, dutifully, and cheerfully. I’d sometimes hear her …”
    His voice broke.
    “She’d … sometimes sing to the patients on the ward, she had a beautiful voice. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t feel enlightened and encouraged by her very presence. Everyone here will miss her.”
    “Were you working here last Friday, Doctor?” Carella asked.
    “Yes, I was.”
    “Did Mary seem her usual self?”
    “Yes, her same sweet self.” He considered this a moment, nodded, and said, “We worked on and off together all through the day. I saw no difference in her behavior.”
    “Nothing strange or …”
    “Nothing at all. She was her usual sweet self. I’m sorry to keep using that word. ‘Sweet’ can sometimes be misconstrued as insipid. But Mary had a manner that somehow soothed and at the same time cheered. A certain … sweetness, yes. In her smile, in her eyes. She seemed to be a completely realized human being, and as such she spread joy as if it were an infection. I’m sorry,” he said, and turned his face away for a moment. “I was very fond of her. We