Page 127 of Dead Med

Not that DeWitt Hospital is so bad. The medical school is one of the best, especially now that it’s no longer known as DeadMed. Everyone knows the story about that old nickname, though—it’s huge gossip in our school.

So apparently, DeWitt used to have a bad drug problem. Several students overdosed, but they still couldn’t manage to crack down on it. Also, the former anatomy professor was this real player, a total Casanova, who frequently used to have affairs with his students. He was having an affair with this girl in the class, and another student found out about it and tried to blackmail him. The whole thing went horribly wrong, and that student ended up murdering the professor and some other staff member. And that anatomy professor was the one distributing the drugs, so after he died, the students got clean.

The student who killed the professor was sentenced to life in prison—first-degree murder charges, I guess. They thought part of the reason he did it was because he’d been abusing drugs, and it was all tracked back to some clinic off campus that was handing them out like candy. It goes without saying that the doctor who worked there lost his license and went to jail too.

Of course, all of these are rumors passed down over seven years. Who knows how much of it is true?

I was always curious what happened to the girl who had the affair with the professor, and that’s never been clear, aside from the fact that she transferred to a different school. My friend Meg, who is usually right about this kind of stuff, says she quit med school entirely. I’ve heard people say she went on to become a yoga instructor, a kindergarten teacher, a ballet dancer, or just that she married rich and doesn’t have to work.

Now that I think of it, Dr. Zaleski was probably at DeWitt back then. Maybe she knew that student and could tell me what happened to her. But Dr. Zaleski frowns on personal conversations during work hours.

I call the operator and discover that the surgery resident on call for consults is Dr. Abe Kaufman. It’s the only good news I’vegotten all night. Of all the surgery residents, Abe is the nicest. Hell, he’s theonlynice one. You call Abe, he comes down right away and doesn’t quiz me on a million tests I ordered wrong somehow.

Sure enough, Abe rushes right down after I explain the situation to him. I spot his red hair and his large frame lumbering down the hallway, and I wave. He waves back enthusiastically.

“Appy?” he asks me.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “It’s a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Right lower quadrant pain, fever, elevated white count.”

Abe takes the chart from me and skims the first page. “Huh,” he says as his finger lingers on the name Dr. McKinley. “My wife is her primary care doctor.”

He strides into the room, a smile stretched across his face. “Ms. Durand!” he greets the young woman, who looks intensely uncomfortable. “How are you doing?”

“Terrible,” Elsie Durand groans. “The pain is… It’s so bad.”

Abe lays his right hand gingerly on her abdomen. It always surprises me that a big guy could be so gentle.

“What did the CT show, Kiera?” he asks me.

“I, um…” I bite my lip, bracing myself. “They haven’t done it yet.”

“Ultrasound?” he asks.

I shake my head again.

The last time that happened, the surgeon screamed at me for ten straight minutes. But Abe just shrugs.

“Well, it’s a clinical diagnosis,” he says.

“Can I have something more for the pain?” Elsie Durand pleads with him.

He shakes his head abruptly. “No. No pain meds. You’re going straight to the OR.”

I nod in agreement, relieved.

“By the way,” Abe says with a wink, “how’s Sasha treating you?”

I don’t even know who he’s talking about at first. “Do you mean Dr. Zaleski?”

“Oh, Christ.” Abe laughs. “I think that answers my question.”

I glance around nervously. “She’s, um, fine.”

“I’m sure.” Abe rolls his eyes. “Well, if you ever need someone to straighten her out, give me a call.” He cracks his knuckles and adds, “It would be my pleasure.”

He’s joking. I’m almost positive.

I find Dr. Zaleski back at her computer station, writing up a patient encounter. The moment she hears my footsteps, she whips her head around to look at me accusingly.