Pieces of a Whole

by: Betsy J. Bennett

CHAPTER 6

The street, in downtown Detroit would never make it to any list of tourist traps. Tourists stayed as far away from east Detroit as they could, except for the brave, the foolish, the desperate, those who came looking for a drug buy. A dealer stood on the corner now, his business in less-than-pharmaceutical-grade poison brisk although it was shy of ten in the morning. People came too for a good time in the form of hookers who staked out the corners, worn, used women past their prime, and well past any trace of hope. Their hours started a bit later in the day.

Litter filled the street, empty bottles, used syringes, flotsam and jetsam of life passing by unpleasantly. Most of the buildings were boarded up, although the clinic on the corner was doing a brisk business. 1967 in most of the country was a time of flower power, of rock and roll, of protests against The Man, whoever or whatever that was, but here there was only a miserable existence of eking out life day-by-day.

The waiting room was crowded: the very young, infants held in their mother’s arms, to the very old, forgotten people with gnarled fingers, and cataract-filled eyes, and every age in between.           There were about twenty chairs, each probably older than the oldest person one there, held on by prayers, or because they leaned on their neighbors for support. But oddly as he stepped through the door, he did not feel despair, for despair was a communicable emotion, that once started could be easily shared. Over the years, Richard Kimble had been very familiar with despair.

“I’d like to see the doctor,” Kimble said to the small force of nature guarding the reception desk.

“Have ya’ll been here before?” she asked. She was clearly doing three or four other things simultaneously. She shoved a patient information form toward him, that he took only out of a reaction he couldn’t have prevented.

“No. I’m not sick. I promised Sister Veronica that I would come, tell the doctor that she passed away.”

“Sister Veronica died?”

“Two days ago. She was buried this morning. She wanted to thank the people here for her care.”

The doctor appeared, a woman, about five-eight, still talking to the patient she had beside her.

“Livi, Sister Veronica passed away.”

“Thank you for telling me. She lived almost three times longer than the six months she had been promised. She will be missed here.”

He shuffled his feet, looked at his shoes. “Doctor, before you go, there’s a sign in the window that you’re looking for a janitor.”

“You’re a janitor?” she asked.

“I could be.”

“Do you have any experience?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“What’s your name?”

He stuttered, tried to come up with the answer as he had promised his sister he would.

“Come now, that should be an easy question. What’s your name?”

“Richard Kimble.”

She tightened her eyes, analyzing him. “Down on your luck, Mr. Kimble?”

“Yes.”

“Spend time in prison?”

“Yes. A couple years. Does that mean you don’t need me?”

“Oh, I need you alright. But I’ll be watching you. When a man loses his good name, he often feels he can take things.”

“I haven’t lost my good name. I’m trying to get it back.”

“Good. I’ll get Maggi to show you around. Dora Ann, send the next one back. “I look forward to getting to know you, Mr. Kimble.”

 

Richard Kimble thrust his mop into the recently refilled bucket, swirled it around, then using the wringer, got most of the water out and started swabbing under the rows of chairs in the clinic’s waiting room. The only time he could manage was before the clinic opened, he discovered yesterday, which had been his first day on the job. The chief doctor, the only doctor as far as he could tell, had been glad to hire him. People came by the hundreds to be treated, based on the crowd in the waiting room, but the advertisement for help had gone unanswered until he chanced to see it.

“The floor looks great,” Dr. Olivetti said. Her heather green eyes were shadowed, with exhaustion etched deeply. That she worked seventy or more hours a week he had no doubt, based only on watching her the day before. Her shoulder length blond hair was pulled back in a makeshift pony tail, and had been clean yesterday. Today, like her eyes and the hunch of her shoulders, he could say even her hair looked tired. “In case you’re wondering, I don’t think it’s been mopped once since I’ve been here, and that’s been a while.”

He studied the floor, avoiding her glance and if he smiled it was fleeting. “That I believe.” Both that it hadn’t been mopped and that she had been here a while.

“And I did tell you your shift started at nine.”

The room smelled artificially of pine trees, the result of the cleaning liquid, and a far better smell than old cigarette smoke and rancid pain that had seeped into the floors and ceiling. The linoleum was a peach color with flecks of gold, something he would not have suspected before he started mopping, and probably had been laid down sometime immediately after the Second World War. “Then the floor wouldn’t have been mopped.”

“I’m sure that’s true. Oh, and I wanted to thank you for cleaning the medicine room yesterday. I know it’s not a janitor’s job, but I needed it done and you did a fabulous job. I see patients. I really don’t have time for anything else, but that, what you did in my meds room will make my life easier.”

Without looking at her, Richard started mopping under the chairs. He had swept before he started mopping, pulled up enough dirt and trash that he almost felt he needed to empty the garbage again. “It was no trouble. Part of the job.” Surprisingly, he had enjoyed organizing her meds area. He had thought to go in, only to dust, to wash the floors, but she had drugs placed hap-hazzardly, and many still in their original shipping packaging, as if she opened them only to be sure they were not the specific drug she was searching for, then setting them aside. None had been expired, a fact that he found remarkable. It was a fairly well stocked medical closet, but several glaring omissions, that he doubted anyone but another trained physician would notice.
“It’s been on my to-do list for years. After every drug delivery I get I swear to myself that I will organize it, then I get busy. How did you know how to do that?”

“Do what?” He swished the mop in the water which now matched the matt gray which he had thought was the original floor color.

“Organize the drugs that way. It was perfect.”

He tried to shrug but the twinge in his shoulder was acting up again. He found it funny that now that he was no longer a fugitive he had time to experience the aches and pains from the life he had led, as if while on the run he had no time or inclination to notice. He put the mop in the ringer, and pulled the lever, letting the water drain. “It seemed logical, Doctor.”

She was probably his age, he guessed, and she would have been be stunningly beautiful, based only on her bone structure, and what trace glances he could get at her body from the shroud of a lab coat she wore, if she had done nothing with her life but live a country club life, going to brunch with girlfriends and playing tennis or golf, chairing society causes. Instead there were the start of lines etched in her forehead and around her eyes, marks indicating her dedication, her passion, and he felt her all the more beautiful because of them.

“Still, thanks. I can go in there now looking for something with a hope of finding it.”

Richard nodded his acceptance, then went into the back again to change the filthy water for fresh and when he came back she had opened the door, and patients were already filing in alone or in twos and threes, filling the waiting room, taking from her vitality so they could leave more marks etched on her face.

With the lobby filling, Richard saw no sense working any more on the waiting room floor. There were other places where the work had been piling up. A few minutes later the receptionist appeared, started taking names, finding files, insurance information. This was a free clinic, but occasionally, if rarely, there was someone with insurance.

“Richard,” the receptionist said, stopping him. Dora Ann was a small Southern woman, her background obvious every time she opened her mouth to speak. She couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but he’d watched her go toe to toe with a rancid drug addict yesterday and the hoodlum had backed off. Richard, who had been watching to see if he needed to intervene could easily see that she had the situation handled.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

Dora Ann could have been forty or she could have been sixty-five. He had no idea, for like Maggi, the nurse, her hair was gray and her hands were starting to deform from rheumatism.

“If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

He straightened his back, met her gaze directly. If he also checked for all the building’s exits, he felt he couldn’t prevent the reaction. “Read the papers. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

She tapped her pen on the desk blotter. He’d seen a man trying to tame a Bengal tiger with less threat. “I read the papers. I know that. But this doctor you’ve got your eye on is the only reason this community still exists.”

“I don’t have my eye on anyone and I’m not planning on staying any longer than I’m welcome. She needs help. Do you deny it?”

“No. But don’t get her hopes up if you are going to run out on her.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve only been here one day.”

“Then get back to work.”

“I will.” He turned away, but shifted back before he took a step. “I’m glad to know Dr. Olivetti has such a staunch defender.”

The morning passed quickly. Richard spent most of the time cleaning down the exam rooms, emptying the garbage, scrubbing the toilet, wiping down the counters. It was after noon when the knife-fight victims arrived, carried in by their friends, tall, hardened men wearing leather motorcycle jackets and visible gang tattoos.

“Livi,” the receptionist yelled.

The doctor arrived immediately, Richard showed up on her heels. She triaged the three copiously bleeding victims. “We’re not set up for this,” she told the man who appeared to be the gang leader. “All three of these men need a fully equipped emergency room. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No ER. No ambulance.”

“Then they die.”

“You save them,” oddly enough there wasn’t menace in his tone, but hardened respect.

“You have to understand they need surgery and equipment that I don’t have.”

“Do what you can.”

“I’ll do what I can. I can’t make any promises.”

“This one into treatment room 1. This one isn’t too bad. He can wait. This one take to 2. Richard, I want you to keep pressure on this vein. Do you see it?”

“Yes.”

He knew what she had done. Triage, making snap medical judgments as to who she could save, and in what order. It was one of the hardest aspects of being a physician, this right to save a life or let a man die, based only on a ten second analysis. She disappeared, taking one end of the stretcher with the battle-axe of a nurse on the other end, a steel haired woman called Maggi. She was back a moment later with a syringe, and injected the patient he watched and had moved into the second exam room. “Morphine,” she said, explaining the drug she used. “It will control the pain.”

Richard studied his patient. The man, little more than a boy, was unconscious, and judging by the depth and the length of the wounds and the condition of his clothing, had lost a lot of blood. With the door shut, he got to work, pulling out a needle and suturing thread, antiseptics, and bandages.

He didn’t hear Dr. Olivetti come in until he heard her accusation. “What is going on here?”

He straightened his shoulders, continued soaping his hands as if the soap he was using had suddenly become fascinating. This time he wouldn’t run. He would take full responsibility for his actions. “That should be fairly obvious.”

“You did this suturing and started the IV?”

Richard reached for a paper towel, started drying his hands. He had been washing blood off when she walked in. There was blood pooled on the floor and on his shoes. The patient slept, covered only with a sheet, his clothing in a heap in the corner.

He tossed the damp paper into a waste receptacle he had emptied himself a few hours before and held his hands out, an “I’m unarmed,” gesture he had perfected over the past four years. “He would have died.”

“Yes. I took the two I knew I could save.” Professionally, she took the patient’s pulse, studied the lines of stitches. “He’s stable?”

He shrugged, felt more than a tinge of pain, this one was a stab: the arthritis in his shoulder, the result of a bullet wound, was acting up. “At the moment. He’s lost a lot of blood. If you’ve got any O neg. that I don’t know about, now’s the time to hang a bottle.”

“I have a call into the Red Cross. There should be delivering some blood here soon. I’ll make sure your guy gets priority.” She positioned a blood pressure cuff, shoved the ends of her stethoscope into her ears.

He didn’t speak again until she finished taking the blood pressure and told him the numbers.

“That’s what I thought. His pulse is strong and steady. His blood pressure started bottoming out about thirty minutes ago, at least I suspect it did. I didn’t have a cuff or a stethoscope, nor for that matter a free moment to take it, but his skin got clammy and his color got bad. He looks better now.”

“He’s going to make it?” Her question was asked more to gage his response than looking for a medical prognosis.

“I hope so.”

“Good. I’ve got a waiting room full that I can’t ignore any longer. You and I need to talk, then I need you out of here.”

“Fair enough. I wouldn’t move him for a while, but after you get finished reading me the riot act, I will mop the floor in here and then I’m gone. I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

“You’re a surgeon and you’re mopping floors. No, don’t tell me now. I’ll get your story later and pay you for the work you’ve done. But you’re not to leave this building until I speak with you.”

He studied the bloodied clothing in the corner and offered her a resigned nod. “Understood.”

Several hours later Dr. Olivetti hunted him down. Richard had tried sitting patiently waiting for her, but when several people had come in to check on his patient, he could see they had been waiting for the doctor, so he helped out where he could.

“Well, with the exception of one lingering woman that Dora Ann is going to shift out the door, the last patient is gone, and the front doors are locked. I’ve finally got time to deal with you.”

What surprised her was that he had stayed put where she ordered him, and more than that, that he had mopped the bloody exam rooms, making them spotless. A man with his skills. “Alright, I’ve got five minutes to deal with you. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d stay.”

The thought about shrugging, then decided not to risk the action.  “I’m through running.”

“One thing I insist on, is that you look me in the face. You don’t like to meet anyone’s gaze, do you?”

Slowly, awkwardly, he raised his head, looked at her. “It’s one of the first things I learned.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you’re running from the police. Don’t look at anyone. Keep your head averted. It makes it harder for them to recognize you.”

“A lot of people been recognizing you, Doctor?”

“I’m not a doctor, not any more. I’ll give you the story, but could you do something for me first?” At her leery glace, he handed her a prescription pad. “Could you sign this for me?”

She grabbed the pad from his hands. “You need penicillin?”

“Yes. Syphilis.”

She ran her hands through her hair, the tieback lost somewhere during the day. “This keeps getting better and better.”

Richard’s smile was fleeting. “Not for me. For the woman waiting in the lobby. I would imagine she’s got a couple of friends who could use the same treatment, probably twice that, if you add the johns into the equation. You’ll probably be seeing them tomorrow. If you doubt my diagnosis, I’m sure you could perform the exam yourself.”

“No. I believe you. Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

True to her word, she was back in a few minutes, with a tall glass of tap water. And as indicative of her observational skills as a doctor, brought him one too, smiled, sincerely smiled when she met his eyes.

“Do I need to call the police?”

“No.”

“No outstanding warrants?”

“No.”

“Can I believe that?”

“Check if you want. My name is cleared.”

“When you can remember it.”

He shrugged, winced, looked away toward his patient who slept.

“I want you to know I checked the narcotics cabinet, that hasn’t been touched.”

“I’m not here after your drugs. And I don’t know what dose you gave him,” Kimble said, indicating the sleeping knife-wound victim, “but he’s not in distress, and I suspect he’s not due for another injection yet.”

“With skill like that,” she said with a twist of her head toward the patient, “you have to be after something.”

“Quiet,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And a chance to work, even if it’s mopping floors.”

“Take your shirt off.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“The shirt. Now! In my clinic I’m not used to being disobeyed. I can see how much that shoulder is hurting you. You haven’t been able to sit still.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve done that much intricate work. I spent a few hours cramped over the patient.” He unknotted his tie, pulled it out from his collar, then started unbuttoning the shirt, then took it off.

She approached him professionally, noted the scars at his shoulder and the rest of his chest. “This is a bullet wound.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fairly clear this wasn’t healed in a hospital.”

“Well, if it makes any difference, the bullet was removed in a hospital, but I didn’t stick around for follow up care.”

“And tore out the stitches? What are you an idiot? You should know better.”

“I was running for my life. The scar was a cheap enough price to pay.”

“It got infected?” She rotated his arm, testing range of motion, noting the muscles, the way his face reacted when she touched a painful spot. Then she started a massage to ease the knots.

“For a while. I probably shouldn’t have swum through a particularly nasty pond.”

“Thus the infection.”

“It doesn’t bother me now. Except for the arthritis, it’s better.”

“And this,” she said, pointing to his side, “A stab wound?”

“Yes. It was nasty for a while, but you’ll be pleased to know that one didn’t get infected.”

“Always good to know. Anything else?”

“Couple other bullet wounds, and no, I’m not removing my slacks. Scars don’t bother me.”

“Well, good for you. What are you taking for the arthritis?”

“Nothing. Pain doesn’t particularly bother me either. I’ve sort of learned to live with it.”

“Tylenol, and I’ll write you up a regimen of exercises. Will you follow them?”

“If I can.”

“You will. If the Tylenol doesn’t work, we’ll find you some muscle relaxants that do.” She took his pulse, then his blood pressure. “Pulse is high.”

“Usually is when I’m being questioned.”

“You don’t like being questioned?”

He tried to keep his tone light, his face non-expressionless. “It’s my experience it never ends well.”

“I’ll note that in your chart. What are you doing for the blood pressure?”

“Whatever I can.”

“And what does that involve?”

“Staying out of handcuffs and patrol cars. Avoiding road blocks.”

“All good advice I’m sure. I’m not making a diagnosis based on one reading, but I’m going to be watching your blood pressure.”

“You are?”

“You can put your shirt back on.” She turned, washed her hands in the sink, then sat on the stool, facing him. “So how many other patients did you treat while I was busy? Don’t say none, for that waiting room was full, and I know I didn’t get to all of them.”

He shrugged again, tried shifting the shoulder. Already it was less cramped than it had been a few minutes before. “A couple.”

“How many is a couple? And you can count this guy and the woman with the communicable disease.”

“Six. They sought me out, and to a person, they all think you walk on water.”

She dropped six patient files down. “We’re not here to talk about me.” She notched her head toward Bobby, still unconscious. “That’s good work. You’ve had some serious training.”

Richard buttoned up his shirt, refusing to look at her or the man whose life he had undoubtedly saved. “A long time ago.”

“Military?”

“Yes, an even longer time ago. I flew to Korea at taxpayer expense, but by the time I got there, it was pretty much over, so I was allowed the next transport going home.”

“This is more than a medic or corpsman’s work.”

“The patients I saw, I promise you, I didn’t do any harm.”

“If I didn’t believe that, I’d have you in the back of a police cruiser already, regardless of what it will do to your blood pressure.” At his jerk that she witnessed, and was expecting, she continued, “and you’re not much for the police, are you?”

“No, left to my own devices, I avoid the police whenever I can.” He ached for a bus out of town. Head hanging, he turned toward the door. “I’ll go.”

“Not until I get an explanation. You will stay here until I’m satisfied, are we clear?”

“If you insist.”

“I do. You’re a surgeon. Do you deny that?”

“You need to work on your verb tenses. And I was a doctor, not a surgeon. I could have stood there, pinching off his bleeder like you asked and he would have died.”

“I’m not denying he would have died, and it’s because he’s stable we’re having this conversation. I’d like to help you if I can.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Looks to me like you do. You lost your license,” she said. No need to make it a question. She had changed her bloody white lab coat for a clean one, but like him, there was still blood on her shoes.

“Yes.”

She sat on the stool, met his eyes directly. Dr. Olivetti probably could give Gerard interrogation tips. “Someone die on your operating table?”

“No. Someone died, but it wasn’t malpractice and it wasn’t on an operating table.”

“Mercy killing? Angel of death?”

“No.” He was desperate for a cigarette, hoped that was why his hands shook, so he kept them fisted in his pants pockets.

“I saw how you reacted when the police stopped by yesterday. I didn’t say anything because who am I to judge, but you were definitely jumpy. You did say you’d spent a couple years in prison, but I get the feeling that wasn’t the end of the story.”

He shrugged, didn’t say anything, considered looking at the far corner, but instead raised his head and looked at her.

“And you’re jumpy now.”

“Hard habit to break.”

“I bet. How many active warrants?”

“I said none, and that’s the truth. I’m not wanted anywhere.”

“I think if that were the case, you’d be less flighty around the police.”

“I’ve had some run-ins with the police that didn’t go well. My name is clear now.”

“When you can remember what it is,” she repeated with just enough sarcasm to make him wince.

“I didn’t run yesterday when the police came in. You should have noticed that. I don’t have anything I need to run from any longer and they’re not interested in me. It’s going to take a while before I can tamp down my reaction though.”

She took a long drink of water. Say anything bad about Detroit you wanted, and most of it was true, but the tap water was excellent, but then it should be. Two-fifths of the world’s fresh water was in the Great Lakes. He’d been watching her. This was the first time she’d stopped since seven that morning, if conducting this interrogation could be considered stopping. “Then your picture isn’t gracing every post office in the country?”

“It was, for a couple of years. I was on the run. I’m not wanted any longer.”

“So, who died?”

“My wife.”

“God help me. If they close my clinic because of you—“

“They won’t. I’m leaving.” He stood, tried to get past her, but she stopped him with just a look. Almost as an apology, Richard muttered, “I’m used to it.”

With a sharply pointed finger she ordered him to stay put, and returned seconds later with two apples. She tossed him one. “There’s a crate of these in the back. My patients on the whole can’t pay, but they help out where they can. So what’s the story?”

Link to Chapter 7