CHAPTER 2
Dr. Lippert, please report to the laboratory. Dr. Lippert, please report to the laboratory,” yelled the hospital
loudspeaker. The physician, who was about to wrap up his forty-eight-hour shift, snorted as the call echoed through the
hallway. Exhausted, he rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. Before he could allow himself a good night’s sleep, he needed to
finish one final operation report. And now this. Gnashing his teeth, he slipped the ballpoint pen back into the breast
pocket of his hospital lab coat and made his way to the basement.
“Hey, Frank, you called?” he said as he entered Dr. Frank Tillman’s laboratory. The automatic sliding door closed
behind him—something that made him feel a little claustrophobic. He always hated coming down here. But the concerned
look on Tillman’s face—clearly noticeable despite the hairnet and mouth guard—demanded his full attention.
“Right. Thanks for coming right away.”
Tillman pointed to a cardboard box beside the sink and prompted Lippert to put on a mouth guard himself.
Rubbing sanitizer into his hands, Lippert stepped over to his colleague’s side and peered at the test tubes and petri
dishes Frank was working on.
“So. What is it?”
“No idea. That’s just it. I was hoping to get your opinion.”
And with that, Frank thrust a printout with test results into Lippert’s hands and pushed the test tube rack and one of
the petri dishes over to him.
With just one look at the numbers on the printout, Lippert frowned.
“Did you double-check these?” he asked, lifting the rack and holding it up to the fluorescent lights overhead. He
pulled out one of the narrow test tubes and shook it to stir up the dark, flaky deposit.
“Twice even. Whatis that stuff?” Tillman asked.
“No idea. Never seen it before. Is it possible that the blood sample got contaminated?” Lippert offered.
“With what, though? What would cause such changes to a cell?”
“Hmm. I don’t know.”
Lippert, who didn’t feel like adding extra overtime to his already long and arduous shift, looked at his watch. He then
closed the patient file, glanced at the name, and made a suggestion. “Listen, you check these numbers one last time. If
the results are confirmed, I’ll call the patient back in, just in case. If the numbers are right—which I think is
impossible—I’d be surprised he hasn’t come back in himself.”
Tillman nodded and walked over to the refrigerator where the blood samples were stored. “If the numbers are right, then
he’s beyond help anyway,” he quipped.
“Probably, but I still can’t think of an explanation. If I recall correctly, he was in perfect shape when he was
discharged two weeks ago.”
“Is it possible that he got an infection from the stab wound that you guys treated?”
Lippert was already washing and disinfecting his hands. He was off duty now and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Let Frank check the numbers once more. In his own expert opinion—and after all, he was an experienced physician—the
problem had to do with the laboratory and not the patient himself.
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. Such damage to cells caused by an infection…is unlikely. Look, I have to go. Send the
results up to my office when you have them. Then we’ll talk again.”
With a quick good-bye, Lippert left the lab, first for his op report and then for the well-deserved end of his shift.
By the time he sped away in his Camaro an hour later, his tired mind had banned any thoughts about patient McLean’s
strange blood work.