It seemed like months since Georgia had worked on the Covid case, but it was less than a week. She needed to catch up with LeJeune and find out the test results on the vials he’d sent to Quantico. She called and left a message.
Meanwhile, she decided to explore the “chain of custody” angle she’d been mulling over. The distribution of vaccine vials from Jefferson Medical to its customers was well coordinated through FedEx and UPS. Contamination could happen, but the chance that it was deliberate, while not impossible, was pretty small. But that didn’t include third parties who took the vaccine from a central location to end-user facilities like the church in Northglen. Who was responsible for that, and what were the safety procedures? Everyone knew the vaccine had to be frozen, but what other requirements were there? Did a master list of third-party distributors exist? If Jefferson Medical’s procedures were as stringent as Hofstader claimed, wouldn’t the hospital they shipped to be equally careful when they distributed the vaccines to other places?
Her first step was to find out where hospital deliveries came in and try to ingratiate herself with whoever was in charge. There must be a central location somewhere in the bowels of the hospital. But she didn’t think she could simply show up and announce she was a private investigator. Given her cool reception the first time she’d come, she couldn’t imagine anyone greeting her with open arms. She would need to find a back entrance and look like she belonged. Jimmy’s warnings about reckless decisions came to her. But this was different.
Fortunately, she had some surgical scrubs from the time her mother was in the hospital with a gunshot wound last year. A friendly nurse had given them to her when her mother was still in the ICU to help cut the risk of infection.
The morning after they got back from Nauvoo, she put them on, threw on a jacket, and drove to the hospital. She circled the entire complex looking for the loading dock. She spotted it behind the main building at the foot of a sloping concrete driveway, almost out of sight. She slowed. There were at least four docks, each with overhead garage doors, all of which were open.
She cruised back to the front of the complex and parked in the visitors parking lot. Before she climbed out of her car, she planned her next step. Was there a side door that smokers left unlocked? Or could she sneak past one of the loading docks and hide in a stairwell? She locked her car, pulled her jacket collar up against the cold, and walked briskly to the loading docks.
Of the four docks, two in the middle were occupied: one with a large UPS truck, the other with a small van. On each side was a vacant dock. She waited until the drivers and a couple of hospital employees were busy unloading and stacking whatever was being delivered. Between the pallets of boxes that had been unloaded were mounds of black plastic bags full of garbage waiting to be hauled away. If she was quick she might be able to hide behind them.
Before she mounted the steps on one side of the dock, she took out a cigarette from a pack she’d bought on the way over, lit it, and started to smoke. She casually walked up the steps and slipped behind a pile of garbage bags. None of the laborers seemed to notice her, or if they did, didn’t think she appeared out of place. Just a nurse or orderly on a smoke break. She considered pausing to finish the cigarette, then decided that would be pushing her luck. She stubbed out the butt under her sneaker and darted inside. A hallway was to her right. She walked purposefully along the hallway it and opened a door to a stairwell. She was in.
Georgia let out a breath and pondered her next move. She’d passed a door labeled “Supervisor, Hospital Operations and Material Services.” Unless that was hospital-speak for something other than what it sounded like, it was a logical place to start.
But how? She’d have to fabricate a reason for being there. Maybe a doctor had asked her to check if a specific medicine had arrived? Or would she be expected to check the pharmacy instead? Maybe the doctor had made a mistake in the quantity and wanted to increase or decrease the order? And what medicine would it be? Should she even mention the Covid vaccine? No. Too suspicious. She settled on insulin—she knew a little bit about it from her friend Sam who had Type 1 diabetes. She would ask about Fortamet or Metformin, which Sam was now taking. With luck, she could engage the manager of “Material Services” in a conversation and move the subject to third-party transportation. She would use Dr. Blackstone’s name and hope that not everyone in the hospital complex knew he’d fled for parts unknown.
She gathered her courage and stepped out of the stairwell. She casually strolled down the fluorescent-lit hallway, pretending she belonged. She wondered if a hidden camera might be recording her. Too late to worry about it. She knocked on the door labeled “Supervisor, Hospital Operations.”
A female voice called “Come in, door’s open.” Georgia opened it. A middle-aged African-American woman, also in scrubs, looked up from a desk. Her hair was done in an attractive series of tiny plaits with multi-colored beads at the tips. Bright red nail polish glinted from her fingers, but she wore no makeup. A placard on her desk said she was Letitia Wallace.
Wallace looked Georgia over from head to foot then smiled. “Hello. What can I do for you this fine morning?”
“Good morning.” Georgia forced a smile. “I’m Georgia Davis from Dr. Blackstone’s office. He wanted to know if a new supply of Fortamet had come in. We checked the pharmacy, but they couldn’t find an order. So I thought maybe I should check with you.”
Wallace’s smile faded. “Here?” Her puzzled look made Georgia think she’d spoken in a foreign language. Her heart sank. Had she made a mistake? “Materials has nothing to do with medical supplies,” Wallace said. “Well, at least not medicines.” She paused and looked her over. “If the pharmacy can’t find the order—that’s not surprising, by the way—” she chuckled, “you’ll need your doctor to reauthorize it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She’d give it one more try. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m new here, so I’m not fully up to speed on procedures.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Georgia Davis. I transferred from Rush a couple of weeks ago.”
Wallace looked her over again. She was not smiling this time. “May I see your ID? Why isn’t it pinned to your shirt?”
Georgia recalled second grade when Miss Brooks banished her to the slow readers’ group after she stumbled through a paragraph from a Ramona chapter book. She didn’t know then that she had dyslexia. Letitia Wallace’s stare made her feel same way. She tried to hide her uneasiness under a smile.
“Oh, crap. I left it upstairs. I forgot. I’ll get it.” She turned back toward the door. “Thanks for your time.”
“Just a minute, Ms. Davis,” Wallace said. “Who did you say you were with?”
“I’m a nurse in Dr. Richard Blackstone’s office.”
Doubt swept across the supervisor’s face.
“Like I said, I transferred over from Rush. I guess I’m making all sorts of mistakes,” Georgia said.
“Girl, no matter where you worked, you ought to know that no one gets into a place like this without a picture ID. And no one comes into Operations looking for medicine.”
This was deteriorating. Fast.
“I have half a mind to run you through a drug test,” the woman said.
“I don’t do drugs. Or drink.” She patted the cigarettes in her pocket. She didn’t smoke either, but thought they might help her blend in. A lot of health-care workers smoked despite the danger. “These are my only vice.”
Wallace shook her head. The beads on her braids clicked. “First thing you do is bring a written order from your boss. Always. In fact, I’m surprised Doctor—what was his name—sent you here. He should—”
“Richard Blackstone. He’s an internist.”
Wallace’s eyes narrowed. “Well, then, I’ll just give him a call and make sure he knows you’re here.”
“Uh—that won’t be necessary. I mean, he’s at a conference today. On Covid. He called in to ask me about the medicine. I…I’m sorry. I guess I screwed up. I’ll just wait until—”
“Did you say Covid?”
Georgia kept her mouth shut. She was going to crash and burn.
“Dr. Blackstone. Now I know why his name is familiar. Isn’t he the one who supervised those shots that killed three people?”
Georgia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Tell you what, Nurse Davis.” The supervisor emphasized “nurse.” You stay right here. I’ll call security to escort you upstairs so you can get your ID.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Oh yes, I do.” Wallace went to her phone. “And if you try to run out of here, we have this really loud alarm that tells us an unauthorized person is wandering around the hospital.” She dialed three digits. “Yes, Security. Wallace here. Please come on over to Materials and Hospital Operations. I have someone you need to check out.”
Ripples of panic skimmed Georgia’s nerves. She felt like a deer, not just in the headlights, but in the rifle scopes of half a dozen hunters. “Please, I just didn’t understand—”
“Well, we’ll make sure you do.”
Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. Damn. This couldn’t be happening again.