I’m spending the day at Bergen Hospital.

My first meeting is with Dr. Steven Cassel, the surgeon who admitted to me that he had an affair with Rita Carlisle, which ended shortly before her death.

Not wanting to tangle with his protective assistant again, I’ve called ahead and learned that he is not doing surgeries today, but rather just doing office visits and rounds of his patients that are in the hospital.

He suggested that we meet in the hospital cafeteria for coffee, which was fine with me. I asked that he get the hospital records for William Simmons on the night he died, and he agreed to do so. Since Dr. Cassel is worried that I’ll reveal his affair to the public, and therefore to his unsuspecting wife, it’s fair to say that I have some leverage on the good doctor.

We’re meeting at 10:00 A.M., so the good news is we’re able to get a table near the back, away from any other patrons who might overhear our conversation. The bad news is that the array and quality of food in this cafeteria is never going to be confused with the buffet at the Paris.

Once we’re settled in, I ask if he had a chance to go over the William Simmons records, and he points to a small folder he has in front of him. I assume that means the records are inside. “I have,” he said. “They’re not very complicated.”

“Were you on duty the night he was brought in?” I ask.

“I have no idea; it was a long time ago. But I very much doubt it. In any event, I had nothing to do with his treatment. The records obviously list the doctors involved; they were emergency room personnel. Dr. Ziskind, a neurosurgeon on staff here, was called in, but there was no opportunity for him to successfully intervene.”

“What do the records show?”

“He was near death from a fractured skull when he was brought in; actually the skull was mostly crushed. The pressure on the brain was enormous, and it had sustained catastrophic damage; there was no possibility of survival. Based on what I see here, I’m surprised he made it to the hospital alive.”

“Is there anything you see in there that would have gotten the attention of top management?” I ask.

“Hospital management? Well, the man died, so certainly that isn’t a desired outcome. That’s obviously taken seriously, and there are procedures in place.”

“I understand, but is there anything unusual about hospital protocols as they were followed in this case, anything strange or surprising in the way the hospital handled this?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing that I see.”

“Were drugs administered?”

“Yes, of course. Antibiotics, a drug to reduce swelling and pressure in the brain, but the treatment seems to have been discontinued quickly, since he was only here for a matter of minutes before he died.”

Dr. Cassel’s answers don’t surprise me; I haven’t been able to see what the death of William Simmons could possibly have to do with what we believe has been going on at the hospital.

The only connection we had was Lewinsky’s cryptic email, but for all we know, he could have been replying to someone asking the name of the murder victim. It’s just not possible to infer guilt from it, much as I would like to.

Dr. Cassel goes off to do his rounds, but before I leave I decide to stop in and talk to Mitchell Galvis, second in command at the hospital to Lewinsky. Once we told Captain Bradley about Galvis pointing us to the drug issue, and Lewinsky’s culpability, he directed us to keep pressing him.

This seems like as good a time as any.

I’m sure that Galvis would want to talk to me again at some clandestine, out of the way location, but I’m not going to indulge that. I’ve been talking to a lot of people at the hospital, and Lewinsky had somewhat reluctantly instructed people to cooperate. So I would have every reason to talk to Galvis without arousing suspicion.

When his assistant tells him that I’m here to see him, I’m ushered right in. “You said you’d leave me out of this” is his way of greeting me. He seems to be in a perpetual panic, and since Silva is involved, it’s not a reaction that surprises me.

“No, I said I’d keep your name out of it. You placed yourself in the middle.”

“I never should have spoken to you. Lewinsky has been acting funny toward me ever since. Is there any way he can know?”

“Not from me,” I say, which is true.

He doesn’t seem appeased. “What do you want?”

“I need proof that drugs are being stolen.”

He shakes his head. “I told you, Lewinsky has covered it up. The books won’t show anything.”

“Then how did you know about it?”

“Because I work here; I see a lot and people tell me things. And I saw it as it was happening.”

“Is it still happening?”

“Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Then get me the proof before Lewinsky can change the books. Mitchell, right now you’re my only witness to bring down Lewinsky, and then Silva. If I have physical evidence, I don’t need you. If I don’t, then your testimony becomes crucial.”

“I won’t testify.”

“Mitchell, don’t push me. Do the right thing, and so will I.”

My meaning is clear, and Galvis is no dope. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do what I can.”