They both remained silent on the drive back to Jack’s hotel. By the time Madison dropped him off, he was exhausted. Unfortunately, with his divorce had come a nagging case of insomnia. Even though he was half-dead on his feet, he suspected a restful night’s sleep was not in his future.
He was making his way across the lobby when he noticed a squat man with his shirttail draped across his lumpy paunch coming directly toward him. Instinctively he averted his eyes, but it was to no avail. Without breaking stride, the man walked up to him.
“Excuse me, Dr. Wyatt. I know it’s kind of late, and I really hate to bother you like this, but I was hoping for a minute of your time to talk with you.”
Jack slowed down, taking note of the man’s mismatched, shaggy eyebrows and sagging jowls.
“I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“We’ve never been formally introduced. My name’s Kazminski,” he said with the corners of his mouth creasing into a cordial smile.
“I’m sorry, but it’s kind of late and I—”
“Somebody told me you grew up down here. Maybe you remember me. I’ve been a reporter with the West Palm Beach News for nearly thirty years.”
Jack didn’t recall the name, and having attended more than one hospital-sponsored seminar regarding the media and medical privacy, he was instantly leery. It didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out why Kazminski had ambushed him.
“I’m not trying to be rude, Mr. Kazminski, but if you don’t mind I’d really—”
“Most people call me Kaz, but my real first name’s Arnold. I guess my mother was in a bad mood the day she named me,” he explained, hiking up his pants with a quick tug on his cracked black leather belt. “Thank God my father had the brains to nickname me Bud two days before I started kindergarten.”
“As I said, Mr. Kazminski, it’s been a long day and…”
“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’ve had the same kind of rotten day myself. I’ll tell you what. If you don’t mind, I’ll just walk you to the elevators.” Jack looked toward the far side of the lobby. It seemed hopeless trying to dissuade the pushy reporter, so he decided a controlled dash was his best hope of escape. Jack nodded and started for the elevators. “I was told by a pretty reliable source that you’re here to consult on the GNS cases.”
Not having been the victim of a fool’s mate since the first day of his junior high’s chess club, he said, “No comment, Mr. Kazminski.”
“I checked you out, Doc. You’re an expert in diagnosing tricky neurologic cases. You run the neurology department at Ohio State and you travel all over the place lecturing on the topic.” Jack looked at him askance. Kazminski held up his hand and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. How do I know who you are? Well, I guess after nearly three decades in the newspaper business, you make a lot of friends in all kinds of places—including hospitals.” They stopped in front of the elevators. Jack wasted no time giving the Up button three quick taps. “Do you have any idea what’s causing GNS?”
“Look, I’m the last person who’d want to disappoint your readers but I don’t think this is the right time or place to—”
Kazminski stepped between the elevator door and Jack. His face suddenly filled with grief. He looked past Jack with a distant stare. “I’m not asking for my readers, Dr. Wyatt,” he began in a cracked voice. “I’m asking for my daughter. She was admitted to Southeastern State a few days ago with GNS.” He cupped his mouth with his hand. “Five minutes of your time, Doc. That’s all I’m asking.”