Because of the late hour, the number of reporters in front of the hospital had thinned out considerably. Entering the hospital through the main entrance didn’t pose a problem. Jack was a few feet from the ICU when he saw Bud Kazminski coming toward him. Since Bud had first ambushed him in the lobby of his hotel, Jack had made it a point to speak with him at least once a day to update him on his daughter Sherry’s condition.
“Evening, Doc,” he said.
“How’s she doing?”
“About the same. Walk with me,” he said, pointing to a bank of vending machines in a small alcove at the end of the hall. “David and I met with Dr. Sinclair earlier. He recommended to us that Sherry undergo a brain biopsy. He said the results could very likely lead to a cure.” They reached the machines. Jack said nothing while Kaz studied the selections. “How about something to eat? I’m buying.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
He slid a dollar bill into the machine, tapped two buttons and retrieved his honey-glazed peanuts. Before he opened the bag, he turned and asked, “This brain biopsy thing strikes me as a little extreme. What do you think?”
It was obvious to Jack why Sinclair was recommending a brain biopsy. If he were right about GNS being a viral illness, the biopsy might be the only way to definitively prove it. As much as Jack had come to dislike Sinclair on both a personal and professional level, the idea of a brain biopsy had actually crossed Jack’s mind two days earlier. Politics and emotion aside, from a pure medical standpoint, a brain biopsy was a reasonable test to consider.
“It’s a little hard for me to advise you on Dr. Sinclair’s recommendation. We’re dealing with a disease medical science has never seen before. A biopsy could conceivably lead to the diagnosis, but it could also show absolutely nothing. There’s just no way of telling.”
“What really worries me is the risk of anesthesia,” Kazminski said.
“There’s simply no way of knowing what the risks of surgery and anesthesia would be.” Jack waited a few seconds and then added, “I guess I haven’t been much help.”
With a quick shake of his head and a glint of his acerbic smile, Kazminski said, “Actually, you’ve been a big help. I’m going to give David a call and recommend that he agree to the biopsy.”
“When does Dr. Sinclair want to do it?”
“He told me if we agreed, the neurosurgeon could schedule it for tomorrow,” he answered. “Listen, Doc. When we get the results of the biopsy, do you think we could talk again?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
He popped a handful of the peanuts into his mouth, nodded at Jack and then started down the hall. His limp was worse. Jack couldn’t quite figure out why, but there was something about Bud Kazminski he very much admired. Jack was convinced that in spite of his bumbling exterior, he was a man of substance, uncommon insight and one who obviously loved his daughter very much.