After his visit to the ICU, Hollis Sinclair was convinced the chances of Isabella Rosas’s recovering from GNS were a pipe dream at best. He bounded up the three flights of stairs to the office of Dr. Liam Kenney in the department of pathology.
Kenney, a specialist in neurologic pathology, was a pallid man with bony fingers and sharp angular shoulders. Sinclair found him hunched over his microscope, humming a Broadway tune.
“Good morning, Liam.”
Kenney lifted his head from the microscope’s eyepiece, sat straight up and then reached up to his balding head, where his glasses were perched, and slid them down.
“Kind of early for a neurologist, isn’t it?” he asked Sinclair.
“I’m here every morning at seven. How’s the family?”
“Everybody’s fine.”
“Good. By the way, I understand you’re coming up in front of the tenure committee again at our next meeting.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve always found you to be a highly competent pathologist. You should have been granted tenure the first time around. You’ve built your reputation on being a team player. I don’t have to tell you how political these things can get, but I’m sure with the right people in your corner, there shouldn’t be a problem this time.”
“Thank you, Hollis,” he said. “I was extremely disappointed the committee failed to recognize my contributions to this university.”
“As I mentioned, these things can get pretty political.”
“I suppose,” Liam said with uncertain eyes.
“I was wondering if you had any preliminary news on Sherry Rosenfelt’s brain biopsy.”
“Actually, I still have a few more slides to go over before I complete my report.”
“I’m well aware of the official process, Liam. I’m asking you for any preliminary thoughts you might have. I’m not going to hold you to anything. I understand nothing’s official until you dictate your final report.”
Liam eased back in his chair. “I can appreciate how anxious you are, Hollis, but maybe it would be best—”
“C’mon. We’ve known each other a long time. Anything we discuss is completely off the record and confidential. I would really appreciate your help.”
“Of course, Hollis. What would you like to know?”
“Is there any evidence on the biopsies to confirm a viral illness?”
“Her brain tissue shows gliosis and a few other nonspecific findings, which are all signs of inflammation.”
“A viral illness?”
With a wrinkled brow, he answered, “It certainly could be.”
“You realize that these women have been running a high fever. When you consider their other symptoms, especially the rash, we have overwhelming evidence that GNS is a viral disease, and one, I might add, that’s spreading out of control. I’m convinced I have the cure for this devastating illness, but I need the support of strong-willed men who have the courage of their convictions to commit.”
“I understand, Hollis, and I admire your passion.”
“I look forward to reading your final report. When did you say it would be ready again?”
“Hopefully, later today.”
“I truly appreciate your help,” Sinclair said, extending his hand. “I suspect within a week’s time, there will be thousands of grateful family members who will share my feelings.”
For a few moments after Sinclair was gone, Liam stared across his office with a vacant expression. He had just been summarily checkmated by his esteemed colleague and there was little he could do about it. The last thing he needed at this stage of his career was to make a political enemy of every influential member of Southeastern’s medical staff. Unable to see much wiggle room, Liam resigned himself to the fact that his biopsy report would state that Sherry Rosenbluth’s brain tissue was infected by a virus.