P is for Peril

When I reached the administrative offices, I took a deep breath and tried the knob. Locked. I considered using my key picks, but I was uneasy at the prospect of loitering for fifteen minutes while I manipulated the tumblers with assorted snap picks, torquing tools, and bent wire. Surely, there was a better way to go about this. I retraced my steps, returning to the front desk, which was abandoned at this hour in the dimly lighted alcove. I slipped behind the counter and searched through drawer after drawer. I kept my ears tuned, alert to any warning sounds that might signal someone's approach. In the bottom drawer, I saw a metal file box that opened at a touch. Inside was a small compartmentalized tray with various keys, all neatly tagged and labeled. Yea for my team. This was really more exciting than a scavenger hunt. To be on the safe side, I took three; one for Administration, one for Admissions, and one for Medical Records. I closed the lid on the box, slid the drawer shut, and scurried down the hall again.

I started with Administration. My hands trembled slightly, 1.2 on the Richter scale, but otherwise I did all right. Once inside, I didn't dare risk a light, though the door itself was solid. My chief concern was that someone pulling into the side parking lot would wonder why the windows were alight at this hour. I reached down my shirt and removed the flat pinch flashlight from its hiding place in my bra. When I squeezed it, the plastic felt warm and the beam emitted was wee, but sufficient for my purposes. I took a moment to reorient myself. I'd seen this office previously by day and I had a fair sense of how the space was organized.

On the far side of the counter was Merry's desk, which was arranged back-to-back with an identical desk. In addition, there were several rolling file carts, the copy machine, and a row of metal file cabinets along the far wall. Merry's computer screen was dark, but a small dot of amber pulsed steadily like a heart. In the darkness, I couldn't see the big wall clock, but I was aware of its relentless click, click, click as the second hand measured the circumference of the face. To my right was the door to Dr. Purcell's office where I'd had my chat with Mrs. Stegler. To the left was the door that connected this office with Medical Records. I flashed the light on my watch. It was 10:22.

Cautiously, I tried the door to the Medical Records department, which I discovered was unlocked. Oh, happy day. I swept my light across the space, yawning and dark, with four desks, a worktable, assorted chairs, and a copy machine. File cabinets were built along the periphery of the room with an additional double bank down the middle. On the far wall, I saw a second door. I crossed and tried that knob and was delighted to find that it was unlocked as well. I poked my head in. From a quick survey of the space beyond, I realized I'd gained access to Admissions; all three offices were connected by a series of interior doors. I was sure the medical records personnel, the secretaries, and front office clerks appreciated the ease with which they could move from one department to the next without resorting to the public corridor. I was getting happier by the minute.

I went back into the Medical Records department. I focused on the job at hand, that being to find Klotilde's chart in this warehouse of densely packed medical records. I toured with my tiny handheld beam, scanning the drawer fronts for a clue about the game plan here. I'd hoped for an organizing principle as basic as A. B. C. No such luck. I opened the first drawer and stared at the endless march of paperwork. The charts seemed to be arranged according to a number system-a row of six digits. I selected fifteen charts, which I chose randomly, looking for the underlying principle that linked that particular run of charts. None of the fifteen patients shared age, sex, diagnosis, or attending physician. I stood there and stared. I flipped pages back and forth. I couldn't see the pattern. I opened the next drawer down. Still, not a patient name in sight. I moved to the bottom drawer and tried ten more charts. I couldn't spot the defining shared characteristics. The patient identification numbers bounced all over the place: 698727 . . . 363427 . . . 134627. I tried a file drawer two cabinets over. How could I hope to find Klotilde's chart when there had to be thousands more in these drawers? I looked for a common denominator: 500773 . . . 509673 . . . 604073. I'm embarrassed to say how long it took me to spot the element that linked each particular series of charts, but it did finally dawn on me that they were grouped according to the last two digits in the numerical sequence.

I pulled out the scrap of paper on which I'd jotted down her Medicare number. It seemed to bear no relationship to the numbers on the charts, which were apparently assigned to each patient on admission. I could feel my frustration mount. I really hate it when my illegal efforts turn out to be fruitless as well. Somewhere in this room there had to be a list of patients in alphabetical order. Nobody could keep track of all these charts otherwise. I closed the file drawers and made a circuit of the room. The beam from my flashlight had taken on that worrisome yellow tint that suggests the battery is about to peter out and die.