They told me she was just an unidentified vagrant brought into Bayfront Medical Center at 2:00 AM.
The clock in the physician lounge seemed to crawl, each tick stretching out the seconds until I could leave. As soon as Marcus was out of sight, I moved. Hannah’s toxicology report was critical. The initial results were alarming, but I needed the full, verified data.
I rushed down three flights of stairs, the scent of antiseptic stronger here in the older wing of the hospital. The central pathology laboratory was a maze of humming machines and busy technicians.
When I entered, the room was quiet save for the whirring of centrifuges. My gaze immediately fixed on a figure standing by the biohazard disposal unit.
Roger Daugherty, the hospital’s Chief Risk Management Adjuster, was there. He wore an expensive, tailored suit, a stark contrast to the sterile lab environment.
He held a clear plastic bag in one gloved hand. Inside, I could see two small, sealed blood vials. Hannah’s original lab samples.
“Daugherty?” I asked, my voice cutting through the hum.
He flinched, turning sharply. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple despite the cool temperature of the lab.
“Dr. Harrison,” he said, his voice a little too high. He tried to compose himself, smoothing the front of his jacket. “Just reviewing some, ah, standard protocols.”
He moved the vials closer to the open chute of the disposal unit, a red-orange maw designed to incinerate hazardous waste.
“These samples,” he continued, gesturing vaguely. “A clear case of contamination, unfortunately. Institutional insurance rules mandate immediate incineration.”
My heart pounded. Contamination? They looked perfectly intact.
“They’re not contaminated,” I stated, taking a step forward. “I drew those samples myself. They were sealed immediately.”
Daugherty offered a shrug that barely moved his shoulders. “Lab error, perhaps. Regardless, procedure is procedure.”
He lifted the bag, his intention clear. The vials were about to disappear forever.
I didn’t hesitate. I lunged, blocking the chute with my arm, my hand gripping the cold metal rim. Daugherty stumbled back, startled.
“Give me those,” I demanded, my voice low but firm.
“Dr. Harrison, this is highly irregular,” he stammered, his face blanching. “You’re interfering with hospital procedure.”
My other hand shot out, snatching two backup vials from a nearby rack. They were clearly labeled with Hannah’s temporary patient ID, still sealed. I could feel the cold glass through my coat pocket as I shoved them deep inside.
Daugherty stared, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He still held Hannah’s original samples, but the opportunity was lost.
“Procedure be damned,” I said, my chest heaving. “Those samples are going to be analyzed. Properly.”
I turned and walked out, leaving him standing there, frozen by the biohazard chute. The two backup vials felt like fragile treasures in my pocket. They were Hannah’s only defense, and my only weapon.
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