Drug of Choice

A moment later, sirens howling, the ambulance pulled up by the EW and the orderlies wheeled her in. Clark took one look and told the intern to get started on her, to keep the airway clear and check for shock; it was probably an overdose of something. He remained with her long enough to see there was no immediate danger, and then went out to see the reporters. There were a dozen or so, all talking furiously, grabbing every doctor in sight. Clark clapped his hands for their attention. Several flashbulbs popped. He announced that Sharon Wilder had just arrived, and was being examined. They would be told developments as they occurred; in the meantime, would they please wait outside?

They did not budge.

“Come on, Doc. What’s the story? Overdose?”

“Barbiturates? Was it barbiturates?”

“LSD?”

“Is it true she slit her wrists?”

“How does she look? You seen her? She pale, or what?”

“O.D? Barbs?”

Clark shook his head, said he had not completed his examination, and repeated that they would be told immediate developments. The questions continued. Finally he promised a preliminary report within fifteen minutes. That seemed to quiet them. Grudgingly, they filed outside.

He went back to the EW.

There were three nurses undressing Sharon Wilder and putting a gown on her. The intern was standing by the wall, watching and sweating slightly.

“God, she’s beautiful,” he said.

Clark frowned. It was true: she looked peaceful and gentle, as if asleep. It was not the way a usual overdose patient looked. Someone with a bottle of phenobarbital sloshing in his stomach was sick: he was pale, gray, ill-looking with a thready pulse and labored respirations.

He knew, even before he checked her pulse and blood pressure, that it would be normal. The entire examination, in fact, was normal.

He began to have an odd feeling.

When he saw that one of the sheets had been stained blue, he stopped the examination.

“Harry,” he said to the intern. “Call Dr. Jackson.”

“What do you want that bastard for?”

“Call him.”

Harry looked puzzled, and left. He returned some minutes later, with Jackson at his side.

“I thought you would be interested,” Clark said to Jackson. “Does she look asleep?”

“Yes, but she’s not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“These film people. It’s sure to be an overdose of something.”

Clark shrugged. “Pulse is 74 and strong. Respirations are 18 and regular. Blood pressure is good, no localizing signs, no distress.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jackson said irritably. “You should know that. She may be in the early stages of narcosis, and it may progress in the next few hours.”

Clark showed him the blue spot on the sheets.

“Idiopathic drug reaction,” Jackson said, not blinking. “If I were you, doctor, I’d stop making such a mystery of this and treat the patient. Pump her stomach and get on with it.”

And he walked out.

When he was alone, Clark shook the girl’s head back and forth, and said, “Sharon, Sharon…” in her ear.

She did not respond.

He continued this for several minutes, then, looking around hesitantly, he slapped her hard across her beautiful high cheekbones.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

“Gentlemen, I can report at this time that Miss Wilder is being examined and treated. She is comatose for reasons which are not clear at this time, but her condition at present is stable.”

“What’s the story? Was it an overdose?”

“We have no information on that.”

“Did she hit her head? Did she have a fight?”

“There are no signs of trauma.”

“Of what?”

“Injury. No signs of physical injury.”

“Is it true she was drunk when she came in?”

“We have no reason to believe so.”

“Was it LSD?”

“Almost certainly not.”

“How long will she be in the hospital?”

“It’s impossible to predict.”

“Is she on the critical list?”

“Not at this time.”

A nurse came up and whispered in his ear that there was a woman in the emergency ward who claimed to be Miss Wilder’s secretary.

Clark nodded, said to the reporters, “That’s all for now,” and walked back with the nurse to the EW.

Gertrude Finch looked like a giant toad. She was an enormous woman, squat, heavyset, wearing a green print dress. She appeared to be about fifty years old, and very frightened.

“I understand you’re Miss Wilder’s secretary.”

“That’s right, Doctor. Her special assistant, you might say.”

“I see. You found her?”

“That’s right, Doctor. She was lying on her bed, on her back, you know, all dressed up for her date. But out like a light. Her date was downstairs, so I shook her to wake her up. She didn’t wake. So I called the ambulance.”

“Were there any pills around? Any bottles of medication?”

“No, nothing. A glass of water by the bed, but no bottles.”

“Had she taken any medicines recently?”

“Well, she had this sunburn ointment, that she flew in special from Paris.”

“But no drugs?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Had she been depressed? Unhappy? Moody?”

“No, nothing like that. She was always in good spirits, you might say. She was getting ready to start another picture next month.”

Clark took out his notebook. “Do you know who her doctors are?”