Drug of Choice

Gertrude Finch nodded. “There’s her regular doctor. He’s Dr. Callaway, in Beverly Hills. But she hasn’t seen him for almost a year. And then her psychiatrist, Dr. Shine. He’s a hypnotist actually, but he has some kind of degree, I don’t know. And then her dermatologist, Dr. Vorhees. He’s the one who prescribed the sunburn cream.”

Clark wrote it down. “Anyone else?”

“Well, no, except for her dates.”

“She’s been dating doctors?”

“Just one. He doesn’t practice; he’s in research.”

Clark needed to know anyone who might have given her drugs. “What’s his name?”

“Let me think.” Miss Finch stared at the floor, frowning. “It’s a real funny name. You have a cigarette?”

Clark didn’t, but the nurse did. Miss Finch lit it and puffed as she stared at the floor. Finally, she snapped her fingers.

“George Washington. That’s it.”

“What’s so funny about that name?”

“His middle initial,” said Miss Finch, “is K. George K. Washington. I’d call that a very peculiar name.”

Clark wrote it down, tore the page out of his notebook, and gave it to Harry, the intern.

“Get hold of these people. Find out if any of them have prescribed medicines for Miss Wilder.”

Harry left.

“I do hope she’s all right,” Miss Finch said. “We’re all quite attached to her. I was talking to Godfrey, the cook, about her and we both said we were very attached to her.” She bit her lip.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, it’s Godfrey. What he said.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, when they carried her downstairs and out to the ambulance, he saw her and said, ‘Mark my words, she has sleeping sickness. African sleeping sickness.’”

“That’s very unlikely,” Clark said.

“Oh, thank God, I was so worried,” Miss Finch said, and burst into tears.

Clark went back to check on Sharon Wilder, but her condition was unchanged. Gastric lavage and emptying of stomach contents had disclosed no material of any sort, not even particles of food.

Clark reported to the press that the patient’s status was unchanged; the reporters took this lack of news with ill grace. Talking with them, he had the distinct impression they didn’t care whether she got better or worse, just so she changed.

Returning to the EW, he had an idea. He went over to Gertrude Finch.

“Miss Finch, where is Sharon Wilder’s purse?”

“Her purse?”

“Yes.”

“I have it here. Why?”

“With your permission, I’d like to examine it. We might get some clue as to what she took to put her in a coma.”

Miss Finch hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“This could be important.”

“Well, all right.”

Together, they went into a conference room and emptied the contents. There was a suede wallet with a hundred dollars, a driver’s license, two gasoline credit cards, and three pictures of herself. There were two kinds of eye shadow, five kinds of lipstick, two tubes of mascara, powder, and aspirin. There was also an address book which Clark put to one side. As he continued looking, he found a dial pack of birth control pills and a dozen condoms.

Miss Finch sniffed. “I hope, Doctor, that this will remain in your confidence.”

“Of course,” Clark said. Privately, he wondered about a girl who needed both condoms and pills.

Further search unearthed three cancelled checks, a card for a beauty appointment six months ago, an old telephone bill, and an assortment of ticket stubs to theaters and movies.

“She’s always been fond of movies,” Miss Finch said. “She sees them all, even the ones she’s not in.”

Clark nodded, and continued rummaging. He found a final object: a small clear plastic cylinder with a flexible plastic top. It looked for all the world like a container for prescription pills, except for the size: it could not have held more than a single capsule. He turned it over in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sure.”

Clark frowned. “It’s obviously some kind of container…” He removed the top, and sniffed. He smelled nothing.

The purse was now empty. He turned it upside down and shook it, just to be sure. Something fell out with a metallic clang, struck the table and bounced to the floor. He bent over to pick it up.

It was a small tuning fork.

“And this?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Finch said. “But I do know that one of her dates gave it to her. She knew a lot of scientists and egghead types, you might say. They were always giving her things. One once gave her a telescope so she could look at the planets. She was always very interested in astrology.”

Clark turned the fork over, examining the surfaces. There were no manufacturer’s marks; he had never seen one like it before. He struck the tines against the table, and listened to the high-pitched hum. Then he shrugged, and dropped it back into the purse. He put the rest of the contents back in, except for the address book.

“I’d like to look through this.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Miss Finch said. She took the address book and put it in the purse.

Harry, the intern, stuck his bead into the conference room.