Whistleblower

“Dunno. Nine o’clock, I guess. You missed breakfast.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Victor swung his legs out of bed and discovered that, except for a flimsy hospital gown, he was stark naked. “Where’s my clothes? My wallet?”

The old man shrugged. “Nurse’d know. Ask her.”

Victor found the call button buried among the bed sheets. He stabbed it a few times, then turned his attention to peeling off the tape affixing the IV tube to his arm.

The door hissed open and a woman’s voice barked,

“Mr. Holland! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m getting out of here, that’s what I’m doing,” said Victor as he stripped off the last piece of tape. Before he could pull the IV out, the nurse rushed across the room as fast as her stout legs could carry her and slapped a piece of gauze over the catheter.

“Don’t blame me, Miss Redfern!” screeched the little man.

“Lenny, go back to your own bed this instant! And as for you, Mr. Holland,” she said, turning her steel-blue eyes on Victor, “you’ve lost too much blood.” Trapping his arm against her massive biceps, she began to retape the catheter firmly in place.

“Just get me my clothes.”

“Don’t argue, Mr. Holland. You have to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got an IV, that’s why!” she snapped, as if the plastic tube itself was some sort of irreversible condition.

“I want my clothes.”

“I’d have to check with the ER. Nothing of yours came up to the floor.”

“Then call the ER, damn you!” At Miss Redfern’s disapproving scowl, he added with strained politeness, “If you don’t mind.”

It was another half hour before a woman showed up from the business office to explain what had happened to Victor’s belongings.

“I’m afraid we—well, we seem to have…lost your clothes, Mr. Holland,” she said, fidgeting under his astonished gaze.

“What do you mean, lost?”

“They were—” she cleared her throat “—er, stolen. From the emergency room. Believe me, this has never happened before. We’re really very sorry about this, Mr. Holland, and I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange a purchase of replacement clothing….”

She was too busy trying to make excuses to notice that Victor’s face had frozen in alarm. That his mind was racing as he tried to remember, through the blur of last night’s events, just what had happened to the film canister. He knew he’d had it in his pocket during the endless drive to the hospital. He remembered clutching it there, remembered flailing senselessly at the woman when she’d tried to pull his hand from his pocket. After that, nothing was clear, nothing was certain. Have Ilost it? he thought. Have I lost my only evidence?

“…While the money’s missing, your credit cards seem to be all there, so I guess that’s something to be thankful for.”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

“Your valuables, Mr. Holland.” She pointed to the wallet and watch she’d just placed on the bedside table. “The security guard found them in the trash bin outside the hospital. Looks like the thief only wanted your cash.”

“And my clothes. Right.”

The instant the woman left, Victor pressed the button for Miss Redfern. She walked in carrying a breakfast tray. “Eat, Mr. Holland” she said. “Maybe your behavior’s all due to hypoglycemia.”

“A woman brought me to the ER,” he said. “Her first name was Catherine. I have to get hold of her.”

“Oh, look! Eggs and Rice Krispies! Here’s your fork—”

“Miss Redfern, will you forget the damned RiceKrispies!”

Miss Redfern slapped down the cereal box. “There is no need for profanity!”

“I have to find that woman!”

Without a word, Miss Redfern spun around and marched out of the room. A few minutes later she returned and brusquely handed him a slip of paper. On it was written the name Catherine Weaver followed by a local address.

“You’d better eat fast,” she said. “There’s a policeman coming over to talk to you.”

“Fine,” he grunted, stuffing a forkful of cold, rubbery egg in his mouth.

“And some man from the FBI called. He’s on his way, too.”

Victor’s head jerked up in alarm. “The FBI? What was his name?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, how should I know? Something Polish, I think.”

Staring at her, Victor slowly put down his fork. “Polowski,” he said softly.

“That sounds like it. Polowski.” She turned and headed out of the room. “The FBI indeed,” she muttered. “Wonder what he did to get their attention ….”

Before the door had even swung shut behind her, Victor was out of bed and tearing at his IV. He scarcely felt the sting of the tape wrenching the hair off his arm; he had to concentrate on getting the hell out of this hospital before Polowski showed up. He was certain the FBI agent had set him up for that ambush last night, and he wasn’t about to wait around for another attack.

He turned and snapped at his roommate, “Lenny, where are your clothes?”

Lenny’s gaze traveled reluctantly to a cabinet near the sink. “Don’t got no other clothes. Besides, they wouldn’t fit you, mister…”

Victor yanked open the cabinet door and pulled out a frayed cotton shirt and a pair of baggy polyester pants. The pants were too short and about six inches of Victor’s hairy legs stuck out below the cuffs, but he had no trouble fastening the belt. The real trouble was going to be finding a pair of size twelve shoes. To his relief, he discovered that the cabinet also contained a pair of Lenny’s thongs. His heels hung at least an inch over the back edge, but at least he wouldn’t be barefoot.

“Those are mine!” protested Lenny.

“Here. You can have this.” Victor tossed his wristwatch to the old man. “You should be able to hock that for a whole new outfit.”

Suspicious, Lenny put the watch up against his ear. “Piece of junk. It’s not ticking.”

“It’s quartz.”

“Oh. Yeah. I knew that.”

Victor pocketed his wallet and went to the door. Opening it just a crack, he peered down the hall toward the nurses’ station. The coast was clear. He glanced back at Lenny. “So long, buddy. Give my regards to Miss Redfern.”

Slipping out of the room, Victor headed quietly down the hall, away from the nurses’ station. The emergency stairwell door was at the far end, marked by the warning painted in red: Alarm Will Sound If Opened. He walked steadily towards it, willing himself not to run, not to attract attention. But just as he neared the door, a familiar voice echoed in the hall.