Zoe rolled her eyes and yanked her badge out of her pocket, slamming it down on the desk in front of the receptionist. “I can go wherever I like in this hospital,” she hissed, delivering a glower that she hoped would do the desired job of making this woman do her damn job. “Now, tell me the quickest way to get to the neurology department.”
The receptionist made a show of studying the badge, lifting her glasses up by the arm to push them closer to her eyes as she squinted. “Well, Agent,” she began, as slow as was humanly possible, “you first take the second right, then you will need to go up in the elevator to the third floor. Turn left twice at your earliest opportunities, and then take the third right, and you will be at the neurology waiting area.”
Zoe snatched her badge back, already beginning to turn away. “Another special agent is coming. Tell her where to find me,” she shot over her shoulder, not bothering to wait to see if the woman would agree.
She would agree, or Zoe would have her up on charges of obstructing justice. She was not in the mood to be messed around with today.
The directions might have been confusing for someone who did not easily grasp patterns and numbers, but Zoe had laid out a miniature map in her mind even as the woman was speaking. Ignore the first right, then turn, then up and up. She tapped her foot restlessly as the elevator traveled slowly and smoothly, designed not to be uncomfortable for those in need of medical attention. A doctor in whites and two other visitors eyed her strangely, no doubt picking up on her impatience. Now that Zoe had the answer within her grasp, she wanted it as soon as possible. She wanted it five minutes ago. All of this had to end, and now.
The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Zoe was shouldering her way out of them almost before there was enough room for her to get through. Left, left, skip two and then right—and there it was. A small and modest sign printed on blue plastic hung above the doorway, declaring this to be the Neurology Department.
And below it, just beyond the doors, another reception desk—with another woman approaching retirement age, another victim of a few too many donuts.
Zoe felt her heart sink, but she pressed on. At least there was someone to talk to. She would need to talk to someone, after all, if she was going to get her hands on the patient records.
This time, she did not waste minutes asking questions that were not going to be answered. She lifted her badge as she approached and then placed it down on the desk in case the woman would want to examine it. “Special Agent Zoe Prime. I need to see this department’s patient records. What kind of search functions do you have available on your database?”
The receptionist stared at her and blinked. Her hair was tinged gray at the very top only. She must have dyed the rest, maybe recently made a decision to stop and let it grow out. She glanced down and read the badge, verifying that it was real, before looking up expectantly. “May I see the warrant?”
Zoe paused.
Ah.
The one thing she did not have.
Truth be told, she had let all thoughts of procedure fly out of her head. Call it a side effect of the alcohol, call it sheer excitement at the thought that she might be able to clear Dr. Applewhite. Whatever it was, she had only thought about reading the records themselves—not about how she was going to do that.
“There is no time to get a warrant. This is extremely urgent. I need to find a person fitting a particular neurological profile.”
The receptionist narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “You mean to tell me that you don’t even have a warrant?”
Zoe didn’t need to have the ability to read nuance and subtlety of tone and gesture to know that this was not going well. “This is extremely important. You have heard of the murders on campus?”
“I heard about them,” the receptionist agreed, shrugging her meaty shoulders up and down. “But I can’t help you, sister. You need to come back when you have a warrant. That’s how the law works.”
Zoe covered her face with her hands for a moment, trying to think of a way to explain this to the woman without biting her head off. “Look, you do not understand.”
“I understand fine enough.” The receptionist shook her head resolutely, turning her attention back to her computer screen. “No warrant, no access.”
“Zoe?”
Zoe turned, grateful to see Shelley approaching them fast. Her hair was slightly mussed, her makeup not quite as neat as usual. Zoe figured Shelley must have already been getting ready for bed when she called.
“She will not let me see the records,” Zoe said, setting her mouth in a firm line of displeasure.
“Without a warrant, right?” Shelley nodded, looking between Zoe and the receptionist as she arrived next to them. She took a breath, perhaps assessing the situation, before continuing. “May I speak with the administrator? Just to discuss further. We might need to schedule a visit.”
“No, we need to see the records now,” Zoe hissed, trying to get Shelley’s attention.
Shelley looked up at her, giving her an odd tilt of the head and raise of the eyebrows that Zoe could not decipher. “Let’s just talk to the administrator and see what’s possible. At least that way we can expedite the process.”
The receptionist made a face, eyebrows high and eyes sliding off to the side. “I’ll give him a call. But I would be surprised if he’s still in this late.”
The phone rang for eight seconds before someone on the other end answered. The receptionist could not contain the shock on her face as she spoke to them, explaining the situation. Zoe did not even try to contain her own spiteful glee when she put the receiver down and invited them to wait in the chairs provided.
The eleven minutes it took for the administrator to arrive were almost interminable. Zoe was so hopped up on the energy of maybe getting this all solved that she could barely sit still. She checked her phone for messages, her emails, examined the magazines scattered on a low side table, read every piece of literature and every poster dotted around the room. Shelley was calm and still, and though she must have been curious, she didn’t ask. Not while the receptionist was there in the room, listening.
A man in his mid-fifties came to the desk and quickly after looked their way. He was six feet tall, perhaps a fraction of an inch over. Then again, that could have been the soles of his shoes. He was thin and dressed in a sharp brown suit with a blue shirt and tie bearing half-inch-thick darker blue stripes.
“Agents?” he said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.
“I’m Special Agent Shelley Rose, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Zoe Prime,” Shelley said, shaking his hand first and then pausing for Zoe to do the same. “It’s good of you to come and speak with us. I appreciate that it’s late.”
“No, no, not to worry at all,” he said. “I’m Gary Burke. I’ve just left a meeting with the hospital board, so I was still here anyway.”
“All the same.” Shelley smiled. “May we speak with you in a private room?”
“Of course.” Burke gestured toward an unmarked door off to the side. “Please, follow me in here. We won’t be disturbed.”
The room was small, but comfortable enough for the three of them. It contained just five chairs and a water machine, as well as a drooping houseplant. No doubt it was set aside for those who needed a little more privacy while they waited.