The Final Diagnosis

“Yes. He’d like to come and see us. If this had not come up today, I’d intended to speak to you about it.”

Dornberger had the paper now. He tapped it with a forefinger. “What do you want me to do about this?”

O’Do

Seven

In an a

At Three Counties, as at many hospitals, a gross conference was the second stage after autopsy. Half an hour ago George Ri

McNeil looked around, making a final check. Pearson was always irascible if everything was not ready at hand. McNeil reflected that the room in which they did their work was appropriately macabre—particularly when the organs were laid out, as they would be in a few minutes, making the place look somewhat like a butcher’s shop. He had been in hospital dissecting rooms where everything was gleaming stainless steel; but that was the modern way which had not touched Three Counties’ pathology department yet. Now he heard the familiar, half-shuffling footsteps, and Pearson came in, the inevitable cloud of cigar smoke with him.

“Can’t waste any time.” Pearson seldom bothered with preliminaries. “It’s a week and a half since I had that set-to with O’Do

“Fifty-five-year-old woman. Physician’s cause of death, carcinoma of the breast.”

“Let me see.” Pearson reached for the file. Sometimes he would sit patiently while the resident described a case; at other times he would want to read everything himself. In this, as in all things, he was unpredictable.

“Hm.” He put down the papers and turned off the ru

“Did you cut this?”

The resident shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.” Pearson peered at the heart again. “Seddons?”

McNeil nodded a little reluctantly. He had noticed himself that the heart was badly cut.

“He left the mark of Zorro.” Pearson gri

“I believe there was something in surgery. A procedure he wanted to see.”

“Tell him from me that while any resident is assigned to Pathology I expect him at all gross conferences. All right, let’s get on with it.”

McNeil balanced a clip board on his knee and prepared to write. Pearson dictated: “Heart shows a slight thickening and rolling of the mitral valve. See it there?” He held it out.

Leaning across, McNeil answered, “Yes, I do.”

Pearson continued, “The chordae tendineae are fused, shortened and thickened.” He added casually, “Looks as if she had an old rheumatic fever. It was not a cause of death though.”

He cut away a small portion of tissue and put it into a labeled jar about the size of an ink bottle. This was for microscopic examination later. Then with the ease of long practice he tossed the remainder of the heart accurately into a hole lower down the table. Beneath the hole was a metal bin. Later in the day this would be cleared and cleaned, the contents being burned to fine ash in a special incinerator.

Now Pearson had the lungs. He opened the first lung like the two big leaves of a book, then dictated to McNeil, “Lungs show multiple metastatic nodules.” Again he held out the tissue for the resident to see.

He had turned his attention to the second lung when a door behind him opened.

“You busy, Dr. Pearson?”

Pearson turned around irritably. The voice was that of Carl Ba

“Of course I’m busy. What do you want?” It was the tone, half snarling, half bantering, Pearson habitually used to Ba

Ba

“Oh yes. I’d forgotten this was the day. Come in.” Pearson sounded more cordial than he had been with Ba

McNeil looked curiously at the newcomer. Twenty-two, he figured; later he was to learn he was exactly right. He knew from what he had heard that Alexander was fresh from college with a degree in medical technology. Well, they could do with someone like that around the place. Ba

McNeil turned his eyes to the senior technician. As usual, Ba

McNeil knew something of Ba

Officially Ba

McNeil thought it likely that in Ba

Alexander, of course, was a different proposition. He had come the way of most lab technicians nowadays, with three years of college behind him, the last year in an approved school for medical technologists. The word “technologist” was sometimes a sore point with people like Ba

Pearson waved his cigar at the remaining stool around the table. “Sit down, John.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Alexander answered politely. In his spotless lab coat, with a recent crew cut, pressed pants, and shined shoes, he presented a contrast to Pearson as well as Ba