“We have a Doctor Dryden-Wells on staff.” The clerk had moved from the sofa, clearly caught up in the excitement of what Frank had found. “But not the Dryden-Wells in those records. The current Doctor Dryden-Wells is a surgical resident in hisfinal year, way too young. I guess with the unusual name, he could be related?”
Frank shut the last folder. “The team’s going to want to see that discharge note, so we’ll scan it, then follow up with the younger surgeon while we’re here. Hell, maybe he’s a son or something and can solve the whole case for us.” Frank snorted. “That would tie it all up in a very pretty bow, right?”
We photographed each sheet and the boxes, then thanked the administrator, Penny, and followed her directions to the surgical wing. After getting lost three times, we finally found someone to talk to. A young guy sat behind the main surgical desk, headset on, one phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, another ringing insistently beside him. He looked about twelve, hair sticking up as if he’d been running his hands through it all morning, scrubs wrinkled, badge half flipped. We waited while he tried to handle both calls at once.
“Uh-huh, ma’am, I understand, but I can’t page a surgeon mid-procedure… yes… yes, I know your time is valuable—hold please.” He stabbed a button, dropped that line, and picked up the other. “Dr. Patel’s rounds start in twenty minutes, sir. I can leave a message if—sir? Sir, please don’t shout—hold, please.”
He finally dropped both phones onto the desk, exhaled hard, and muttered something that sounded like, “Kill me now.”
Frank snorted. “Hospitals. Hate ‘em. If I ever need one, shoot me.”
The kid startled, straightened, then blinked at our badges. “Sorry. Long morning.” The kid scrubbed a hand down his face. “What can I help you with?”
“We’re looking to speak with Dr. Dryden-Wells,” I said.
The receptionist typed quickly, eyes scanning his monitor. “Dryden-Wells… surgical resident? He’s… not on call today. Says here he’s on vacation.” He tapped the screen.
Frank leaned a little closer. “Can you tell us when his vacation began?”
The kid froze, eyes wide. “Uh… no. I mean—I can’t legally give out personal details. HIPAA doesn’t technically cover staff, but privacy laws still apply. I’m only allowed to confirm employment and schedule unless you have a warrant or paperwork from administration.”
“So, whatcanyou give us?” I asked.
“I can page his supervisor or the attending surgeon today if you want a statement for your case.” He paused then. “What is your case? Is it interesting? Why do you need to talk to a doctor?” The kid clicked a few more things. “Is about something… bad?”
“That’s confidential,” Frank said.
The kid swallowed hard and nodded. “Right. Okay. I’ll put in the page for the attending. You can wait over there.”
We stepped aside as he picked up the phone again, voice slipping back into the frantic cadence of someone barely keeping the place upright.
The attending surgeon reached us before the kid could finish his next flurry of calls. He was in his sixties, annoyance radiating off him with every step.
“Detectives?” he asked, not bothering to hide the impatience in his voice.
“That’s us,” Frank replied.
“We’re following up on a case,” I said. “We needed to speak with Dr. Dryden-Wells, but understand he’s on vacation.”
“If you know that, then why are you bothering me?” The attending pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly already done with us.
“Was it a scheduled vacation?”
He blinked at us, clearly trying to recall the answer. “Um, no, he requested last-minute leave due to a family matter. He’s out of state until next week.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Frank asked.
The attending gave him a flat look. “Even if I knew—and I don’t—we both know I can’t give you that.”
“But you approved his leave?” I asked.
“No,” the attending said curtly. “Admin did. I got the notification the same time everyone else did, and it was… abrupt.” His pager chirped on his hip, echoing down the hall. He slapped a hand over it, irritated. “Anything else?”
“Just need to know if you can confirm his connection to Oscar Dryden-Wells,” Frank said. “Family? Training? Anything?”
The attending shook his head. “Oscar Dryden-Wells was gone before I started here. Don’t know if they’re related, and I don’t particularly care.” The pager went off again, more insistent this time. He sighed, already stepping back. “Look, gentlemen, I have three patients prepped for surgery and a fourth who shouldn’t be walking around with a fractured femur. If you need anything else, go through the admin team.”
Then he turned and strode off without waiting for a reply.
