"Where's Lucas?" Jo asked, looking around the lab.
"Out with the flu," Henry replied. "He was rather graphic in his description of symptoms."
Hanson swallowed and glanced away.
"What about this guy?" He gestured to the body on the table.
"There are a number of signs that this gunshot wound was self-inflicted," Henry said. "It's nothing more than a routine suicide, if suicide can ever be called routine. However, there are also unmistakable signs of rather advanced colon cancer. Mr. Rendazo appears to have elected an alternative form of treatment."*
"My great-great-grandfather almost died in the influenza epidemic of 1918," Hanson offered.
"Really?" That had Henry's attention. "What was his name?"
"Gottfried Hanson," Hanson said. "Why – you didn't treat him, did you?" He smiled at his own joke. Henry, however, appeared abstracted. He ushered them to the elevator, returned to his desk, and was quickly lost in thought.
July 1918
New York City
Dr. Henry Morgan stopped inside the entrance to St. Vincent's Hospital and removed his mask, cap, overall, and leggings, all made of white muslin, and dropped them into a bin to be sterilized. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and tilted his head round, trying to get the tension out of his neck. It was no cooler inside the hospital than it was outside – and it was dreadfully warm outside.
He mounted the stairs wearily to the office he was sharing with several other physicians. He had devoted the last four hours to visiting crowded, filthy apartment dwellings and tacking QUARANTINE posters on doors. Did every last inhabitant of New York suffer from the influenza virus? And the ones who were not at home were all but stacked in the wards and corridors at every hospital in the city. At least they knew how it spread, although that didn't seem to stop people dying. He thought back just thirty years, to when tuberculosis was claiming so many lives and no one seemed to know how it was spread. Once airborne bacteria was discovered to be the culprit, a massive public-health campaign had helped make it far less menacing a disease.
This influenza, however – while it was known to be airborne as well, there seemed to be no way to combat the symptoms. People crowded into hospitals, only to infect others before dying. He sank into a flimsy wooden chair and began inscribing the names of new patients into the register. Only physicians, on their signature, could admit new patients, so that Henry and the other doctors spent inordinate amounts of time copying names from the downstairs ledger to the physicians' registers.
He frowned at the sloppy handwriting of the intake clerk – no doubt an unskilled, temporary girl hired to try to keep up with the flood of patients. Gottfried Hanson, he began to inscribe, when the noisy entrance of a nurse made his hand jerk, causing his pen to skitter across the page and then blot. Henry closed his eyes briefly. Probably lack of sleep was making him peevish – and probably the "nurse" was another volunteer pressed into service who had not developed the nurses' admirable habit of moving about silently, the only clue to their whereabouts the faint crackle of their starched aprons.
"A welcome treat, doctors," the girl said, thumping two large glass pitchers onto the only bare spot on the table. Another girl followed with a tray of glasses.
Henry stared. Welcome it was indeed – the pitchers, wet with condensation, were filled with lemonade and large chunks of ice. Here and there cool green mint leaves floated and swirled. Where in the world had that come from? He scarcely cared.
"A gift from the fire department's ladies' auxiliary," said the first girl, as if reading his mind.
"And cookies," added yet a third girl, who carried two large platters of fresh chocolate-chip cookies.
"Manna from heaven," Henry exclaimed. He gratefully drained the glass and handed it back; it was refilled at once. He devoured a cooky in two bites, not caring that his manners appeared atrocious. When had he last eaten – taken a drink – slept? His eyes burned; his back ached. This wretched epidemic would kill the doctors by exhaustion. He sipped the second glass more moderately and forced himself to do the same with the second cooky. He spared a glance at the girls, who looked not more than fifteen. They all three had circles under their eyes, and their aprons were stained with sweat, mucus, and blood.
"Thank you," he said humbly. "Thank you all very much. You're doing good work here."
The girls dropped their gazes modestly.
"And Dr. Morgan," the first girl said, "Dr. Morrow says you must take some rest. He says I am to see that you sleep for at least two hours, beginning immediately."
Henry smiled wryly. Francis Morrow* was at least his equal in stubbornness.
"Very well," he said. "Where does he propose I take this rest?"
"His own private apartments," the girl replied unexpectedly.
"If I must, I must," Henry replied. "I shall see you gentlemen in two hours," he said to the three other doctors.
"Dr. Morrow says that most of 'em have enough sense to catch a cat-nap now and again. 'But you've got to watch that Dr. Morgan,' he says. 'Else he'll work himself to death.' "
"All right," Henry grumbled. "That will do."
The girl drew out a key and let Henry in to the spare, tidy rooms Dr. Morrow maintained for himself. "I'm to come and fetch you in two hours."
Henry detached his collar and removed his necktie. Before he could get to his shoes, he had fallen onto the settee and was sound asleep.
He jerked awake. How had the air got so refreshingly cool? And why was he at a desk? Blinking, Henry looked around, dazed and still half asleep. In a rush, it came back to him. This was not 1918 but nearly a century later. St. Vincent's Hospital was no more, demolished under the wrecking ball several years earlier. And here was Lucas, looking pale and feverish.
"Lucas," Henry scolded, climbing to his feet. "You're in no way fit to be back."
"Didn't want to take any more sick days," Lucas mumbled.
Henry tsked and laid the back of his hand to Lucas' forehead. "Well, you're fever has gone down. But you're truly better off in bed." He raised his eyebrows. "Just remember, young men, a century a go the flu was not only fatal but epidemic. I will tend to the paperwork. You," he turned Lucas around and gave him a none-too-gentle push in the back, "I don't want to see you in here before Monday. Doctor's orders."
"Okay, yes sir, Doctor sir," Lucas said as Henry steered him to the elevators.
A week later, when Hanson and Martinez again turned up in Henry's territory, Henry had a photograph to show him. A photograph of a section of ledger, the name "Gottfried Hanson" clearly listed – with a big blotch of ink in the middle.
"Where did you find that," Hanson marveled.
Henry shrugged. "Simple enough to go through hospital archives."
"What's that blotch in the middle?" Martinez asked.
"Doubtless whoever was inscribing the name was startled mid-task," Henry said casually. "Or perhaps a sneeze. Remember, influenza was epidemic in those days."
"Very cool, anyway," Hanson said. "Can I keep this?"
"Of course."
Hanson pocketed the photograph. Jo Martinez frowned. How did Henry know where that name could be found?
*"Elected an alternative form of treatment" courtesy The Book of Reuben by Tabitha King.
*Francis Morrow was one of the directors of St. Vincent's, but I am unable to find which doctor led the hospital in which years.