THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE WHISTLEBLOWER
Tuesday, October 24th – 7:30 AM
The cameras were waiting when Sloane arrived at the hospital.
She had expected them. The news had spread quickly after the Attorney General’s press conference. Her face was on every screen, her name on every lips. She was the whistleblower. The hero. The one who had exposed the truth.
But she did not feel like a hero.
She felt tired.
She parked her car in the garage and walked to the main entrance. The reporters shouted questions. She did not answer them. She walked through the doors, past the security guards, into the lobby.
Her mother was waiting.
Eleanor Vance stood by the information desk, her coat buttoned, her purse clutched in her hands. Her face was pale.
“Sloane.”
“Mom.”
“I saw you on television.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Sloane walked to the elevator.
Her mother followed.
“The hospital is closing,” Eleanor said. “The patients are being transferred. Your job—”
“My job is to help the patients. That hasn’t changed.”
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
Sloane pressed the button for the third floor.
“I’ll find another hospital. Another job. Another way to help.”
“Have you thought about taking a break? Coming home for a while?”
Sloane looked at her mother.
“Home is not the same without Dad.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears.
“No. It’s not.”
The elevator doors opened.
Sloane stepped out.
“I’ll call you later, Mom.”
“Sloane—”
“I’ll call you.”
She walked away.
The third floor was chaotic.
Nurses ran through the corridors. Patients stood in doorways, their faces confused. The social workers were trying to coordinate transfers to other facilities, but there were too many patients and too few beds.
Sloane walked to Greta’s room.
Greta was sitting on her bed, a suitcase open beside her. She was folding clothes, placing them carefully inside.
“You’re leaving,” Sloane said.
“They’re sending me to a facility in Albany. They say it’s good there.”
“It is. I’ve visited. The staff are kind. The patients are well cared for.”
Greta looked up.
“Will you visit me?”
“I will. As often as I can.”
Greta smiled.
“Thank you, Dr. Vance. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, Greta.”
Sloane spent the morning saying goodbye to her patients.
Vincent Cross was being transferred to a nursing home near his sister’s house. Elaine had promised to visit him every day.
Iris Delaney was being discharged to a group home for young adults with mental illness. She had been approved for outpatient therapy and medication management.
Other patients were going to other facilities. Some were going to family members. Some had no one to go to.
Sloane did what she could. She made calls. She wrote letters. She advocated for each patient as if they were her own family.
By noon, she was exhausted.
She walked to her office.
The door was open.
A man was sitting in her chair.
He was tall, thin, with gray hair and sharp features. He wore a dark suit and a red tie. His hands were folded on her desk.
“Dr. Vance,” he said. “Please, come in.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Thomas Crane. I’m a lawyer. I represent the families of the patients who died in Room 13.”
Sloane stepped into the room.
She did not sit.
“You’re here to sue me.”
“I’m here to talk to you. The families are angry. They want someone to blame.”
“They should blame the hospital. The administrators. The doctors who covered up the deaths.”
“They do. But they also blame you.”
“Why?”
“Because you knew. You knew about the room. You knew about the deaths. You knew about the cover-up. And you didn’t come forward sooner.”
Sloane was silent.
“We’re not going to sue you,” Crane said. “You don’t have enough money to make it worth our while. But the families want answers. They want to know why you waited. Why you didn’t speak up when you first suspected.”
“I didn’t have proof. I had suspicions. I had theories. I had a father who died in that room. But I didn’t have proof.”
“And now you do.”
“And now I do.”
Crane stood up.
“The families will be in touch. They may want to meet with you. They may want to hear your story.”
“I’ll tell them. Whatever they want to know.”
Crane nodded.
He walked to the door.
“Dr. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. There are people who don’t want the truth to come out. People who have a lot to lose.”
“I know.”
Crane left.
Sloane sat down in her chair.
She looked at her father’s journal.
She looked at the list of names.
She looked at the key.
“The lawyer is right,” Marian said. “There are people who want to silence you.”
“Let them try.”
“They will.”
“I know.”