Chapter 7

Just to buy himself a few extra minutes and settle his nerves, Bill wandered the ER like he had all the time in the world. He greeted a couple of night shifters still hanging around and managed to shoot the breeze for fifteen minutes before someone gently took him by the elbow and led him toward an office.

"Are you Mr. Hanford?" asked a thin man in a blue tie who looked like he’d been promoted just a little too quickly.

"Yeah."

"Can you step into this office for a few minutes, please?"

"Sure. Soon as you tell me who you are."

"We’ll explain that in just a minute. Please step this way."

Bill gave a half-smile. "My mom told me never to go off with strangers."

The man frowned but finally introduced himself. “Mr. Lowell, State Department of Health.”

Of course. Bill could already feel hospital management trying not to make eye contact in the corner of the room. Like he’d suddenly become contagious.

"Well then, I suppose if you're from the government, everything’s perfectly safe." It was hard to resist the sarcasm, even when he knew it wasn’t doing him any favors. There was just something about people in authority that rubbed him the wrong way.

Mr. Lowell led him into a borrowed office — a tight little space with a metal desk and two chairs. Shelves from Walmart sagged with old medical texts, papers, school projects, and the saddest spider plant Bill had ever seen. The only sign of life was an Aloe plant in the window, clinging on like a champ. The whole setup reminded Bill a little too much of his juvenile probation officer’s digs from back in the day.

Lowell looked like he was pushing 50, what little hair he had plastered sideways across a polished scalp. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and opened a binder that screamed "middle management" — fake leather, embossed “EXECUTIVE” across the front like a trophy from Staples.

Two women dragged chairs into the room and parked themselves between Bill and the door. They didn’t introduce themselves. They didn’t need to.

Back in eighth grade, Bill had taken some kind of national IQ test with the rest of his class. He scored in the top 5%, earning a brief five minutes of school-wide fame and a lifetime of people telling him he could “do better.” What stuck with him, though, wasn’t the score — it was how often he found himself outmaneuvering people with advanced degrees by just listening closely and staying one step ahead. He didn’t brag about it, but he had learned to steer conversations with quiet precision. Playing dumb was just one of his tools.

Settling into the chair, Bill leaned back, hands behind his head, and glanced at Lowell’s binder. “Alright, Bob. What’s going on?”

“It’s Mr. Lowell, please.”

Bill nodded with exaggerated politeness. “Of course. Mr. Lowell.”

“Now, Bill—”

“It’s Mr. Hanford, actually.”

Lowell paused, adjusting his glasses and trying to reclaim some footing. “Mr. Hanford…”

“Yes, Bob?” Bill cut in again, more amused than confrontational.

This time, Lowell pressed forward. “What is your usual procedure for witnessing medication waste in the Pyxis?”

“My usual procedure?”

“Yes, your usual habit.”

“Well, that depends. Define ‘habit,’ Mr. Lowell.”

Lowell’s jaw stiffened. “What steps do you take when wasting narcotics?”

Bill tilted his head. “Well, I enter my user ID, place my finger on the scanner…”

Lowell’s frustration was beginning to show. “Do you observe the other nurse disposing of the remaining medication?”

Bill mentally filed the reaction: needed to be in control, not great under pressure.

“Oh, that part. I try to when I can,” Bill said, keeping his voice neutral.

“What do you mean ‘when you can’?”

“I mean when I’m not dealing with someone pulling out their IV, climbing out of bed, or actively coding. You know — priorities.”

“Are you aware of the hospital’s policy on witnessing waste?”

That finally made Bill laugh. Not sarcastically — just a short, surprised exhale. He straightened up a little and replied, level and serious.

“Yes, Mr. Lowell, I’m aware. No, I haven’t memorized the policy manual, but I know the procedure — and I follow it as often as conditions allow. What I also know is that policies don’t always survive real-world chaos. You can call that an excuse. I call it ER life. And while we’re on the subject — if you think tighter regulations are going to fix systemic understaffing or the four-ring circus we work in, I’d invite you to scrub in for a Friday night.”

Lowell sat up straighter, adjusting his binder again like it was armor.

“Mr. Hanford, I’d love to get into a philosophical discussion about the challenges of your job, but that’s not why we’re here. You clearly have no idea what it takes to regulate a healthcare system, and I’m not going to waste time trying to educate you.”

Bill kept his expression neutral. He was still waiting to figure out if this was a warning, a threat, or just a bureaucratic power trip.

“We’re here because this ER has logged a statistically alarming number of deaths over the past two years. That’s one of several red flags that brought my team in.”

So there it was.

Lowell shuffled a few pages and turned toward the women, asking them for something called a G4f data report.

“G4f, huh?” Bill raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like something that should be saving lives, not printing spreadsheets.”

Lowell didn’t react right away. He just tightened his lips and turned back toward Bill.

“Did the class clown routine work for you in high school, Mr. Hanford? Because it’s not working here. Without people like me managing budgets and policies, you wouldn’t have the equipment or guidelines you depend on.”

Bill covered his face with one hand, pretending to rub his forehead while actually trying to hold in a laugh. There were a dozen sharp comebacks on the tip of his tongue, but he let them go. The room was closing in — lack of sleep and nicotine catching up to him.

“I get it, Bob,” Bill said, more calm now. “You’ve got a job to do. Just tell me what this has to do with me.”

Lowell took off his glasses and cleaned them slowly. “In the time you’ve worked here, you’ve been the listed witness on 80% of all questionable narcotic wastes in this department. That includes roughly 700 milligrams of morphine, 350 of Ativan, and 250 of Dilaudid.”

He looked up, eyes sharp.

“That’s a hell of a lot of medication. What do you think someone could do with that much, Mr. Hanford?”

Bill didn’t flinch. “Probably kill a lot of people, or make a lot of money” he said flatly. “But those numbers don’t sound right. And even if they are — define ‘questionable waste.’ What does that actually mean?”

“You’re potentially looking at accessory to murder charges,” Lowell said, leaning forward.

Bill blinked once. If it shook him, he didn’t show it.

“That’s pretty damn thin, professor,” he said. “Even for a government case.”

“Ok, Mr. Hanford, you can leave,” Lowell finally said, the words clipped. “You’re not being removed from duty — for now. But understand this: you are in serious trouble. My department and the District Attorney’s office will be in touch. We have your cell number.”

“Yay,” Bill said, dry as dust.

“Oh — one more thing,” Lowell added, his voice turning official again. “While we are not law enforcement, we strongly advise you not to leave town or ignore your phone. Criminal charges are a real possibility here.”

Bill stood, nodding slightly. “Appreciate the advice. Always nice to hear from the government.”

His friends always said they admired how he could say exactly what he thought. That talent tended to be lost on everyone else.

With that, Bill stepped into the outer office and asked one of the managers about getting on the schedule for Saturday. It was already closing in on 1 p.m., and if he planned to pull off a twelve-hour shift in this circus, he’d need some sleep.

The manager glanced at Lowell for approval. It took a reluctant nod before she gave Bill the okay.

He didn’t push it. He was done with the games — at least for today.

© 2025 Brian Fleig All Rights Reserved.

Continue to Chapter 8