"That is correct."

"But our killer obviously isn't getting the proper treatment or, for whatever reason, it isn't working the way it should. Her blood is all fucked up. Does that mean she would have the skin discolorations?"

"Ah, I would say possibly. Even probably, judging by the high MSH level."

"Could the discolorations be seen? On the street, I mean, if she was dressed in everyday clothes? Would a witness notice the blotches?"

"Ah, I would say no. Not on the elbows, knees, palms of the hands, etcetera. If it spread heavily to hands and face, then of course it would be noticeable. But by that time the victim would probably be hospitalized."

"How do the laws of privileged information apply to hospitals?" Boone asked.

"Same as to physicians," Delaney said. "In hospitals, patients are under a doctor's care. All information is privileged."

"Shit," Boone said.

"Perhaps," Dr. Ho said tentatively, "the Mayor would be willing to make a personal appeal to all the doctors of the city, asking for their cooperation in this civic emergency."

The Deputy Commissioner looked at him pityingly.

"I don't believe the Mayor would care to put himself in the position of urging physicians publicly to break the law. He had enough trouble just getting that offer of a fifty-thousand-dollar reward past the Council. No, doctor, don't expect any help from the politicos. They have their own problems."

They all went back to staring into the middle distance.

"The problem here is identification," the Chief said. "How do we identify all the victims of Addison's disease in New York?"

"Wait," Dr. Patrick Ho said, holding up a plump palm.

They looked at him.

"A problem of identification," the doctor mused. "All the papers I read on Addison's were written for physicians, and gave the history of the disease, symptoms, treatment, and so forth. Without fail, every author recommended the Addisonian victim be instructed to wear a medical identification bracelet stating that he suffered from the disease. Also, the bracelet carries his name and address, and the name, address, and phone number of his doctor. This is in case of emergency, you understand. An automobile accident, sudden injury, or fainting."

"Go on," Delaney said, hunching forward on his chair. "This is beginning to sound good."

"Also, the patient should carry a small kit at all times. In the kit is a sterile syringe containing a hydrocortisone solution ready for injection in an emergency, with instructions for use."

"Better and better," Delaney said. "And where do you get a bracelet and kit like that?"

"Ah, I do not know," Dr. Ho confessed. "But I would guess the sources are limited. That is, you could not walk into just any drugstore in the city and expect to buy such specialized equipment. It would have to be a medical supply house, I would think, or a pharmacy that handles rare and difficult prescriptions."

"There can't be many places like that in the city," Sergeant Boone said slowly.

"Edward," Thorsen said, "do the laws of privileged information apply to prescriptions in drugstores?"

"I'd say not," the Chief said. "I think you take a prescription in and then it's between you and the pharmacist. It's out of the doctor's hands, and the pharmacist can reveal the names of the patient and the doctor who wrote the prescription."

"I better get a legal ruling on it," the Deputy said.

"Good idea," Delaney said. "Meanwhile, sergeant, I think you better organize a crew to track down the places that sell those medical identification bracelets and kits to people with Addison's disease."

"Long shot," Boone said doubtfully.

"Sure it is," Delaney said. "And that convention schedule access list is a long shot. And the list of tear gas customers is a long shot. But every list makes the odds shorter. We get enough lists, and crosscheck them, we're going to come up with some good possibles."

"Oh, I love this work!" Dr. Patrick Ho cried, his dark eyes gleaming.

They looked at him.

July 7-8; Monday and Tuesday…

Zoe Kohler sat primly at her desk in the security section of the Hotel Granger. She had finished four letters for Everett Pinckney, placed the neatly typed pages and envelopes on his desk. She had completed a tentative summer vacation schedule, requesting August 11-22 for herself since those were the weeks Ernest Mittle would be off.

She leafed idly through the pages of the current issue of the hotel trade magazine. The lead article reported that the New York association had raised its reward for capture of the Hotel Ripper. That brought the total of rewards offered to more than $100,000.

Mr. Pinckney came in with the signed letters and handed them to her for mailing.

"Perfect job, Zoe," he said. "As usual." He noticed the magazine on her desk and snapped his fingers. "I've been meaning to tell you," he said, "and it keeps slipping my mind. Last week a detective came by the manager's office and got a list of everyone in the hotel who sees that magazine."

"A detective, Mr. Pinckney? From the police department?"

"That's what his ID said. He wouldn't tell us what it was all about, just wanted the names of everyone who saw the magazine. Said they were checking the entire mailing list of the publisher."

"That's odd," Zoe said, her voice toneless.

"Isn't it?" Pinckney said. "I guessed it might have something to do with the Hotel Ripper case, but he wouldn't say. Can you imagine how big a job that will be? Why, we get six copies ourselves, and I suppose thousands are distributed. The list of people who read it must be endless."

"It's certainly a strange thing to do," Zoe said.

"Well," Pinckney said, shrugging, "I suppose they have their reasons. Whatever it is, I haven't heard any more about it."

He went back into his office and a moment later she heard the sound of his desk drawer being opened and the clink of bottle and glass.

She sat there staring down at the journal. She wondered if Mr. Pinckney's guess was correct, that the detective's request had something to do with the Hotel Ripper case. She could not conceive what the connection might be. As he said, thousands of people had access to the magazine.

Still, the incident was unsettling; it left her feeling uneasy and somehow threatened. She had a sense of the initiative slipping from her hands. Once again in her life she was being moved and manipulated by forces outside herself.

She had the same feeling of being pushed in directions she did not wish to go when, late in the afternoon, Dr. Oscar Stark phoned.

"Zoe," he said without preamble, "I want you in the hospital as soon as possible. Your tests are back and the results are even more disturbing than I thought they'd be. I talked over your case with a friend of mine, a very capable endocrinologist, and he agrees with me that you belong in a hospital before we have an Addisonian crisis."

"I won't go," she said flatly. "I don't need a hospital. I'm perfectly all right."

"Now you listen to me, young lady," he said sharply. "You are not perfectly all right. You are suffering from a pernicious disease that requires constant treatment and monitoring. All your vital signs point to a serious deterioration of your condition. We've got to find out why. I'm not talking about an operation; I'm talking about tests and observation. If you refuse, I can't be responsible for the consequences."

"No," she said, "I won't go to a hospital."

He was silent a moment.

"Very well," he said. "The only thing left for me to do is contact your parents. Then, unless you change your mind, I must ask you to consult another physician. I'm sorry, Zoe," he said softly before he hung up.

She could not have said exactly why she was being so obdurate. She did not doubt Dr. Stark's expertise. She supposed he was correct; she was seriously ill and her health was degenerating rapidly.