"I suppose," Jazz responded. "The word is, it was a woman in her thirties, in for a hysterectomy. Seriously, why don't you go on up and ask the nurses if it bothered them."

For a beat, Roger stared at this exotic-looking nurse whom he had originally thought of being attractive and rather sexy, while she brazenly stared back. Now he thought she was almost eerie, reminding him to a degree of his reaction to Dr. Cabreo and to the story about Dr. Najah. He couldn't help but remember Cindy's comment about people working the night shift being quirky, though maybe "quirky" wasn't nearly strong enough. Maybe "neurotic" was closer to the mark. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd find the whole lot of people on his supposed suspect list equally bizarre. One way or the other, it was becoming clear he would have to work on Rosalyn to get the transferees' personal records, no matter the risk.

"What is this?" Jazz sneered. "The silent treatment, or are we having some kind of juvenile staring contest?"

"Sorry," Roger said, breaking off eye contact. "I was just shocked to learn about yet another death. It's upsetting and alarming. I'm surprised you seem to be able to take it so lightly."

"It's called professional distance," Jazz said. "Those of us who actually treat people have to maintain it." She brought her feet down with a thud, tossed her magazine to the side, and stood up. "I got patients to see. Enjoy yourself upstairs on OB-GYN."

"Just a second," Roger said. He grabbed Jazz's arm as she tried to brush past him. He was surprised at its muscularity. "I have a few more questions."

Jazz looked down at Roger's hand gripping her upper arm. There was a tense moment, but she controlled herself. She raised her eyes to Roger's. "Let go of my arm or you will be very sorry. You hear what I'm saying?"

Roger let go and recrossed his arms to be completely non-threatening. He didn't want to give this woman any excuse for physical violence, of which he intuited she was capable. In truth, she was scaring him. "I understand you transferred from Saint Francis recently. Would you mind telling me why?"

It was Jazz's turn to stare before responding. "What is this, an interrogation?"

"As I told you, I'm chief of the medical staff. There was a mild complaint about your attitude by one of the doctors, and I'm looking into it. Frankly, this doctor has a history of unfounded complaints, but I still am obligated to check into the allegation." Roger was lying, but he felt he had to come up with some explanation for his questioning her on the spur of the moment. The nursing staff was not under his jurisdiction.

"What's this freaking doctor's name?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose the individual's identity."

Jazz broke off eye contact with Roger. Her eyes darted around the room. Roger could see that her nostrils were flared, and she was breathing deeply. She was no longer wary. She was now definitely angry.

"Let me explain," Roger said. "I'm inquiring if you left Saint Francis for a similar reason. Did you have trouble with any doctor on the Saint Francis staff? We have to ask."

"Hell, no!" Jazz snapped. "I might have had a few words with my charge nurse on occasion, but never a doctor. I mean, I could count on one hand the number of times I even saw a doctor over there on the night shift. They were all home, screwing their wives."

"I see," Roger said. He wasn't about to comment on Jazz's last inappropriate point but picked up on the first. "So you also felt your charge nurse over at Saint Francis was not as competent as you would have liked?"

A wry smile appeared on Jazz's face. "You guessed it, but it's not surprising. The night shift attracts some weirdoes."

Roger nodded. As a result of his first night-shift visit, he couldn't have agreed more. "Out of curiosity, did you ever think you might share some of the blame if you didn't get along too well with either charge nurse?"

Any vestige of a smile disappeared from Jazz's face. "Oh, yeah! It's my fault that these two fat ladies were so stupid. Give me a break!"

"So why did you transfer?"

"I wanted a change, and I wanted to move into the city."

"Why do you personally work the night shift?"

"Because there's a lot less bullshit. There's still some, I admit that, but it's a lot less than during the day or even during the evening. When I was a corpsman in the military, I was assigned to the Marines for independent duty. I like working on my own the best."

"So you were in the military."

"Damn straight! I was with the Marines during the first Gulf War."

"Interesting," Roger said. "Tell me, what is the background of the name Rakoczi?"

"Hungarian. My grandfather was a freedom fighter."

"One other question if you don't mind," Roger said, trying to be nonchalant. "Did you know that when you were at Saint Francis, there was a series of similar deaths, back in November?"

"It was the same: It would have been hard not to be aware."

"Thanks for your time," Roger said, pushing away from the countertop. "I think I will follow your suggestion and go up to OB-GYN, but I might have a few more questions. Would you mind if I came back if that were the case?"

"Suit yourself."

Roger tried to smile reassuringly at Jazz before walking out of the utility room and heading toward the bank of elevators. As he walked, he shook his head imperceptively. He couldn't believe it.

He'd talked to two people on his list and heard about a third, and he felt he could make a case for any of them possibly being deranged enough to be doing the unconscionable.

Jazz leaned out of the utility room just enough to watch Roger head down toward the elevators. She couldn't believe it. Trouble was coming out of the woodwork. The sanctioning had been going so well until Lewis, then all hell had broken loose. And just when she had eliminated one potential disaster, another one had popped up. "What a bastard!" she murmured. She knew from the way he dressed and spoke that he was another one of those damn Ivy League types.

When Roger reached the elevators and pushed the call button, he turned and looked back toward the nurses' station. Jazz pulled her head back. She didn't want him to see her staring after him like she was concerned. She shook her head, then slammed an open palm onto the countertop. A few loose papers wafted to the floor.

"What the hell should I do?" she murmured. She shook her head again. The thought went through her mind to call Mr. Bob, but she quickly dismissed it. She had the sense that if she complained about anything, she wouldn't get any more names. She'd be dismissed from Operation Winnow. It was as simple as that.

Jazz shrugged. She couldn't think of anything. Although the worry gnawed at her, she didn't know what to do. At the same time, she knew she had to be careful, because this freaking admin type could end up being a whole lot more than a ripple, the way he was talking.

The elevator door slid open and Roger stepped out onto the seventh floor. To the left, beyond double doors, was the medical ward, and to the right through similar doors was OB-GYN. He pushed into OB-GYN. In contrast to the surgical floor below, there were a lot of people in evidence both at the nurses' station and in the hallway. He even saw an orderly pushing a gurney with a patient shrouded in a sheet toward the patient elevators. Roger guessed it was the patient he'd come up to inquire about.

Advancing to the nurses' station, Roger stood for a moment and just watched. He guessed it was the resuscitation team along with some of the floor's nurses. The resuscitation cart with its defibrillator was parked against the corridor wall. The people were talking in small groups, most likely debriefing themselves about the failed resuscitation attempt.