Chapter 9 Levi #2
The name hit hard. St. Patrick’s. My dad’s old battleground.
A hospital whispered about even back then—secret transfers, missing charts, surgeries logged with half the details they should’ve had.
A place I used to hear about from the top of the stairs, listening to arguments I wasn’t supposed to hear.
I might have only been nine, but I was a kid in a house that wasn’t happy, and I remembered that shit every single day.
I kept walking, faster this time, but Frank fell easily into step beside me. His voice dropped. “They’ve boxed up the files for us. Records office wants us there in the next half hour.”
“Let’s go,” I said, although every part of me wanted to do anything but.
St. Patrick’s Hospital sat on a hill overlooking the city, built of brick with newer extensions bolted on over the years. Inside, the air smelled like disinfectant, and the walls were that washed-out cream color every hospital seemed to use.
The records clerk was waiting for us behind a reinforced glass window, a stack of folders on a cart at her side. There seemed to be a lot there for one person. “Detectives? The Lannon files and related paperwork as requested. Everything from intake to surgical follow-up.”
“Related how?”
She peered at the form. “Other knee operations, other intakes worked on by the same surgeon, and so on.” She slid the clipboard toward me. “Sign here.”
I signed, and we wheeled the cart into a small consultation room—the kind meant for grief or bad news: two chairs, a narrow table, lighting that hummed overhead.
The administrator followed, sat on the sofa, and supervised us as she filled in a pile of forms, humming every so often.
Frank sat down, opened the first cardboard folder, and picked up the file for our knee guy.
“Looks as if he had a full ortho workup,” he said, flipping through scans.
“Came off his bike during a pursuit. Knee shattered. Lots of soft tissue damage.” We sifted through the files.
Surgical notes. Post-op prescriptions. Follow-up visits.
He’d been into the hospital on more than one occasion, post-fights, a knife wound in ’94, burns in ’95.
Then Frank frowned. “Hmm… take a look at this.” He tapped a line halfway down the page, dated August 20th, and read it out loud. “Patient discharged against medical advice.”
“He discharged himself?” Nothing about that was odd. “Patients do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t his signature…” He pulled out another sheet of paper, copies of insurance paperwork.
“This is his signature, but whoever signed off on the AMA didn’t leave a full name.
Just a scribble. Initial maybe. Looks like it could be O and D?
Overdose?” He flicked back to a surgical report from the surgeon, “Wait, an Oscar Dryden-Wells was the surgeon? Yeah, that could be an O and a D, his initials.”
“The surgeon signed him out?” I glanced over at the administrator, who was watching our progress with interest. “Does that happen? A surgeon signing a patient out on AMA?”
“No. Without the patient’s signature, the hospital would be wide open legally.”
“Weird, right?” Frank asked as he flipped pages. “Think it’s nothing?”
“No idea, maybe.”
“We have a Doctor Dryden-Wells on staff.” The clerk had moved from the sofa, clearly caught up in the excitement of what Frank had found.
“But not the Dryden-Wells in those records. The current Doctor Dryden-Wells is a surgical resident in his final year, way too young. I guess with the unusual name, he could be related?”
Frank shut the last folder. “The team’s going to want to see that discharge note, so we’ll scan it, then follow up with the younger surgeon while we’re here.
Hell, maybe he’s a son or something and can solve the whole case for us.
” Frank snorted. “That would tie it all up in a very pretty bow, right?”
We photographed each sheet and the boxes, then thanked the administrator, Penny, and followed her directions to the surgical wing.
After getting lost three times, we finally found someone to talk to.
A young guy sat behind the main surgical desk, headset on, one phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, another ringing insistently beside him.
He looked about twelve, hair sticking up as if he’d been running his hands through it all morning, scrubs wrinkled, badge half flipped.
We waited while he tried to handle both calls at once.
“Uh-huh, ma’am, I understand, but I can’t page a surgeon mid-procedure…
yes… yes, I know your time is valuable—hold please.
” He stabbed a button, dropped that line, and picked up the other.
“Dr. Patel’s rounds start in twenty minutes, sir.
I can leave a message if—sir? Sir, please don’t shout—hold, please. ”
He finally dropped both phones onto the desk, exhaled hard, and muttered something that sounded like, “Kill me now.”
Frank snorted. “Hospitals. Hate ‘em. If I ever need one, shoot me.”
The kid startled, straightened, then blinked at our badges. “Sorry. Long morning.” The kid scrubbed a hand down his face. “What can I help you with?”
“We’re looking to speak with Dr. Dryden-Wells,” I said.
The receptionist typed quickly, eyes scanning his monitor. “Dryden-Wells… surgical resident? He’s… not on call today. Says here he’s on vacation.” He tapped the screen.
Frank leaned a little closer. “Can you tell us when his vacation began?”
The kid froze, eyes wide. “Uh… no. I mean—I can’t legally give out personal details. HIPAA doesn’t technically cover staff, but privacy laws still apply. I’m only allowed to confirm employment and schedule unless you have a warrant or paperwork from administration.”
“So, what can you give us?” I asked.
“I can page his supervisor or the attending surgeon today if you want a statement for your case.” He paused then. “What is your case? Is it interesting? Why do you need to talk to a doctor?” The kid clicked a few more things. “Is about something… bad?”
“That’s confidential,” Frank said.
The kid swallowed hard and nodded. “Right. Okay. I’ll put in the page for the attending. You can wait over there.”
We stepped aside as he picked up the phone again, voice slipping back into the frantic cadence of someone barely keeping the place upright.
The attending surgeon reached us before the kid could finish his next flurry of calls. He was in his sixties, annoyance radiating off him with every step.
“Detectives?” he asked, not bothering to hide the impatience in his voice.
“That’s us,” Frank replied.
“We’re following up on a case,” I said. “We needed to speak with Dr. Dryden-Wells, but understand he’s on vacation.”
“If you know that, then why are you bothering me?” The attending pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly already done with us.
“Was it a scheduled vacation?”
He blinked at us, clearly trying to recall the answer. “Um, no, he requested last-minute leave due to a family matter. He’s out of state until next week.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Frank asked.
The attending gave him a flat look. “Even if I knew—and I don’t—we both know I can’t give you that.”
“But you approved his leave?” I asked.
“No,” the attending said curtly. “Admin did. I got the notification the same time everyone else did, and it was… abrupt.” His pager chirped on his hip, echoing down the hall. He slapped a hand over it, irritated. “Anything else?”
“Just need to know if you can confirm his connection to Oscar Dryden-Wells,” Frank said. “Family? Training? Anything?”
The attending shook his head. “Oscar Dryden-Wells was gone before I started here. Don’t know if they’re related, and I don’t particularly care.
” The pager went off again, more insistent this time.
He sighed, already stepping back. “Look, gentlemen, I have three patients prepped for surgery and a fourth who shouldn’t be walking around with a fractured femur.
If you need anything else, go through the admin team. ”
Then he turned and strode off without waiting for a reply.
Frank watched him disappear into the surgical wing. “Charming guy.”
“Overworked,” I muttered.
“Underpaid,” Frank added.
“Annoyed we exist,” I said.
“Story of our lives.”
But underneath the banter, something coiled tight in my chest. Last-minute leave. No forwarding details. Abrupt exit. A surgeon connected—maybe loosely, maybe not—to a man found dumped and butchered from a case tangled in my father’s past.
Everything was sliding together in ways I didn’t like.