YPSILANTI, MICHIGAN
Chapter 39
THE HOSPITAL’S SECRETS

Hank pulled into St. Cecelia Hospital’s emergency lot. Just as he spotted a parking space, a blue-haired elderly lady who couldn’t see over the steering wheel took it. He slammed on the brakes, spilling his coffee into his lap. He ended up in the ER borrowing a set of scrubs from the triage nurse, who couldn’t stop laughing.

“All you need now is a stethoscope,” she giggled, returning to her patients.

Hank turned right, making his way through the hospital’s tunnels until he reached the Pathology Department. With the staff gone for the day, it was quiet and a little eerie. Flo’s desk was empty, and that was a relief.

Hank pushed open doors marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ The first person he saw was Firdaus, the lab technician who smelled like curry—the same stranger who had made the mysterious incision under the dead child’s arm.

“Mr. Firdaus.” Hank extended his hand, but the man apparently wasn’t familiar with the custom. Syringh Firdaus’s dark eyes darted like a trapped animal.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Hank added. The conversation was noticeably one-sided. “Don’t you work for the State?”

“Sir, I certainly do. I was visiting a colleague this evening. Are you not a policeman? You are perhaps dressed for Halloween?” He smiled nervously.

“Halloween. That’s rich.” He glanced into the empty room behind Firdaus. “I don’t see anyone here. Where’s your friend?”

“My colleague seems to have left already. I shall catch up with him.” Firdaus brushed past Hank, hitting his black attaché case against the wall. Some papers spilled out, and Firdaus quickly grabbed them. Hank watched him disappear down the dim corridor.

“That man doesn’t belong here,” Hank muttered. “Question is: where does he belong?”

Dr. Walker’s lab coat still hung askew on its hook near the door. Hank sat at the pathologist’s desk, examining the paperwork scattered across it. Copies of Dr. Golden’s notes were on one side. He read through them and found nothing different from the report on his own desk. He searched the drawers; every folder was empty. The inbox was also empty. Hank remembered Firdaus’ bulging bag.

A man in green scrubs that matched Hank’s own burst through the doors unexpectedly, and Hank jumped. Since the shooting, he’d been on edge. He patted his gun for reassurance. The man dragged a plastic bag across the room.

“You got any tags?” he asked Hank.

“I don’t work in this department.”

“You sure dress the part. I have an arm and a leg here. They need tagging.” A surgical mask covered most of his face. “Guy got trapped between two cars while fixing a flat.”

“Like I said, I don’t work in here.” Hank backed away from the plastic bag, whose contents seemed to be settling a bit.

“I need to tag these limbs. Be right back.” The tech clearly thought Hank was joking as he hurried away, leaving the bag at Hank’s feet. Hank was certain the bag rustled.

It’s my imagination, he reassured himself. He went into the laboratory to see if he’d missed anything, but kept an ear out for the bag, just in case.

A lab bench held microscopes, various beakers, and other unusual-looking equipment. A drawer contained spatulas, markers, and boxes of labeled slides. At the very back was a journal with scribbled data. He turned to the last entry and read:

Microscopic examination shows evidence of meningitis and possible early nephritis. Unusual structure—DNA. Suspected pathogen: Encephalitozoon cuniculi. Mode of transmission: unknown. It is not typically a virulent organism in humans. Hair appears too coarse for a pediatric case and resembles other primate types. Hair distribution is abnormal for a human, especially a child of unknown age, possibly alopecia areata. Probable sexual penetration by organ or object; likely of a chronic nature. The body has been bathed, including the orifices.

“And I already knew the bit about the bath.” Hank said aloud. He recalled the long red hairs in Underhill’s master bath. He slipped the doctor’s notebook into his waistband and grabbed the box containing Sarah Underhill’s tissue slides.

He turned off the fluorescent lights as he left the room. Mr. Green Scrubs came back and was placing a tag on the big toe of the recently amputated leg. Before Hank could vomit or pass out, the tech grabbed a mutilated arm and tagged it as well.

“Glad you’re back. This needs to go in the fridge.”

“Sure. Right away,” Hank played along. “By the way, do you know a guy named Firdaus? He’s a kind of swarthy little fella.”

“Nope, I sure don’t.”

“What about Dr. Walker? Did you know him?”

“I knew Gene Walker; he was a great guy. A real stand-up fellow. Well, I guess you couldn’t say that anymore. Heh, heh. Sick joke. The job tends to bring it out, you know.”

“What are they saying about the accident?” Hank asked as nonchalantly as he could.

“Most think it’s damn funny nobody saw anything. Plus, everyone wonders why the ambulance took him all the way to County General if he got run down right here at St. C’s. Why not just haul a gurney out the back door and bring him in here?” He looked suspiciously at Hank. “Are those your slides?”

“I’m consulting on a case. I need to review these specimens. Thanks. Appreciate your help.”

“No problem.” The tech squinted at Hank. “You know, there was a picture in the paper yesterday of some cop over by Cedar Creek standing in a field holding a shovel. He looked just like you, spitting image. You got a twin?”

“Nope,” Hank answered honestly. “My mom never had any kids that lived.” He headed out to the parking lot before the tech could figure that one out.
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The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31 only. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

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