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Engstrom stood and shook our hands as I introduced Jacobi and myself.
As we took seats across from her desk, I noticed that her papers were in neatly squared stacks on her desk, pens and pencils all pointing in the same direction in an enamel tray, her diplomas evenly spaced on the wall.
Only the anxious darting of her light gray eyes from me to Jacobi and back again gave me a hint that her life wasn’t all hospital corners.
I was looking at Jacobi when a strange expression crossed his face. His mouth twitched, and his eyes squinted.
I’d worked with Jacobi enough years to know what that look meant.
He recognized her.
Dr. Engstrom hadn’t noticed. She clasped her slender hands under her chin and began to speak unprompted.
She told us that the hospital staff was in turmoil since the jury verdict yesterday, that she herself felt very shaken. “We don’t know who will have jobs,” she said. “Or if the hospital will close. Anything’s possible now.”
“You think you’ll be fired?” I asked her.
“I’ve been worried about that for years. Those inexplicable deaths have made me a wreck,” she said, sweeping her hands through her shining hair.
“I reported my concerns to Carl Whiteley. I spoke to him more than once,” she told us. “In fact, I prepared a report of what I thought were pharmaceutical-based errors.
“But Carl and the legal department assured me that my department wasn’t at fault. He said that somebody at the hospital was playing a joke, a prank, and eventually they’d be caught.
“So on one level, I was relieved. Of course, I know that our computer system is fail-safe, so there was no way. . . .”
She turned her face to the window as her voice trailed off.
“Dr. Engstrom,” Jacobi said, “I’m an old-fashioned guy, as you can probably tell from looking at me. I’m not that familiar with computers and such.”
“It’s very simple, Inspector. Our computer is programmed to dispense medication when a diagnosis is inputted into the system. It’s impossible to prescribe the wrong medication because the machine simply won’t dispense the order if it doesn’t match the diagnosis.”
“Can’t someone fool with the program?” Jacobi asked. “I mean, don’t some people have passwords?”
“Everyone on my staff can enter the diagnoses as written into the computer, but they can’t change any data. I’m the only one who can do that, and I have a biometric password.”
“Beg pardon?” said Jacobi.
“My password is my fingerprint.”
“But can’t a doctor enter the wrong diagnosis?” I asked. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Theoretically, that would be possible, but in actuality, it can’t happen. The doctors themselves are the first checkpoint. My staff is the second. The computer is armed and alarmed against tampering. And you have no idea how methodical I am.
“I check and recheck prescriptions against the charts all day long. Not just my own work, but the work of all the people in my department.
“People joke that I’m half a computer myself.”
I said, “But let me get this straight, it all hangs on the diagnosis?”
“That’s correct.”
“So you personally could change any doctor’s diagnosis—that’s what you’re saying?”
Engstrom stared numbly at me as I spoke, and then she snapped, “That’s outrageous. No, it’s beyond outrageous, it’s completely nuts. I’ll take a polygraph test anytime. Just say the word.”
“We may take you up on that later,” I said. “But right now, we’re just talking. Do you know Marie St. Germaine?”
“No. Who is she?”
