Drug of Choice

Michael Crichton writing as John Lange Drug of Choice

“The beginning of modern science is also the beginning of calamity.”

KARL JASPERS

“Give me librium or give me meth!”

ANON.

PART I: Coma

“Shall I tell you what knowledge is? It is to know both what one knows and what one does not know.”

Saying of Confucius

1. ANGEL IN COMA

The cop, positioned at the intersection of the Santa Ana Freeway and U.S. 85, saw it all. At three in the afternoon an Angel went past him, hunched over his bike, doing a hundred and ten. The cop later remembered that the Angel had a maniacal grin on his face as he raced forward, weaving among the passenger cars.

The policeman gave chase, light flashing and siren wailing, but traffic was heavy and the Angel managed to keep his distance. He left the freeway in the foothills, and headed north into the mountains, still going more than a hundred miles an hour. The cop followed, but the bike was taking chances, and managed to pull further ahead.

After twenty minutes, the police car came around a bend and the cop saw the bike at the side of the road, lying on its side. The motor was still on, spinning the rear wheel.

The Angel lay sprawled on the ground a short distance away. He had apparently been moving slowly at the time of the accident, because he was unmarked — no cuts, no bruises, no scrapes. He was, however, comatose, and could not be roused. The policeman checked the pulse, which was strong and regular. He tried for several minutes to awaken the Angel, and then returned to his car to call an ambulance.

Roger Clark, resident in internal medicine, went on duty at the Los Angeles Memorial Hospital at six. When he arrived on the floor, he went to see Baker, the day resident. Baker was in the dressing room, changing from his whites to street clothes. He looked tired.

“How’re things?” Clark said, stripping off his sportcoat and putting on a white jacket.

“Okay. Not much excitement, except for Mrs. Leaver. She still pulls out her intravenous lines when she thinks nobody’s looking.”

Clark nodded, stepping to the mirror and straightening his tie.

“And then Henry,” Baker said. “He had the DT’s this morning, and sat in the corner arguing with the little green men.”

“How is he now?”

“We gave him some librium, but watch him. One of the nurses said he felt her up last night.”

“Who’s that?”

“Alice.”

“Alice? He must really be hallucinating if he felt her up.”

“Well, just don’t mention it to Alice. She’s very sensitive.”

Baker finished dressing, lit a cigarette, and rapidly went through the status of the other patients. Nothing much had changed since Clark had gone off duty twenty-four hours before.

“Oh,” Baker said. “Almost forgot a new admission. One of those Hell’s Angels. The cops brought him in after he had a motorcycle accident. He was comatose and he hasn’t come out yet.”

“You ask for a neurological consult?”

“Yeah, but they probably won’t get around to it until morning.”

“What’s his status now?”

“We did the usual stuff. Skull films negative, CSF normal, chest films okay, EEG vaguely abnormal, but nothing specific. All his reflexes are there.”

“Cardiorespiratory depression?”

“Nope. He’s just fine. To look at him, you’d think he was asleep.”

“You treating?”

“No, we’re waiting for the consult. Let the neuro boys play around with him for a while.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“No. That’s it.” Baker smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

When he was alone, Clark made a quick round of the wards, checking on the patients. Everyone seemed in pretty good shape. When he came to the comatose Angel, he paused.

The patient was young, in his early twenties. Nobody had washed him since admission; his hair was greasy, his face was unshaven and streaked with grit, and his fingernails were rimmed with black. He lay quietly in bed, not moving, breathing slowly and easily. Clark checked him over, listening to the heart, tapping out the reflexes. He could find nothing wrong. They had put an intravenous line into him, and had catheterized him in case of urinary retention. The catheter tube led to a bottle on the floor. He looked at it.

The urine was bright blue.

Frowning, he held the bottle up to the light and looked closely. It was an odd, vivid blue, almost fluorescent.

What turned urine blue?

He went back to the desk, hoping to catch Baker and ask about the urine, but Baker was gone. Sandra, the night nurse, was there.

“Were you on duty when they brought that Angel in?”

“Arthur Lewis? Yes.”

“What happened?”