All language subtitles for The.Hospital.1971.BluRay.1080p.DTS-HD.MA.2.AVC.REMUX-FraMeSToR.eng

On Monday morning,

a patient named Guernsey,
male, middle 70s,

was admitted to the hospital
complaining of chest pains.

He had been referred
by a nursing home

where the doctor had diagnosed
his condition as Angina pectoris.

Now, it is axiomatic

that nursing-home doctors
are always wrong.

The intern who admitted
Mr. Guernsey,

however, accepted the diagnosis
and prescribed morphine,

a drug suitable for angina,

but not at all suitable
for emphysema,

which is unfortunately
what the old man actually had.

Within an hour, the patient became
unresponsive and diaphoretic,

and was raced up
to Intensive Care,

with an irregular pulse of 150,

blood pressure 90 over 60,
respiration rapid and shallow.

The resident on
duty in Intensive Care

now compounded the blunder
by treating the old man

for pulmonary edema.

He gave him digitalis,
diuretics and oxygen.

This restored
the old man's color,

and he was sent to his room
in the Holly Pavilion,

ruddy-complected
and peacefully asleep.

In point of fact,
the patient was in

C.O.2 narcosis and died
at 7:30 that evening.

I mention all
this only to explain

how the bed in Room
806 became available.

The intern involved

was a prickly young buck
named Schaefer,

who had a good thing
going for him

with a technician in
the Hematology Lab.

In the haphazard fashion
of hospital romances,

Dr. Schaefer had been
zapping this girl

on wheelchairs, stretchers,
pantry shelves,

in the kitchen, in the morgue,

in the dark corners
of corridors,

standing up, sitting down...

So you can imagine

what an available bed
meant to him.

Hey, Sheila,
this is Howard, Sheila.

Hey, listen, I got a bed
for us, for tonight.

A real, honest-to-God bed.

Dr. Schaefer.

Dr. Schaefer.

Listen, did you know that Dr. Schaefer
was in Room 806

because he's dead?

What?

I'm just telling you that
Dr. Schaefer is dead.

What do you want, Perez?

I don't know what the hell
this is about,

but Dr. Schaefer
is in Room 806

with an I.V. running,
and he's dead.

I didn't even know he was sick.

Perez, what the hell
are you talking about?

Do you know what
she's talking about?

No.

Maybe I'm going crazy.
I don't know.

Isn't Room 806
the patient Guernsey?

Did something happen that
maybe I didn't know about?

Perez, I don't know what
you're talking about.

This is the nuttiest thing
I ever saw.

Dr. Schaefer is
in Room 806, dead.

What Dr. Schaefer?
Our Dr. Schaefer?

Our Dr. Schaefer.

The one who's always
grabbing everybody's ass.

Do you know what
she's talking about?

No.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

What do you mean,
"Dr. Schaefer's in Room 806, dead"?

I mean that he's lying
on the far bed,

stone dead
and with an I.V.

If you don't believe me,

maybe you ought to just get up
and go look for yourself.

All right,
maybe you'd better call Mrs. Christie.

Dr. Bock.

Yes, Mrs. Christie,
what is it?

No, no, it's all right.

I'd have to be getting up
any minute, anyway.

Miss, uh,

sorry, I missed that, uh.

Would you say it again, please?

Yes, I know.

Yes, uh...

Uh, Schaefer,
the stud with the glasses,

fancies all the nurses.

I'm afraid I don't understand.

What do you...
what do you mean?

Was he sick?

I mean, was...

Uh, w-what... what was
the cause of death?

Uh, well, was he being treated?

I mean,
I don't understand, uh...

Uh...

What was he doing in the bed?

I mean, you did say...

Uh, well,
Mrs. Christie, uh,

did you call the office?

Good, I'll... I'll...

No, no, no, no, it's all right.
I, uh...

I'd be getting my wake-up call
any minute, anyway.

People!

Hey, man, there he goes.

Let's go and get him!

Yeah!

Hey!

We're the hope.

What do you say, Sundstrom?

Just how much longer do you
think your monopolistic,

exclusionary,
racist policies will work?

We're the hope!

Now, hold it.

Herb!

I'm glad I caught up with you.

How's it going?

One of my interns
dropped dead this morning.

Oh, really?
I'm sorry to hear that.

I understand
you moved out to a hotel.

Yes.

Things got that
bad with Phyllis?

It's been that bad for 24 years.

You gonna be solicitous?

Yeah.

Ooh, God.

Herb, listen, I'm the guy

that brought you
into this hospital

so I think I can skip
the diplomatic overtures.

Marty stopped me
in the hall yesterday,

very upset.

He had just had lunch with you,

said you sounded suicidal.

Now, Marty tends
to be extravagant,

but he's not the only one.

Jack Singer mentioned,
the other day,

that you were
boozing it up a lot.

Let's face it,
you have been sloughing off.

I understand you haven't even
been doing rounds.

I'm going to do rounds today.

Herb, do you want to take
a couple of days off?

No.

Go down to Montego Bay,

get drunk, get laid,
get a little sun?

For God's sake, John,
I'm 53 years old,

with all the attendant fears.

I just left my wife,
after 24 years.

A standard case of
menopausal melancholy.

Maybe you wanna talk
to Joe Einhorn.

I don't wanna see a psychiatrist,
stop worrying about me.

All I gotta do is get back to work,
I'll be fine.

I'm sorry
if I caused you concern.

Yeah?

Sid just called
from St. Luke's.

He heard the demonstrators
up there

are planning a march
to join a bunch down here.

Oh, God.
Did you call the cops?

Sure.

They're all in 806, Doctor.

What happened?

I think I'll just let Mrs. Christie
tell you about it.

Oh, boy.

What happened?

I've seen some pretty good SNAFUs.
But this one...

There's a certain
splendor to this one.

One of the night nurses, a per diem,
thought Schaefer was a patient

and plugged an I.V. into him.
He was a diabetic, you know.

What do you mean
she plugged an I.V. into him?

It's a really screwed-up
story. What happened was

we had an old man in that bed who died
last night.

So the bed was available.

You know Schaefer.
He's Sammy Stud.

He talked a nurse
into zapping him on the bed?

A girl from Hematology
he's been running around with.

God, it's a Roman farce!

I thought I heard you
out here, Doctor.

Nancy!

I suggest you do that right now.

Dr. Bock, I'm so
terribly sorry. I...

As I understand it,

one of the nurses inadvertently
administered an I.V.

To Schaefer. How the hell
could that happen?

We ought to straighten
this out somewhere else.

Yes. Very good idea.

Oh, God, what a mess!

Well, these things happen,
of course.

I suppose, I'd better call
the Medical Examiner.

I still don't understand
what happened.

It took us about an hour
to get it sorted out.

It seems a patient
named Guernsey

died last night, in 806.

But that information wasn't given
to the night nurses.

Uh, these things happen.

At any rate,
according to the cardex,

the patient, Guernsey, was down
for 25 m.g. of Sparine at q. 6h.

And Mrs. Reardon sent Nurse Perez
to give him his 12:00 shot.

In the meantime, it seems

Dr. Schaefer usurped
that particular bed

for his own purposes.

Dr. Brubaker suggests
it was for a love tryst

and some weight is
given that hypothesis

by the fact that
Dr. Schaefer was naked.

I got the drift,
Mrs. Christine.

In other words,
Nurse Perez went in

and sedated Dr. Schaefer,

thinking it was
the patient, Guernsey.

My God! What I don't
understand...

May I finish, please, Doctor?

After Perez gave him his shot,

she noticed the I.V. was
pinched off on the bed.

So, she reported this
back to Mrs. Reardon

who then assigned Nurse Rivers
to restart the I.V.

Now, Rivers was a float.

She didn't even know the staff people
on the floor.

Nobody knew what the patient Guernsey
looked like anyway,

since he'd only been
admitted that morning.

So she plugged
an I.V. into him.

Yes.

How much?

A liter.

Five percent glucose solution
won't kill anybody.

Wasn't dehydrated, was he?

Did he have any other
ancillary conditions?

Didn't anybody bother to go check on him
during the night?

Even under the impression
that he was merely a patient?

Was he hyperosmolar?
Did he have a bad heart?

He must have had
some sort of thrombosis.

I want the p-post done here,
Mr. Hitchcock.

You and I better have a little chat,
Mrs. Christie,

about your excessive
use of float nurses.

I've got nearly a 1,000
nurses in this hospital...

And every time one
of them has her period,

she disappears for three days.

My doctors complain regularly

they can't find the same nurse
on the same floor

two days in a row.

Now, what am I gonna tell
this boy, Schaefer's parents?

That a substitute
nurse assassinated him

because she couldn't
tell the doctors

from the patients on the floor?

My God!

The incompetence here
is absolutely radiant!

two separate nurses
walk into a room

and stick needles in a man

and one of those is
a Number 18 Jelco,

tourniquet the poor
son of a bitch,

anchor the poor son of a bitch's arm
with adhesive tape,

and it's the wrong
poor son of a bitch!

My God! I mean,

where do you train
your nurses, Mrs. Christie?

Dachau?

All right.

Wrap him up and get him
down to Pathology.

I'm especially interested
in his blood sugar.

A liter of glucose
never killed anybody.

Your ladies must have
done something else to him.

Will there be
anything else, Doctor?

No.

Before you call
the family, Doctor,

I wish you'd speak to
Mr. Mead about this.

We'd like, naturally,
to avoid litigation.

A few things
have been piling up.

Would you like to go into them?

A quickie.

Dr. Esterhazy wants to start hiring
temporary people

to cover the summer vacations.

He says, last year,
some of the replacement people

didn't receive their checks
until they waited six months.

He wonders whether you
could do something

about getting these
people paid more promptly.

Ms. Aronovici complains

the lab reports are coming
in slow into the E.R.

I called Dr. Immelman
about that,

and she says three microscopes
have been stolen out of her lab

in the last two months.

Charlie Walters also
complains about pilferage.

I've clumped all these
together for you.

Now, as you know, Doctor,

we've agreed to take over
the local ambulance cases

as part of
the hospital's commitment

to the community,

and it's created
a serious overload in E.R.

I don't know why
this was dumped in our lap,

but they seem to think...

Find out if Dr. Einhorn
is in his office.

Which Dr. Einhorn?

Ophthalmology or Psychiatry?

Psychiatry. Never mind.
I'll look in, myself.

Is he in?

Uh-huh.

Can I have a minute, Joe?

Of course.

I've been having periods
of acute depression, recently.

Apparently, it's becoming
noticeable.

A number of people
have remarked about it.

Anyway, uh, John Sundstrom
thought it might be a good idea

if I spoke to you about it.

Do you want to sit down, Herb?

No. I'm not good
at confessional.

Well, what can I tell you?

The last year, two, three...

it goes way back, I suppose.

I can remember entertaining
suicidal thoughts

as a college student.

At any rate,

I've always found
life demanding.

I'm an only child of
a lower-middle-class people.

I was the glory of my parents.

"My son, the doctor."
You know.

I was always top of my class.

Scholarship to Harvard.
The boy genius. The...

Brilliant eccentric.

Terrified of women,

clumsy at sports.

God, Joe, how do I
go about this?

I understand you just
separated from your wife.

I left her a dozen times.

She left me a dozen times.

We stayed together through a process
of attrition.

Obviously,
sadomasochistic dependency.

My home is hell.

We've got a 23-year-old boy.

I threw him out of
the house last year.

A shaggy-haired Maoist.

I don't know where he is.

Presumably, building bombs
in basements

as an expression of his
universal brotherhood.

I've got a 17-year-old daughter

who's had two abortions
in two years,

got arrested last week
at a rock festival,

for pushing drugs.

They let her go.

The typical
affluent American family.

I don't mean to be
facile about this.

I blame myself for
those two useless young people.

I never exercised
parental authority.

I'm no good at that.

Oh, God, I'm no good
at this, either, Joe.

Let's just forget
the whole thing.

I'm sorry I bothered you.

How serious are your
suicidal speculations, Herb?

Well, I amuse myself with different ways
of killing myself

that don't look like suicide.

I wouldn't want to do my family
out of the insurance.

Well, digitalis will give you
an arrhythmia.

A good toxologist
would find traces.

Potassium's much better.

60 milli-equivalent.
Instantaneous.

Of course, then you're stuck with how
to get rid of the hypodermic.

40 milli-equivalent.

Gives you time
to dispose of the evidence.

You seem to have given considerable
thought to the matter.

Hmm.

You ought to know

that a man who talks about it
all the time never does it.

I don't know.

I see a man exhausted,

emotionally drained,

riddled with guilt,

has been systematically
stripping himself of wife,

children, friends,

isolating himself
from the world.

Are you impotent?

Intermittently.

What does that mean?

Means I haven't tried
in so long, I don't know.

Let's just drop
the whole thing, Joe.

I feel humiliated
and stupid. I...

Just got to pull myself together

and get back into my work.

I'm sorry I troubled you.

Take care of yourself.
I'll see you later.

Ten-four, save our homes.

two-four, we the poor.

Don't go 'round.
Don't tear us down.

Ten-four, save our homes.

Two-four, we the poor.

Don't go 'round.
Don't tear us down.

Ten-four, save our homes.

Two-four, we the poor.

Don't go 'round.
Don't tear...

Dr. Taffy, Dr. Taffy, Dr. Lewis Taffy.

Dr. Rashid, Dr. Rashid.

- All set?
- Yes, sir.

Who was that exotic group?

You got me. They've been here
about an hour.

I think they're with
the old man in, uh, 806, sir.

Dr. Perry said he picked the tuberculosis
and liver nodes for today, right?

Yes, sir.

Good, because that's
the one I studied up.

A hell of a case.

Yes, sir.

All right, who's presenting?

I am, sir. Should I start?

Mr. Hemmings?

Mr. Hemmings!

Is there anybody seated who
hasn't been to see me first?

Is there anybody here
who has not given me

their health-insurance number?

Emergency Room.

I don't know, Sybil.
What's his name?

Would you wait a moment, please?

I'm on the phone.

Can't you see I'm on the phone?

I am, Sybil.
I'm looking.

Just...

Of course not.
Do they ever?

Would you mind, please?
Excuse me.

32?

Telescope sights.
They follow me everywhere.

Three big black men.

Naked, completely exposed,
right in the street.

Hanging down to their knees.
It's disgusting.

Did you call upstairs
and tell them

to admit a patient
named Mitgang?

Is that the concussion?

I don't know.

They said you didn't
fill out the chart.

Where do you come
off sending anyone

up to Admitting, without my ok?

Sally, would you get
the hell out of here?

The patient's in
the holding room.

You want his Blue Cross number,

you go in and you get
his Blue Cross number.

Dr. Spezio,

may I see you for a moment, Doctor,
if you don't mind?

Doctor,
is this your handwriting,

if you don't mind?

Am I supposed to read this?

Was that a sprain?
Was that a broken wrist?

I can't read that scribbling.

I mean,
I have to bill these people.

I know you doctors
are the ministering angels,

and I'm the bitch from
the accounting department,

but I have my job to do, too.

I mean,
if you don't mind, Doctor.

The kid had a colly fracture,
we had him in the O.R.,

we reduced it, and
we gave him a small cast.

But did you give him a sling?

You must've taken X-rays.

How am I supposed
to make out the charges?

Dr. Kurt, Dr. Sean Kurt.

Dr. Hardeck, Dr. Hardeck.

Are you Mitgang?

Uh, I'm Mitgang.

I'm Mitgang.

Do you carry
Blue Cross, Blue Shield,

Mr. Mitgang,
if you don't mind?

Do you have your card with you?

Oh!

Do you know your number?

Uh!

Mr. Mitgang,
you are not leaving this room

until I have this information.

Will you leave that man alone?

Do you mind if I at least ask this
gentleman to fill out his chart?

Let me have a C.C. of adrenalin...

May I have your A.H.S.
policy number, sir?

Do you carry Blue Cross?

Blue Shield?

...Mrs. Ferguson.

Yes, Doctor.

Dr. Spezio!

I think one of your patients in here
is dead, Dr. Spezio.

Why do you say that,
Mrs. Cushing?

Because he wouldn't give me
his Blue Cross number, Dr. Spezio.

Christ!

How the hell long has
this man been lying here?

Isn't this the doctor
that came in around 9:00?

"For Pete's sake,"
I said, "this is a hospital.

One of our feed
lines just blew."

I mean, we're lucky
to trace it in time.

Have we covered
just about everything?

Dr. Kish has been driving me nuts
about the O.R. schedule.

He's supposed to
see me about that.

This is the Emergency Room.

One of the doctors
just died of a heart attack.

One of our staff?

I think so.

Tom, you want to go down
to the Emergency Room?

One of our doctors just died.

What, another one?

Yeah.
See what that's about.

I'll be on Holly 8,
and I'll be right back.

It's no longer pilferage, Milton,

it's reached
the point of piracy.

That's the third
microscope this month.

Why can't we get together on this
sometime this afternoon?

How about 1:00?

1:00 will be fine.

Your brother's in his room,
Mr. Mead.

What one is it?

806.

Dr. George Marasco.

Dr. Joseph Sheen,
Dr. Joseph Sheen.

For heaven's sake, Willie,

you're gonna be in the hospital
for two lousy days.

What're you making
such a fuss about?

You're supposed to be
such a big wheel here.

There are no
private rooms available.

If they brought in Jesus Christ
fresh off the cross,

I couldn't get him
a private room.

Well, I'm not staying in a room
with a dying man.

He's not dying.

They'll screen him off.
You won't even know he's here.

If you want a private room,
go on home.

And I'll call you
the first one that comes up.

But you phoned me in a panic,
you're going on a vacation.

For heaven's sake,
they'll cut this polyp out tomorrow,

you'll be home Thursday,
you'll be in Miami Friday.

Marilyn, will you talk
some sense into this lunatic?

You said it.
He's a lunatic.

Big wheel!

Can't even get me
a private room.

I'll get you a tranquilizer.

"5. A full

abdomen..."

Contrasted with
wasting elsewhere.

"6. Ascites..."

With a protein
content above 4 grams.

Unexplained anemia, leukopenia.

Unexplained elevation of the serum
gamma globulin level.

Especially
abnormal flocculation tests,

and of course,
a positive P.P.D.

Now, all of these findings,

um, assume special
significance in negroes.

Ahem.

Well, this has been
a very commendable workup.

It's as commendable a workup of an F.U.O.
as I can remember.

The staff on this floor
is to be applauded.

All right, let's go
take a look at the girl.

It's a reportable case,
Brubaker. I'd write it up.

Thank you, sir.

Nurse.

Uh, nurse, who's the senior
resident on this floor?

That would be
Dr. Brubaker.

Oh, but I'm afraid he's at Chief
of Service rounds right now.

That's this way?

Mmm-hmm.

I wonder if there might not be
some correlation between

hepatic tuberculosis
and drug addiction.

Presumably, there was an early
consideration of S.B.E.?

Yes, sir. We discounted
it after, uh,

repeated blood cultures
were negative.

You, Ambler.
Is that right, "Ambler"?

Yes, sir.

What else do you look for
in Bacterial Endocarditis?

Dr. Gary Hardman.

Dr. Brubaker,
can I see you for a minute, please?

Mrs. Christie,
Angela Christie.

Still a little icteric.
Who's got an ophthalmoscope?

Did anyone note Roth spots?

Don't worry about it.
There aren't any.

Ambler, you're our big man
on S.B.E.,

what was the latex fixation?

It wasn't done, sir.

No?

Well, don't you think
that's an important test

to differentiate S.B.E.
From miliary T.B.?

Not you, Biegelman. Ambler.

Well, there's about
a 70 percent incidence

of false-positive latex
in S.B.E.

Well, you have been reading up.

If the diagnosis
were S.B.E.,

would a positive latex
indicate anything in the therapy?

We'd expect the latex
to become negative.

If?

If the antibiotic
therapy were successful.

Are you applying for
your internship here?

I'm not sure.

Come and see me.

Would you sit up, please, miss?

We've got a little
thing here, Doctor.

The girl over there is the daughter
of the patient in 806.

He is at the moment comatose,

and requires intravenous
feeding and meds.

The thing is, the daughter wants
to take the father

out of the hospital and back to Mexico,
where they live.

The patient's name is Drummond.

He's apparently
a Methodist missionary.

And he and his daughter
run some kind of

religious mission
among the Apache Indians.

The daughter claims
to be a licensed nurse,

so she can give the necessary
I.V.s and treatment.

I certainly don't think
he should be let out of the hospital.

The attending, that's the guy in brown
over there, concurs.

Wait, let me
have all that again.

As a matter of fact,
doctor, this is Dr. Biegelman's case.

Well, never mind the professional ethics.
What happened?

I don't know why I'm covering up

for that son of a bitch
in Farkis Pavilion anyway.

The patient, a man of 56,

was admitted to the hospital
10 days ago in good health,

for a checkup.
No visible distress.

We did the mandatory
workup on him.

Blood cultures, stool, L.E. preps,
chest E.K.G., all negative.

However, there was some evidence
of protein in his urine.

I don't know how that guy in Farkis
Pavilion found out about it.

Maybe he had one of...
a deal with one of the girls in the lab,

anyway,
he turned up the next day,

conned the patient into signing
an authorization for a biopsy.

What son of a bitch
in parkis pavillion?

Some postgrad fellow named Ives.

An Elroy Ives.
I never met him.

He's on one of the immunology
research programs.

Some postgrad came up here,
did a biopsy on the patient?

Yes, sir. He conned Biegelman
with that story...

Protein in the urine?

And he biopsied the man?

And he nicked a vessel in it.

At 2:00 in the morning,
they woke up Biegelman,

because the nurse found
the patient in shock.

He called the kidney people
for a consult right away.

But what was there to see?
The patient was sour and bleeding.

Spoke to this fellow, Sutcliff.

He referred us to
a surgeon named Welbeck.

Welbeck!
That barber?

You ain't heard nothing yet.

We finally got Welbeck
around 4:00 in the morning.

He said, go ahead.
So they laid on the surgery for 8:00.

Welbeck turned up half-stoned,

orders an I.V.P.,
clears him for allergies...

- Without actually testing?
- Right.

And the patient went into shock.

And tubular necrosis.

They lopped out
the bleeding kidney,

ran him back to the room,
we sat around waiting for urine.

Fever began spiking
like hell, uremia,

vomiting.
So we arranged hemodialysis.

He's putting out good water now,

but some nurse goofed
on his last treatment.

A shunt separated, something.

Blood pressure plunged.

They ran him up to I.C.U.,

gave him two units
of whole blood.

All vital signs are normal now,
except he's comatose.

That was two days ago.

In short...

A man comes into this hospital
in perfect health,

and in the space of one week,
we chop out one kidney,

damage another, reduce him to coma,
and damn near kill him.

Yes, sir.

You know, Brubaker,

last night I sat
in my hotel room,

reviewing the shambles
of my life

and contemplating suicide.

I said, "No, Bock, don't do it.

"You're a doctor,
you're a healer.

"You're the Chief of Medicine at one
of the great hospitals of the world.

You are a necessary person.
Your life is meaningful."

Then I walk in here today,

and I find out that
one of my doctors

was killed by a couple of nurses

who mistook him for a patient

because he screwed a technician
from the Nephrology Lab.

Hematology...

And now, you come to me

with this gothic
horror story in which

the entire machinery
of modern medicine

has apparently conspired
to destroy one lousy patient.

Now, how am I to sustain
my feeling

of meaningfulness
in the face of this?

I'll tell you something,
Brubaker.

If there were
an oven around here,

I'd stick my head in it.

Now, what was the name of that son
of a bitch from Farkis Pavilion, again?

Ives, sir.
Elroy Ives.

Somebody ought to ream his ass.

I'm going to ream his ass.

I'm gonna break
that Welbeck's back.

I'll defrock
those two cannibals.

They will never again
practice in this hospital.

I'll tell you that.

What'll I tell the girl, sir?

She says we have no legal right

to stop her from
taking her father out.

She's willing to
sign an A.O.R. form.

Let him go...

Before we kill him.

Oh, uh, Herb.

Get me Dr. Gilley.
I want to talk to him right now.

Put him on page if you have to.

I don't care if he's operating.

And you get me some
monkey named Ives.

Ives, I-V-E-S.
First name, Elroy.

He's in the Farkis Pavilion.

I want to talk to you, Joe.
Come in my office, please.

You got some punk rotating
in your department, named Ives?

Also, I want to ask you what kind
of dialysis room you're running.

Excuse me.

Yeah.
Gilley? Bock.

Listen, didn't you tell me
a couple of months ago,

you were gonna cut off all privileges
for that assassin, Welbeck?

Welbeck, yes!

He just butchered
another one of my patients!

Oh, come on, Harry,
the man's a buccaneer.

I want him brought up before the Medical
Executive Committee.

Well, he's in your department,
Harry, not mine.

He's putatively a surgeon!

I'll be here.

Listen, Joe,

I think you should know you've got some
research guy named Ives

in your department who's doing some
dubious biopsies.

Now, we're having enough problems
squeezing grants

out of the Nixon
Administration...

Ives is dead, Herb.
That's why I'm here.

What do you mean Ives is dead?

I mean he's dead.

He had a heart attack
in the Emergency Room.

He had a heart attack
in the Emergency Room?

Yeah.

What in the hell is this, some kind
of plague? Where is he now?

They were just taking him
down to Pathology.

And the next thing anybody knew,
about three hours later,

Mrs. Cushing came in and said there was
a dead man in the holding room.

You don't find anything a little grotesque
about all this?

What do you mean?

I mean,
that at 8:30 this morning

we meet over a doctor
who's killed intravenously,

and now here we are again four hours later,
with another doctor

who's died of a heart attack
in the Emergency Room.

Well, what are you
suggesting, Doctor?

You think we have a mad killer stalking
the halls of the hospital?

Presumably, Dr. Ives
died of a heart attack,

and Schaefer in a diabetic coma.

People do die of these things.

It's all, perhaps coincidental,

but I don't think
I'd call it grotesque.

How long are they
gonna be on Schaefer's post?

I don't suppose you'd like
to call next-of-kin?

No, thanks.

God, I need a drink.

Mead.

Mr. Mead?

Mr. Mead,
I have an injection for you.

What the hell is
going on in there?

Shh.

Well, honey, we got
a witch doctor in 806,

and you better go in there.

You know that Indian
that was sitting in 806 all night?

He's still there.

And the girl's there,

and they're doing
some voodoo in there.

And I ain't kiddin'!

What're you talking about?

I mean, that Indian's in there,

half-naked,
going psst, psst, psst.

With a little bag.

You just better get
in there, Mrs. Dunne.

You wanna see Somethin', baby?

You just come here.

Look, it's a perfectly
harmless ceremony.

It's nothing to
get excited about.

It'll be over in
a few minutes, anyway.

Mr. Blacktree is a shaman

who gets his power
from the thunder,

and it's imperative
he conclude his ritual

while the storm
is still going on.

Visiting hours
were over at 9:00, miss.

All that's going on
in there, Doctor,

is a simple Apache prayer

for my father's recovery.

The, uh, markings he's made
on my father's arms

are from the pollen
of the tule plant.

The twigs have no significance,

other than they've been
struck by lightning

and are consequently appeals
to the spirit of lightning.

It's all entirely harmless,
Doctor.

A religious ceremony,
not a medical one.

You don't seriously believe

all that mumbo-jumbo's
gonna cure him?

On the other hand,
it won't kill him, Doctor.

Ok. Go ahead.

Thanks.

You still gonna take your father out,
Miss Drummond?

Yeah, I have to
arrange an ambulance.

Is there a phone
here I could use?

Use my office.

Thank you.

Hello, I'd like to
arrange an ambulance.

Yeah, I'd like to arrange an ambulance
at 1:30,

tomorrow afternoon.

Drummond.
First name, Barbara.

I'll pay cash.

No, you're to pick up my father,
Drummond, Edward,

at the Manhattan Medical Center,

Holly Pavilion, Room 806.

It's a stretcher case.
I presume you provide the stretcher.

Yeah.

Uh, no, he's to be taken to
American Airlines,

Kennedy Airport,

Flight 729 to Yuma, Arizona.

I'll accompany the patient.
Yeah, thank you.

You believe in witchcraft,
Miss Drummond?

I believe in everything, Doctor.

You like a drink?

Yeah.

My father, you should know,

was a very successful
doctor in Boston.

A member of the Harvard
Medical Faculty.

He was a widower,
and I was his only child.

He was not an especially
religious man,

a sober Methodist.

One evening, about seven years ago,
he attended

a Pentecostal meeting
in the commons rooms at Harvard

and suddenly found himself
speaking in tongues.

That is to say,
he sank to his knees

at the back of the room
and began to talk fluently

in a language which no one
had ever heard before.

This sort of thing happens frequently
at Pentecostal meetings,

and began happening
regularly to my father.

It was not unusual
to walk into our home

and find my father
sitting in his office,

utterly serene,

happily speaking to the air

in this strange, foreign tongue.

I was, at that time,
20 years old

having my obligatory affair
with a minority group.

In my case, a Hopi Indian,

a postgraduate fellow at Harvard

doing his doctorate in aboriginal
languages of the Southwest.

One day,
I brought the Indian boy home

just as my father was
sinking to his knees

in the entrance foyer
in one of his trances.

The Indian wheeled
in his tracks,

and he said,
"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!"

You see, my father
was speaking an Apache dialect,

an obscure dialect, at that,

spoken only by a ragged band
of unreconstructed Indians

who had rejected
the reservation,

and gone to live
in total isolation

in the Sierra Madre Mountains
in Northern Mexico.

Well, what do you
say to that, Dr. Bock?

What the hell am I supposed to say
to that, Miss Drummond?

I'm sitting here boozing,
and you come in and tell me

some demented story about your father's
religious conversion.

Oh, no,
you miss the point, Doctor.

Not my father's
conversion, mine.

You see, I'd been

hitting the acid pretty
regularly at that time.

I had achieved a few
minor sensory deformities,

some suicidal despairs,

but nothing as wild
as fluency in an obscure Apache dialect.

I mean, like, "Wow, man!"

Here was living afflatus
right before my eyes!

Within a week, my father had closed
his Beacon Hill practice

and set out to start a mission
in the Mexican Mountains.

I turned in my S.D.S. card
and my crash helmet,

and I followed him.

It was a disaster,
at least for me.

My father had received
the revelation, not I.

He stood gaunt
on a mountain slope

and preached the Apocalypse

to solemnly amused Indians.

I masturbated a great deal.

We lived in a grass wickiup,

ate raw rabbit and crushed piñon nuts.
It was hideous.

Within two months,
I was back in Boston.

A hollow shell,

disenchanted with everything,
and dizzy with dengue.

I turned to austerity,

combed my hair tight,
entered nursing school.

I became haggard, driven,

had shamelessly incestuous
dreams about my father.

I took up with some
of the senior staff at the hospital.

One of them,
a portly psychiatrist,

explained I was generated by an unresolved
lust, for my father.

I cracked up.

One day, they found me
walking to work naked,

and screaming obscenities.

There was talk of
institutionalizing me.

So I packed a bag
and went back to

join my father in
the Sierra Madre Mountains.

I've been there ever since.
That's three years.

My father is, of course,
as mad as a hatter.

I watch over him, and
have been curiously content.

You see, Doctor,
I believe in everything.

What was that all about,
Miss Drummond?

I thought I was obvious as hell.

I'm trying to tell you,
I have a thing about middle-aged men.

I admire your candor.

You've been admiring
a lot more than that.

You're wasting your time.

I've been impotent for years.

Rubbish.

What the hell is
wrong with being impotent?

Kids are more hung up on sex
than the victorians.

I got a son, 23 years old.

I threw him out
of the house last year.

Pietistic little humbug.

He preached universal love,
and he despised everyone.

Had a blanket contempt
for the middle class,

even its decencies.

Detested my mother
because she had

a petit bourgeois pride
in her son, the doctor.

I cannot tell you how

brutishly he ignored
that rather good lady.

When she died,

he didn't even come
to the funeral.

He felt the, uh, chapel service
was an hypocrisy.

He told me his generation
didn't live with lies.

I said, "Listen,
everybody lives with lies."

I grabbed him by his poncho,

and I dragged him the length

of our seven-room,
despicably affluent

middle-class apartment,
and I flung him out.

I haven't seen him since.

You know what he said to me?

He's standing there
on the landing,

on the verge of tears.

He shrieked at me:

"You old fink.

You can't even
get it up anymore."

That was it, you see.

That was his real revolution.

It wasn't racism,

the oppressed poor,
or the war in Vietnam.

No, the ultimate

American societal sickness

was a limp dingus.

My God.

If there is a despised,

misunderstood minority
in this country,

it is us poor,
impotent bastards.

Well, I'm impotent,
and I'm proud of it.

Impotence is beautiful, baby!

Power to the impotent!
Right on, baby!

Right on!

You know,

When I say impotent,

I don't mean merely limp.

Disagreeable as it
may be for a woman,

a man may lust
for other things...

Something a little less
transient than an erection.

A sense of permanent worth.

That's what medicine was to me,

my reason for being.

You know,

Miss Drummond,

When I was 34,

I presented a paper

before the annual convention

of the Society
of Clinical Investigation

that pioneered the whole goddamn field
of Immunology.

A breakthrough.

I'm in all the textbooks.

I happen to be an eminent man,
Miss Drummond.

You know something else,
Miss Drummond?

I don't give a goddamn.

When I say impotent,

I mean I've lost
even my desire to work.

That's a hell of a lot more
primal passion than sex.

I've lost my reason for being.

My purpose.

The only thing
I ever truly loved.

Well,

it is all rubbish, isn't it?

I mean,

transplants,

antibodies,

we manufacture genes.

We can produce
birth ectogenetically.

We can practically
clone people like carrots,

and half the kids in this ghetto

haven't even been
inoculated for polio!

We have established
the most enormous

medical entity ever conceived,

and people are sicker than ever!

We cure nothing!

We heal nothing!

The whole goddamn
wretched world...

Strangulating in
front of our eyes.

That's what I mean
when I say impotent.

You don't know what the hell
I'm talking about, do you?

Of course I do.

Ah, I'm tired.

I'm very tired, Miss Drummond.

And I hurt.

And I've got nothing
going for me anymore.

Can you understand that?

Yes, of course.

Can you also understand...

That the only admissible
matter left is death?

Sounds to me like a familiar case
of morbid menopause.

Oh, Christ.

It's hard for me to take your despair
very seriously, Doctor.

You obviously enjoy it so much.

Ah, bugger off!

That's all I need now,
is clinical insight.

Some cockamamie
25-year-old acidhead

is gonna reassure me
about the menopause now!

I'd... I'd like to be alone.
Why don't you just beat it?

Close the door and turn off the lights
on your way out.

Mr. Blacktree disapproves
of my miniskirt,

but it was the only thing I had
to come to the city with.

Back at the tribe,
I wear ankle-length buckskin.

Swell.

Close the door
and turn off the lights.

What're you shooting, doc?

Leave me alone.

Potassium.

You take enough of this stuff, doc,
it'll kill you.

It occurred to me I might
have read you wrong,

and that you really
were suicidal, so I came back.

Who asked you?

Leave me alone!
Why can't you leave me alone?

Leave me alone.

Why didn't you let me do it?

Well, I'll see you.

Do you have a match, Doctor?

You wouldn't be awake?

What time is it?

Almost 7:00.

I, uh...

Swiped this for you out of
the nurses' locker room.

I'll make good on your dress.

I'm afraid it was
torn beyond repair.

I'll buy you a new one,

or if you like, give me the size
and I'll send it on to you.

Uh, anyway, I wanna talk
to you about that.

Talk to me about what?

Your father.

You really shouldn't take him out of here
in his condition.

I've just been
looking at his chart.

There's no reason
to presume brain damage.

You know as well as I, you can't predict
anything in these instances, but, uh,

he could very well come out of that coma
at any time.

I think you
should leave him here.

I'll personally look after him.

Is this your way of saying

you'd like me to stay
in town a few more days?

Well, that would be nice, too.

What do you say, Miss Drummond?

I expect you can
call me Barbara,

considering you ravished me
three times last night.

Three times?

Uh-huh. Look at him
pretending he didn't count.

You were as puffed
up as a toad about it.

Punched a couple of
holes in your crusade

for universal impotence,
didn't it?

I think we're on first-name basis now.
I'll call you Herb.

Let's give your father a week, Barbara.
What do you say?

Well...

I don't want my father
in this hospital.

I had a dream
about this hospital.

I dreamt this enormous

starched, white-tile building suddenly
erupted like a volcano...

And all the patients, doctors, nurses,
attendants, orderlies,

the whole line-staff, food-service people,
the aged, the lame,

and you, right in the middle, were...

Stampeding in one hideous, screaming,
suicidal mass into the sea.

I'm taking my father out of here,
and as quickly as I can.

You're really
a fruitcake, you know?

Well...

Let me put it this way, Herb.

I love you.

I fancied you from
the first moment you came

lumbering down
that hallway, upstairs.

I said to
Mr. Blacktree,

"Who's that hulking bear
of a man?"

The Apaches are
reverential about bears.

Won't eat bear meat,
never skin bears.

Bears are thought
of as both benign and evil,

very strong power.

Men with bear power
are highly respected.

Frequently said
to be great healers.

"That man," I said,
"gets his power from the bear."

Swell. Now, look.

You haven't got a hotel room

or some sort of accommodations
where you can stay...

All right, let me
put it this way, Herb.

My father and I accept
the implacability of death.

If he dies, he dies.

I'm getting him out of here
and back to Mexico

at 1:00, this afternoon.

I want you to come with us,
because

I love you and want children.

I'm afraid Mexico
is a little too remote for me.

Oh, we could really use you
down there, you know.

There's a curiously
high incidence of T.B.

You'd be a doctor again, Herb.

You'd be necessary again.

If you love me,
I don't see what other choice you have.

What do you mean, if I love you?

I raped you in a suicidal rage.

How did we get to love and children
all of a sudden?

Heaven's sake, I ought to know
if a man loves me or not.

I mean, you must've told me
half a 100 times last night you loved me.

You murmured it, shouted it.

One time, you opened the window
and bellowed it out into the street.

Well, I think those were
more expressions of gratitude than love.

Gratitude for what?

Oh, my God, for resurrecting
feelings of life in me I thought dead.

Oh, my God,
what do you think love is?

All right, I love you!
You love me!

I'm not about to argue
with so relentless a romantic.

Since we have this
great passion going for us,

I don't see why you don't

stay around New York
for a week or 10 days?

It's up to 10 days now.

Just as long as it takes your
father's condition to improve.

No.

I've had these
prophetic dreams for seven nights.

Seven is a sinister number.

The meaning of
these dreams is very clear,

Seven times as clear.

I'm to get you
and my father out of here

before we're all destroyed.

You're certifiable.

Half the time, you're a perfectly
intelligent young woman.

Then all of a sudden, you turn into
some kind of goddamn Cabalist

who believes in dreams
and witchcraft and bear power.

I don't like the way you dismiss my whole
life as unnecessary, you know.

I do a lot of healing right here
in Manhattan.

I don't have to go
to Mexico to do it.

I also teach.

I send out 80 doctors
a year into the world,

often inspirited,
at least competent.

I've built up one of the best damn
departments of medicine in the world.

We have a hell of a heart unit,

we have a hell
of a kidney group.

You know, a lot of people
come into this place

in big trouble, Miss Drummond.

They go out a lot better
for the experience,

so don't tell me
how unnecessary I am.

- Yeah?
- Yeah.

So how come eight hours ago,
you were trying to kill yourself

with an overdose of potassium?

Where are you going now?

My hotel.
I have to check out.

Mr. Blacktree
doesn't speak any English.

Well, you're coming back,
of course?

Of course. I have to settle the bill,
pack my father.

I think you need a few hours
alone to make your decisions.

What decision?

You're a very tired,
very damaged man.

You've had a hideous marriage,

I assume a few tacky affairs
along the way.

You're understandably reluctant

to get involved again.

On top of that, here I am
with this preposterous idea

you throw everything up
and go off with me

to some barren mountains
in Mexico.

Utterly mad, I know.

On the other hand,

you obviously find this world
as desolate as I do.

You did try to kill yourself
last night.

So that's it, Herb.

Either me and the mountains,
or the bottle of potassium.

I'll be back in an hour or so.
I'll be in my father's room.

All right, I love you!

My God!

I repeat, I'm asking you
to come out peacefully.

These buildings are condemned
and unfit for habitation.

You people are possessing
this building illegally

and in violation of the law.

I'm asking you
to come out peacefully.

So the hospital has assumed
the responsibility

for finding 400 housing units
in good buildings.

The hospital wishes to point out

that this particular row
of buildings on First Avenue

was condemned by the city

before the hospital
acquired ownership

and even then, only after

responsible leaders
in the community

approved the building

of our new
drug-rehabilitation center.

Now, Goddamn it, Barry,

I've got a dozen community leaders
waiting for me in the library.

Now, we're trying to work out

some kind of negotiable
formula for two years,

with no help from you people

in the urban affairs division,
I might add.

No, that...

No, no, I am not going to throw
all that down the drain

because some cockamamie
activist group

is showboating for
the television cameras.

Now, you get those people
out of those buildings

before a wall collapses
or a fire breaks out

and we've got a riot
on our hands.

Ok.

Having your troubles, eh?

Well, I won't take
much of your time.

My name is Welbeck.

I've been associated
with this hospital for six years

and yesterday afternoon,
Dr. Gilley called me

to tell me he was cutting off
my privileges with the hospital.

Do you know anything about that?

That's news to me.

He said he sent the report on.

Well, I'll probably get
the report tomorrow.

I assume...

A report about what?

I'm not sure myself.

I did a nephrectomy
on a man about seven days ago.

Emergency called in at 4:00
in the morning

and the man was hemorrhaging.
He'd gone sour.

Well, look, I'm really sorry, Welbeck.
I do have a meeting to go to.

And in any event,
there's nothing I can do about it.

If Gilley, uh, oh...

I'll be in the library.

If Gilley wants to
cut your privileges,

he's Chief of Surgery,
it's within his province.

You'll have to have the hearing.

Well, I have a laparotomy
laid on for this morning.

I assume I'll be able
to go through with that.

I've been connected
with this hospital for six years.

Yeah, now, now, well, it seems to me
I've had your name down here before

for something. Welbeck,

wait a minute.

You're the fellow
with the, uh...

You're the fellow with the
Medicaid collecting business

who incorporated
and went public, right?

I mean, something like that?

Yeah, Milton Mead
was telling me about you.

Why, you're a whole
medical conglomerate.

You've got a factoring service,

a computerized billing company,

a few proprietary hospitals,
a few nursing homes.

Good heavens, Welbeck,
you shouldn't be brought up

before a committee
of mere doctors.

You ought to be investigated by the
Securities and Exchange Commission.

You'll have to go through
with the hearing.

I... I can't do anything
about that.

...imperializing
the Black community.

We reject the bourgeois,

middle-class Black traitors
and flunkies

who are selling out
the Black proletarian masses

to the expansionist,
racist policies...

Let's get back
to the abortion issue.

What the hell does
the male establishment

know about abortion?

Who the hell raised
the issue of birth control?

The issue at hand is
the control of drug addiction

in this community
and in the ghetto, personally.

We don't want no
goddamn abortion.

Let's get to the core
of this matter.

The point is that this hospital

is the landlord
for those buildings

and instead of tearing them down

and building some
imperialistic extensions

of the medical establishment,

this hospital ought to be
rebuilding those tenements!

Give those people
decent housing!

Please, please, please!

You know, I... I hallucinated
last night.

I hallucinated
there was an Indian

doing a war dance in here.

You weren't hallucinating,
Mr. Mead.

There was an Indian
in here last night.

There was?

Ok. Down to the
Operating Room.

Dr. Rickie.

Dr. Rickie.

Dr. Lionel Rickie.

Dr. Norris said
about half an hour.

Ok. That's fine.

Half an hour.

Hold him right there.

Miss Shirley,

it's just
an ovarian cyst, honey.

Ok, Jerry, go up to Holly 6.

On the double. Holly 6. Go.

Who is that?
Is that Mangafranni?

Yeah. Number 3, Marty.

Good morning, Doctor.

It's legal for a doctor to incorporate
in New York, isn't it, Doctor?

Since last September.

If they'd had that
when I was your age,

I'd have put away
a couple of million by now.

It gives you a variety
of deferral devices.

Profit sharing, for example.

Let's say you pick yourself
an October 31 fiscal.

You declare a bonus
payable in '71.

An accrued item payable

to a principal shareholder
must be paid

within two and a half months
after the close of the year

to get the deduction
in the prior year.

But your corporation
doesn't pay that tax,

because we've eliminated
the taxable income with the bonus.

With two taxable entities,

you can bury a hell
of a lot of expenses.

Hello, this is Welbeck.
Any messages for me?

Well, I'm at the hospital.

I gotta cut open some guy
in a couple of minutes.

I'll try to make it
as fast as I can.

How urgent did he say it was?

Doctor Hogan made those arrangements
with the underwriters.

The registration statement
was filed with the S.E.C.

Well over a year ago.

Well, if he calls again,
have me paged here.

Mangafranni, right?

Right.

What do you say, huh?

We're not gonna hang it
in the Louvre, you know.

There's no pulse, Doctor.

What's the pressure?

There's no blood pressure,
Doctor.

No pulse.
Get the tube and E.K.G.

What's the matter?

I can't feel a thing here.

What the hell happened?

- What the hell happened?
- I don't know.

I don't know, she must have
thrown an embolus.

She was doing fine up to now.

Did you check the gases?

I did, Doctor.

'Cause the only time I saw
anyone conk out like this,

some jerk switched the nitrous oxide
and the gas lines.

Get the damn leads on.

For Christ's sake,
what the hell is this?

She's just a young woman, sir.
Do you think we should open the chest?

She's 53, you button-head.

Bicarb.

Jesus H. Christ!

Ok, stop for a minute.

V-fib, Doctor.

Get me the paddles.

I may be crazy, Doctor,

but I don't think
this is your patient.

What the hell
are you talking about?

I don't want to get into an intestine
hassle, Mrs. Christie.

The malpractice here
is monumental.

As you can see, Dr. Schaefer's
blood sugar was 23.

Now, no glucose solution
is going to do that.

The only thing
that possibly could do it

is at least 50 units
of insulin, probably more.

Our only presumption is one
of the two nurses on that floor

shot 50 units of insulin
into Schaefer's bloodstream.

Either by injection or I.V.,

although how in God's name,

A thing like that...

I'm very sorry, Doctor.
May I use your phone?

Certainly.

Yes.

Doctor, did you ask the
head nurse from 8th floor

to let you know when
a Miss Drummond got here?

Yes.

Well, she just got there.

I better get down there directly.

Have you called
the O.O.D.?

Oh, you better call
Dr. Gilley.

And you better call
Mr. Sloan.

Yes, I-I'll be right down.

I'm very sorry, Doctor.

There's a very nasty one
in the O.R.

They've just operated
on the wrong patient.

Well, I don't understand.
Is she back in her room?

When did she get
back in her room?

Who brought her back?

She's back in her room.

Who?

Mrs. Mangafranni,

the woman who was supposed
to have been operated on.

Hey, are they still
working on that woman in 3?

Yeah.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Fried,
could you say that again?

Well, nobody in this office
sent her back up.

Dr. Donovan.

All right, Mrs. Fried.
I'll have to call you back.

Did any of you take
a woman patient named Mangafranni

out of the holding room,
back up to Holly 5, around 10:00?

What happened?

I don't know what happened.

A patient named Mangafranni

was scheduled to have
a hysterectomy

at 10:00., Dr. Mallory.

I talked to Sylvia,
in the holding room,

who admitted her,
so she was here.

And now I just spoke to, uh,
Mrs. Fried on Holly 5

and she says an orderly
brought Mrs. Mangafranni

back to her room
about 20 minutes ago.

And now Mrs. Mangafranni
is in her room, sleeping.

Well, who's the woman
in the Operating Room?

I don't know.

Is she dead?

Well, they had to open her up,
and that's not good.

I better get
Mr. Mead.

Now, we can rectify
the injustices

of the world tomorrow,
but right now,

could we get those people
out of those buildings?

Will you please listen to me?
Will you shut up?

Will you please shut up
and listen to me?

Now let's call a halt to this

participatory democracy

and address ourselves
to the immediate problem!

How long ago did this happen?

About half an hour.

- Called the Medical Examiner?
- Not yet.

You'd better do that now. You better call
the precinct station house as well.

Jesus. H.

Good morning.

Good morning, Doctor.

Well, this is really
something, isn't it?

I thought she looked a little different
when they brought her in.

I said to one of the nurses,

"She looks younger
without her dentures."

I had only talked to her
half an hour before.

Does anyone know who she is?
What's her chart say?

Her chart says "Mangafranni",

her bracelet says
"Mangafranni."

The only thing that isn't
Mangafranni is the woman.

Jesus H. Christ!

I've been chopping out
three uteruses a day for 30 years,

and is it too much to expect
for you people to bring in

the right goddamn
Jesus Christ uterus?

I had just been talking to her
in the holding room.

She was perfectly fine.
A little drowsy.

I thought it was funny
that when they brought her in,

she was out cold.

Jesus. H. Christ.

Well, we're just gonna have
to stay here till Mr. Mead

or someone from
the O.O.D. Comes back.

Yeah, well, I'm not taking
the rap for this.

I've already got one
malpractice suit pending

and I'm not taking
the rap for this one.

You're not leaving.

I love you, and I'm not
gonna let you go.

Come on, now, let's start
putting your father's things back.

He's staying here.

I'll find you
an apartment somewhere.

I'm staying in
a filthy little hotel room,

we can't use that.

I can't make it
up here, Herb. I'll crack up.

I can retain my sanity
only in a simple society.

Barbara, you can't
really expect me

to live in a grass shack
and hunt jackrabbit for dinner.

Be sensible, for God's sake.

I am being sensible.

What is it you're so afraid
of leaving here?

Your plastic home?
Your conditioned air?

Your synthetic clothes?
Your instant food?

I'm offering you
green silence, and solitude.

The natural order of things.

Mostly, I'm offering me.

I think we're beautiful, Herb.

You make it sound
almost plausible.

I don't know
why you even hesitate.

What's holding you here?

Is it your wife?

No.

That's all over.

I suppose if I'm married to
anything, it's this hospital.

It's been my whole life.

I just can't walk out on it
as though it never mattered.

I'm, uh, middle class.

And among us middle class,
love doesn't triumph over all,

responsibility does.

Herb, don't ask me
to stay up here with you,

because I love you, and I will.

And we'll both be destroyed.

I have the bill
here to pay, yet.

I'll come with you.

Herb,

listen, Joe lagerman says you wanted
to know the name of that dialysis nurse?

What dialysis nurse?

The one who... the one who
goofed on your patient, Drummond.

Well, her name is
Teresa Campanella.

You're not
gonna believe this, Herb.

She died on the operating table
of O.R. 3 about an hour ago.

What're you talking about?

Well, you heard about
the screw up in O.R. 3.

You mean, she was the one?

That's the one.
I just identified her.

What is going on around here?

Every time I try to find
somebody in this hospital,

they either died of a heart attack
in an emergency,

or anesthesia shock
in an Operating Room.

Listen, I just came
from the O.R.

They're trying to find
a Dr. Schaefer.

Don't you have a kid named
Schaefer in your service?

I had a schaeffer. He died yesterday
of an overdose of insulin.

What do they want schaeffer for?

Well, the holding room nurse
says there's a Dr. Schaefer

hanging around the holding room.

Wouldn't have been
your Schaefer anyway.

Nurse says it was
senior staff, middle-aged man.

There's no senior staff
named Schaefer in this hospital.

I told them that,
I said, "I don't know

any senior staff
around here named Schaefer."

They've got detectives
down there. Everything.

A whole big investigation.

How'd the nurse know
his name was Schaefer?

Uh, his nameplate.

I am the fool for Christ,

and Paraclete of Caborca.

Oh, for heaven's sakes, dad.

What the hell's going on?

We all thought
you were at death's door.

What are you doing out of bed?

What happened?

What's he going at you for?
Did he... did he say anything?

As a matter of fact,

he said, "I am the fool
for Christ

and the Paraclete
of Caborca."

You better shut that door, because if
he tells everybody who walks in here

that he's the fool for Christ
and the Paraclete of Caborca,

they're gonna put us all away.

He's already killed
two doctors and a nurse.

I am the wrath of the lamb,

and the angel
of the bottomless pit.

What do you mean he's killed
two doctors and a nurse?

I mean, he's killed
two doctors and a nurse.

He just tried to kill me.

He has something
against doctors.

Somehow, he got a hold
of some insulin and put it

in Dr. Schaefer's
intravenous solution.

And somehow, he got Dr. Ives
to die of a heart attack

in the middle
of the Emergency Room.

And somehow, he got
a dialysis nurse, named Campanella

to die of anesthesia shock
on an operating table.

He's been running
all over the hospital,

dressed up in
Dr. Schaefer's uniform.

Right now, they're looking
all over the place

for the mysterious
Dr. Schaefer.

This maybe incredible
to us both,

but you can see for yourself,

your father's not the helpless comatose
we thought.

Well, don't look at me
like I'm the one who's crazy.

Ask your crazy father.

I was merely
an instrument of God.

I killed no one.

They all three died
by their own hands.

Ritual victims
of their own institutions,

murdered by irony.

"An eye for an eye."

Biblical retribution.

Schaefer was first, because
you see, he killed God.

God was admitted to this
hospital last Monday

under the name of Guernsey.

I was instantly aware
of a divine presence.

I was convinced
this porcelain old man

was in fact an angel
of the Lord,

perhaps even Christ himself.

Our savior was, it seems,
suffering from emphysema.

He was relentlessly subjected
to the benefits of modern medicine

and died at 7:30
that evening.

A few hours later, he appeared
to me in a revelation.

Rise up, Drummond.

You are dead,
now you are restored.

Those who killed you,
and those who killed me

will die in our place.

You are the Paraclete
of Caborca.

The wrath of the lamb.

The angel

of the bottomless pit.

Well,

not quite the
burning bush, perhaps,

but prodigal enough for me.

I was to avenge the death of God,
and my own brutalization.

I was to kill doctors Schaefer,
Ives, and Welbeck,

and the dialysis nurse,
Miss Campanella,

whose negligence caused my coma.

I awaited
a further sign from God,

which was given
to me later that evening.

Dr. Schaefer, it seems, had
arranged an assignation

with a girl from the Hematology Lab,
named Sheila.

Boy, I sure hope
nobody walks in.

What about him?

He's zonked out.

So what's new?

Nothing.

What's this?

Oh, it's my insulin.

I forgot to put it back.

Insulin?

What's the insulin for?
I didn't know you were a diabetic.

It ain't contagious,
don't worry.

So, you took the insulin

from Dr. Schaefer's pocket
and put it in the I.V.

Yes.

And then a nurse came,

and plugged the IV jar
into... into Schaefer.

God clearly intended
a measure of irony here.

The hospital was to do
all the killing for me.

All I need do is
arrange for the doctors

to become patients
in their own hospital.

Accordingly the next morning,
I pinched some digoxin from the pharmacy,

and a sandbag
from a utility cart,

and found my way
to Dr. Ives' laboratory.

I crushed him with the sandbag

and gave him a massive shot
of the digoxin.

This, you see, brought on an instant
condition of cardiac arrhythmia.

I waited for him to come to, and

then I brought him down
to the Emergency Room.

He had, at that time,
perhaps an hour to live.

Prompt treatment
would've saved his life.

He was suddenly taken ill. I thought
I'd better get him over here right away.

As a staff doctor,
he was seen without preliminaries.

His vital signs were taken.
An electrocardiogram

which revealed occasional
ventricular premature contractions.

An intern took his history,
and then he was

promptly, simply...

Forgotten to death.

Simply mislaid.

Mislaid among the broken wrists,

the chest pains,
the scalp lacerations,

the man whose fingers
were crushed in a taxi door,

the infant with a skin rash,
the child swiped by a car,

the old lady
mugged in the subway,

the derelict beaten by sailors,

the teenage suicide,
the paranoids,

drunks, asthmatics, the rapes,
the septic abortions,

the overdosed addicts,

the fractures,
infarcts, hemorrhages,

concussions, boils, abrasions,

the colonic cancers,
the cardiac arrests,

the whole wounded
madhouse of our times.

Who's number 7680202-S?

Is there anybody here
who is that number?

Who's number 7680202...

In this way, you see,

was it revealed to me
the manner of Nurse Campanella's death.

She was to die
of the great American plague:

Vestigial identity.

So, last night, I crushed Miss Campanella
with a sandbag,

sedated her with Thorazine,
shaved her, prepped her,

and parked her in a corridor of the X-ray
department for five hours.

Why X-ray?

Well, at X-ray,

a sedated body lying around unattended
for five hours wouldn't seem unusual.

Of course.

Her operation, that is to say,

Mrs. Mangafranni's operation,
was not scheduled till 9:30.

So at 9:15 this morning,
I rang for my nurse.

Rang for your nurse?

To insure one full hour
of uninterrupted privacy.

Of course.

I got up, wheeled Miss Campanella
off to the Operating Rooms,

I exchanged Mrs. Mangafranni's bed
with hers.

I transferred the charts
and identity bracelets.

She died officially
of anesthesia shock.

In point of fact, she died because she was
wearing another woman's identity.

God, what do we do now?

Let me take him
back to Mexico, Herb.

It's a simple world there.
He functions there.

If you turn him in,

they'll just cage him in the Rockland
State Hospital for the criminally insane.

Let me take him back.

Are you kidding?

We'll both take him.
I'm going with you.

Let's get him dressed.

We're getting out of here before
the police put us all in Rockland State.

I haven't finished my work here.

I have this
Welbeck to dispose of.

I'm the angel
of the bottomless pit,

and the wrath of the lamb.

God!

Oh, dear, he's having
another revelation.

Look, um,

that ambulance
must be there by now.

You go and get 'em.

I'll, uh, give him a shot of something
to knock him out.

We'll take him to the airport
in the ambulance.

You're hallucinating again.

Uh...

Dr. Stanford, Dr. Robert...

Powell never showed up.

I'm short-staffed as hell.
It's just me and Alice.

It's like a Sunday.
Nobody's here.

I'll be in with the bleeder.

Yeah, you gotta
send me somebody.

Well, oh, yeah.

We'll be in 806.

Then what did she say?

I'm Dr. Welbeck. I have a patient
on this floor named Drummond.

I'd like to see his chart.

Dr. Bock, can I have a few minutes
of your time, sir?

Dr. Gilley tells me you are the one who
initiated these proceedings against me.

I'm busy, Welbeck.

I'd like to know what is it you have
against me, Doctor.

Eight days ago,
you showed up half-stoned

for a simple nephrectomy,

botched it, put the patient in failure,
and damn near killed him.

Then, pausing only
to send in your bill,

you flew off on the wings of Man

to an island
of sun in Montego Bay.

This is the third time
in two years

we've had to patch up
your patients.

The other two died.

You're greedy, unfeeling,
inept, indifferent,

self-inflating,
and unconscionably profitable.

Aside from that,
I have nothing against you.

I'm sure you play a hell of a game
of golf. What else do you want to know?

How much do you
make a year, Bock?

For a guy who makes
a lousy 40-50 grand...

This is Dr. Welbeck.
Were you paging me?

Yes, Arthur, I understand you've been
trying to reach me all morning.

I tell you, Milton, he pulls out the wires
and the tubes,

he gets up and he puts on
a doctor's uniform and he goes out,

and he murders doctors.

He just went out
10 seconds before you came in here.

I'll tell you something else
about this crazy place.

There was a naked Indian in here last
night doing a war dance.

That's the kind of crazy place
you're running here, Milton.

You gotta get me
out of here, Milton.

Milton, this is a crazy place.

Milton, listen to me, listen.

I wake up last night
and there was an Indian in here,

a naked Indian!

What kind of a hospital is this?

This is Mr. Mead.
Are you paging me?

A couple of hours later, the guy in that
bed there is getting out.

Are the police still in the building?
Get them up here.

All day long
he lays there like he's dead.

In the middle of the night, he gets out
of bed! Thought I was going crazy!

You know what he says to me? He says,
"You're hallucinating."

I just... listen, I saw a naked Indian,
now I'm seeing a ghost.

I figure he's right,
I'm hallucinating, right?

I'll be down directly.

It never rains, but it pours.

A fire just broke out
in one of the condemned buildings.

The squatters came out.
The police tried to arrest them.

Now the situation has
erupted into a riot.

Milton...

I'm sure you're wondering
what this is about, Herb.

You're not gonna leave
me alone in here.

Mr. Hitchcock will
stay with you.

Better call the cops, Tom.

Milton, Milton, Milton!

I haven't time now.

I'm not gonna try to tell you this crazy
story my brother just told me.

I'll fill you in on it
at lunch sometime.

Hold it!

The ambulance is here.

But your father isn't.
Disappeared.

He put on Schaefer's uniform,
and took off to do God's work,

presumably the murder
of Dr. Welbeck.

The guy on the phone
over there is Dr. Welbeck.

Oh, my God, Arthur,
what are you talking about?

On top of everything else,
the other patient in your father's room

just overheard
the whole confession

and he told the Chief Administrator.
They're sending for the cops.

Oh, my God, Arthur.
Well, who held title?

Do the underwriters
know about this yet?

Oh, my God, Arthur,
what are you waiting for?

Arrest the son of a bitch.
Turn him in.

Oh, my God! When?

Well, of course, Arthur,
and call me right back.

I'm at the Holly Pavilion,
8th floor. Hurry, please.

Are you all right, Welbeck?

Am I all right?

That son of a bitch
is trying to wipe me out. My partner.

The eminent orthopedic surgeon,
Dr. Noel Hogan

is a miserable thief,
and he's trying to wipe me out.

Mr. Drummond's chart.

What?
Oh, what room is it?

806.

I'm expecting a phone call. Put it
straight through to me in that room.

The son of a bitch
has been draining the company

with phony purchase orders
on another company,

of which, it now turns out,
his wife is the principal stockholder.

Transparent fraud.

I'll send him up for 20 years.

Well, Drummond, you don't seem
that much the worse for wear.

Would you mind using some other phone?
I'm expecting an important call.

Who is this guy?

I'll be at the nurses' desk,
Sergeant.

You've got a bit
of a fever, Drummond,

but you're coming along
very well.

I'm not Drummond!
Drummond's the other bed.

That's mine.

Hello, it's Welbeck here.
Yes, Arthur, go ahead.

I'm getting out
of this nuthouse.

Just take it easy, Mr. Mead.

I came in here to get
a lousy polyp cut out.

My God! What do you mean?
How many transactions were there?

But, Arthur, I... I borrowed
against that stock.

I'm a sick man.
I'm supposed to have peace and quiet!

What do you mean, Brazil?

I talked to Hogan's office yesterday,
and they just told

I'm wiped out.

The S.E.C has suspended
trading in my stock.

Welbeck.

Cardiac arrest. Holly 8.

We have an emergency here.

C.A.C., Holly 8.

Please clear all corridors.

C.A.C on Holly 8,

please clear all corridors.

Breathe him.

Where's Chandler?

He went to lunch.

Get that bed out of here.

Give me an Ambu-bag
and an airway.

What's been happening?

- In here?
- Yeah.

Dr. Robert Stanford.

Who is it?

One of the patients
had a cardiac arrest.

Total cardiac arrest.

Dr. Rickie.

Dr. Rickie.

Dr. Lionel Rickie.

How long has he been like this?

A minute old.

No pulse, no heartbeat, no respiration.

I'll take over.

We have another
emergency in 823.

Endotracheal tube.

Listen, was it Drummond?

Who else would it be?

All right, who is this patient?

What's the story
on this patient?

This his chart, Dr. Bock?
What's his name? Drummond?

Yes, his name is Drummond.
That's his chart.

Christ.
The poor son of a bitch

just had
a nephrectomy a week ago.

Hook him up to the monitor.

Stop the massage.

Ventricular fibrillation.
Get me the paddles.

Push another amp of bicarb.

Set it for 200.

Set, 200.

Everybody back away. One, two, three.

Didn't convert.
He's still fibrillating.

Let's go to 400.

Everybody back.

Set, 400.

One, two, three.

That didn't work, either.
Let me have

a cc of adrenalin,
and an intercardiac needle.

Stop the massage.

It's ventricular fibrillation.
Push another amp of bicarb.

200.

Set, 200.

Is he dead?

They can't get him out of fib.
I don't think he'll make it.

Thank God.

Well,

that should close
the case, Sergeant.

Nobody's gonna get hurt.
We just want the Director.

Now I've had it up to here.

I am not dealing with
this kind of cheap...

Now, look, man,

we're looking for a hostage!

14 people got arrested for...

Where's the
damn T.V. camera?

Would you be cool, man?

14 people got arrested for doing nothin'
but living in their homes,

which you people
threw them out of.

Right on.

Now we are gonna arrest you.

We gonna hold you hostage,
and we ain't letting you go.

We, the members of the doctors'
liberation committee,

indict this hospital
for the criminal neglect

of the community in
which it is situated.

We demand an immediate dissolution of
the governing and executive boards...

What are you gonna do
about those 14 ghetto people?

I am not going to do
anything about anything.

Yes, you are.

If you want to take over this hospital,
you take it over.

We will!

You run it!

I am finished. I quit.

You run it.
You pay the bills!

- You fight the city.
- We will.

You fight the state.
You fight the unions.

You fight the community.

You think you can do
a better job, you do it.

Now, I am finished!
I quit!

It's all yours.

Let those who are in Judea
flee to the mountains!

The age is closed!

The season
of the seventh seal is at hand!

The age is closed.

The season of...

Dr. Welbeck is dead.
They thought he was you.

Yes, I know.

We must arrange to have his body shipped
to my Apache village,

where we'll bury him
with full tribal rites.

We got to hurry.

In a day or two,
someone will ask,

"Whatever
happened to Dr. Welbeck?"

It'll be assumed he absconded to Brazil
to join his partner,

the eminent orthopedic surgeon,
Dr. Noel Hogan.

Welbeck, too, was mislaid,

overlooked, forgotten to death.

I'm not going.

The hospital's coming apart.

I can't walk out on it
when it's coming apart.

Someone has
to be responsible, Barbara.

Everybody's hitting the road,

running away,
running to the hills.

Someone's got to be responsible.

Kennedy Airport.
You've got a 2:30 flight to make.

You going back in?

Yep.

It's like pissing
in the wind, right, Herb?