“With these standards in mind, we are faced with a major problem,” Dr. Hernandez continued. He picked up the slender volume and held it aloft, reminiscent of a preacher with a bible. “It has been brought to the department’s attention that there is falsified data in this thesis, which we understand played a significant role in your acceptance to Harvard Medical School. Is that your understanding, Dr. Rothauser?”
Noah stared with disbelief at the chief. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. “Yes,” he said after a short pause. “I believe that my thesis made the Admissions people look more positively at my application.”
“Then perhaps your acceptance was based on falsehood,” Dr. Hernandez said. “If that is the case, we have a serious dilemma that requires attention. So I ask you directly, does this thesis of yours contain falsified or contrived data?”
“To a degree,” Noah said, struggling to decide how to answer.
“That seems inordinately evasive,” Dr. Hernandez snapped. “I think the question deserves an unambiguous answer. Yes or no!” He glowered at Noah.
“Yes,” Noah said reluctantly. “But let me explain. By working day and night I was able to complete my Ph.D. work in two years. For it to be officially part of my medical school application, I had to hand in my thesis on a specific date. To make that date, I was forced to make some very modest outcome predictions for my final confirming experiment, whose results had already been proven by previous work. Those estimates remained in the hard copies I submitted, one of which you are holding. When the final data was available within the month, which was more positive than my conservative estimates, I changed the digital version, which is the version that is online and cited in the literature.”
“In other words,” Dr. Hernandez said while still holding Noah’s bound thesis in the air, “there is definitely falsified data in this work.”
“Yes,” Noah repeated. “But—”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Hernandez said, interrupting Noah in a tone of voice that was the opposite of being sorry. “This is not the time for explanations of why purposely falsified material exists in a Ph.D. thesis. The fact that it does forces our hand. From this moment, Dr. Rothauser, you are suspended from your duties as super chief resident pending an ad hoc hearing of the Residency Advisory Board. The board will adjudicate the situation and determine if the suspension will be reversed or made permanent. The board will also decide if the Massachusetts Board of Medicine should be advised.
“That will be all, Dr. Rothauser. Needless to say, we are all shocked and disappointed.”
Noah was the one who was the most shocked. He couldn’t believe he was being summarily dismissed and, worst of all, suspended. He was momentarily paralyzed. He’d expected something bad, but more in line of being formally censured for ignoring proper channels and meeting with Dr. Kumar to question the competence of one of his staff members.
“That will be all, Dr. Rothauser,” Dr. Hernandez repeated irritably. He tossed Noah’s bound thesis onto his desk in an overt display of indignation.
“What about my patients?” Noah pleaded, finding his voice. He had six post-operative patients in the hospital at that moment, several still in the PACU, and he had surgical cases scheduled for the week.
“Your patients will be taken care of by others,” Dr. Hernandez said. “You should leave the hospital until this issue is resolved. Dr. Cantor will be in touch with you in due course.”
Noah literally stumbled out of the chief of surgery’s office, totally stunned. In a semi-trance, he walked the length of the corridor toward the elevators. He couldn’t believe that Dr. Mason had succeeded in accomplishing what he had threatened. As Ava had reminded him, his reputation as a resident among staff, fellow residents, and patients was sterling. The whole situation was a nightmare.
For Noah, the potential implications of being permanently dismissed from his residency and losing his medical license was the worst news imaginable, akin to being diagnosed with an untreatable cancer. Suddenly, everything he had worked for since he’d decided on medicine as a career was in jeopardy. It was as if his life was unraveling.
BOOK 3
29
SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 1:51 P.M.
Noah felt oppressively hot as he stepped out of his Beacon Hill building into the hazy summer sunshine. Typical of Boston in mid-summer, the humidity had climbed along with the temperature. As he walked up the few steps to the corner of Revere and Grove Streets, he could feel perspiration run down his back despite his summer attire of T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Heat radiating up from the brick sidewalk seemed equal to the heat streaming down from the sun above.
At the corner, Noah stopped and turned around suddenly to look behind him. As he expected, there was a man trudging up Revere Street in his direction. He was dressed in a shirt and tie and had a summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder. In deference to the heat, the shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the tie loosened. He was African American with closely cropped hair and a trim, athletic build.
Noah believed he had seen this individual before. It had been on Thursday when he’d emerged from his apartment at about the same time with the same destination in mind, Whole Foods on Cambridge Street. Since the cataclysmic meeting in Dr. Hernandez’s office on Tuesday, Noah had been holed up in his tiny apartment, paralyzed by a combination of depression and anxiety, believing his life was in the balance. Beginning on Wednesday, the only thing that had driven him outside was the knowledge that he needed to eat, even though he didn’t feel particularly hungry. Each day he’d made the trip to the prepared-food section of Whole Foods to bring home some selections that would serve for both lunch and dinner. He felt totally incapable of preparing anything, and the idea of going to a restaurant in the presence of happy, normal people didn’t even occur to him. Breakfast, he’d ignored.
On Wednesday, when he came out on his way to Cambridge Street, he soon had the perception he was being followed. Curiously enough, he had the impression it was the same person who he felt had followed him home on two nights, although he couldn’t be certain, since it had been night and he’d never gotten a particularly good look at the man. What made Noah think it could be the same person was the suit, the same thing that had caught his eye on those nights. That and his particularly trim build, similar to the African American’s.