Page 77 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
“You don’t have to thank me, Gigi. It’s my job. I’m glad to have helped.”
“Why do you think the oxy didn’t work?” I asked.
“I was actually a bit puzzled by that myself. I checked his chart and the amount Ida gave him should have been more than enough. But I’ve seen some patients who have a high tolerance,” he said.
“Then wouldn’t it have taken longer for the morphine to work? He seemed to instantly feel better once I started the drip.”
“Morphine and oxy are fundamentally different compounds. And it could be that the morphine worked better because we gave it to him intravenously. But I agree, it does seem odd that he reacted to one so quickly and allegedly not the other at all,” he said.
“Allegedly?”
He inched closer so he could talk in a low voice. “I’ve seen patients like him before, Gigi, when I worked in bigger hospitals. I’m sure you ran across them during your time in Spokane too. They come in complaining of an ache or pain. Something almost impossible for a doctor to diagnose. Back pain. Knee ache. Sprained joints. Other than giving them medication and telling them to rest, there isn’t much else we can do for treatment. They know that. So they come in with the same pain, over and over, and leave with a brand new prescription.”
“Oh,” I mumbled. “You think he’s a pain pill addict? That he was faking it?”
“I don’t know. The only other option is that Ida made a mistake and didn’t give him enough oxy,” he said.
“I doubt it.” Ida was the senior nurse at the hospital and the epitome of thorough.
He nodded. “Me too. She isn’t likely to have made a mistake like that.”
Mr. Johnson had shown me two very different versions of himself in the last hour. But a painkiller addict? He didn’t seem the type.
“An addict?” I asked.
“Maybe. I’m just speculating. The addicts I’ve seen in the past came into the hospital on a fairly regular basis. But that was in much bigger hospitals. It was easier for them to blend in. They could avoid seeing the same doctor over and over. Here, it would be much more difficult.”
“His chart said he’s been in a couple of times but that was spread out over five years.”
“True. He might be traveling out of town to other hospitals. I just don’t know. It could legitimately be that his body just didn’t respond to the oxycodone,” Everett said.
Jess was still trying to find out who was selling prescription drugs in Prescott. If I didn’t know there was a dealer on the loose, my mind would have never suspected Mr. Johnson of drug abuse. But now I couldn’t rule it out.
We were sitting across from each other in Jess’s booth at the café. The Mustangs had an away game and Rowen was finally having a sleepover with Bryant’s daughter. So, much like our first date, Jess and I were alone for dinner.
“I’ve known Gus Johnson for years. He’s no drug addict,” Jess said.
Nurses weren’t supposed to share patient information with people outside of the hospital staff, Hippocratic oath and all. So if I needed to share something about my day with Jess, I always used general terms to describe the situation. And I never used a patient’s name.
I was surprised when he knew exactly who I had been talking about.
Correction. I was shocked.
“How did you know who I was talking about?” I asked.
“I was at Silas’s place today when Gus came in and said he tweaked his back.”
“Oh. Well. Still, you don’t know he isn’t an addict. He could be an expert at hiding it,” I said.
“Freckles, believe me when I tell you he’s no drug addict.”
“But don’t you think it’s all a little too suspicious? I mean . . . he works at Silas’s ranch. He could have picked up hidden pills there and known exactly where to look. Maybe he was the one that hit and killed that baby calf. Plus he had to have been faking it when he said he was still in pain today. No person can get that much oxy and not be feeling good an hour later.”
He chuckled.
“What? What’s funny?”
“Gus works on the ranch. He’d be the last person to hit a calf with his truck. He’d know exactly where they were and he’d stay away.”
