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Guarded Prognosis

By Richard L. Mabry, MD

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The men sitting in adjacent chairs looked out of place in the corner of the surgeon’s waiting room. It wasn’t just that they didn’t have visible bandages, or that neither of them winced or evidenced pain. While many of the men and women waiting to see Dr. Caden Taggart bore expressions that said they either needed the surgeon’s attention or had already experienced it, these two men presented themselves the way drug salesmen do—sitting patiently, idly thumbing through magazines, almost bored.
When he came to the front desk to hand off the chart of the patient he’d just seen, Caden glanced at the men in the corner. He noted that they wore dark suits and white shirts, their conservative ties were snugged against their cleanly-shaved necks, and their lace-up shoes had probably been shined this morning. He didn’t know who they were—perhaps police, maybe FBI—but their presence in his office worried him.
Caden leaned closer to his secretary. “Donna, who are those two men?”
“I didn’t get their names. They flashed some sort of ID and badges, but stowed them before I got a good look. They said they had to see you. When I asked them why, they said they’d discuss it with you.”
“They didn’t give you any clue?”
She lowered her voice even further, although no one seemed to be paying attention to the conversation. “They wouldn’t say anything beyond what I’ve told you. They took a seat, and that’s where they’ve been since then. I didn’t know what to do.”
“When’s my next patient?”
“In ten minutes. She’s post-op appendectomy, and arrived a bit early. Ruth just took her back to do vital signs.”
“I’ll have to admit I’m curious about the men,” Caden said. “Why don’t I see them while I’m waiting? Give me a moment to get settled in my office, then send the two of them back.”
As he entered his office, Caden glanced at the Cherrywood desk his father had given him when he opened his surgical practice two years ago. He wondered if Dr. Henry Taggart ever considered that there were more important gifts he could share with his son than those bought with money.
Caden’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the two strangers from his waiting room. He inclined his head toward the two chairs that sat across the desk from him. “Gentlemen, have a seat.”
As Caden took the leather-covered swivel chair behind the desk, another gift from his father, he took the measure of his visitors. The man on his left was probably in his late 50s. His dark hair was cut short, and showed a hint of gray at the temples. The other man, about a decade younger than the first, was blond. Other than that, they were very much alike—average build, no facial hair, clothes neat but not flashy.
The older man pulled out a small leather wallet and held it out to Caden. “I’m agent Darren Neilson, Drug Enforcement Agency.” He nodded toward the man on his left. “This is agent Jerry Harwell.”
Harwell offered a badge and credentials, but said nothing.
Caden looked at the ID cards. They carried the names the two men had given, the pictures matched the facial features he saw across the desk, and the badges said Drug Enforcement Agency. Of course, he’d never seen real badges or credentials from the agency.

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