Murders at Hollings General

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Dr. David Brooks remembered the man behind the surgical mask as shorter and left-handed.

"Strange," he whispered, turning to Dr. William Castleman, the young Director of Emergency Medicine, "back in the Navy, he was a little man. They used to give him a stool to stand on when he operated."

"Maybe it was years of military food," Castleman said, straightening his starched white jacket. "Gave him a growth spurt."

"Sure, and made him ambidextrous." David had removed his blue blazer and placed it across his knees, half again higher than Castleman's.

They sat together in the center of the first row overlooking Suite 7, the surgical amphitheater of Connecticut's venerable Hollings General Teaching Hospital, on a viewing balcony crowded with doctors, nurses, medical students, administrators and news reporters. Frozen forward, eyes homed in on the operating surgeon, their breathing stalled for a collective silence. Before them, bright lights reflected off an otherwise invisible glass partition. On the wall, a clock's second hand cogwheeled to precisely three thirty. The balcony smelled scrubbed and antiseptic.

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