Chapter 5 - The Medical Record That Had Been Changed|
At seven the next morning, Dante Moretti arrived at a private hospital on the north side of Chicago.
He came without Victor Hale.
Without Isabella Romano.
And without the physician who had managed his recovery for three years.
That alone would have caused a scandal inside his household.
But Dante no longer cared.
He sat in an examination room while Dr. Rachel Bennett reviewed the records from the bombing.
His headache had started before breakfast.
A familiar pressure behind his eyes.
Then the strange sensation that something important was slipping out of his memory.
He had experienced that feeling hundreds of times.
Victor always called it post-traumatic confusion.
Isabella called it one of his bad mornings.
But Dante was beginning to wonder whether those labels had prevented anyone from asking more important questions.
Dr. Bennett entered carrying a tablet.
“Mr. Moretti, I've reviewed what your previous physician supplied.”
Dante looked up.
“And?”
“There's a discrepancy.”
His jaw tightened.
“What kind?”
“The surgical report describes three metallic fragments removed from the back of your neck and upper shoulder.”
“That sounds right.”
“But the later summary says a fourth fragment was deliberately left in place.”
Dante frowned.
“So?”
“The original operative notes don't clearly establish that a fourth fragment existed.”
He stared.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need the original imaging and an independent radiologist's review before accepting the later summary.”
Dante leaned back.
For three years, Victor had insisted the object was a harmless remnant of the explosion.
The explanation had been repeated so often that Dante stopped questioning it.
“Can you image it?”
“Yes. We'll select the safest appropriate study based on the possibility of retained metal.”
She paused.
“And I want you to understand something. Even if we find an object, that won't automatically explain your memory symptoms.”
Dante nodded.
“Understood.”
The examination took less than an hour.
Afterward, Dante waited in a quiet consultation room.
He hated waiting.
Usually, waiting meant someone else controlled the situation.
But now he forced himself to sit still.
He wanted facts.
Not reassurance.
Not Victor's explanations.
Facts.
When Dr. Bennett returned, her expression was serious.
“There is a small foreign object beneath the skin near the back of your neck.”
Dante felt his stomach tighten.
“Metal?”
“It appears to contain metal.”
“What kind?”
“The imaging suggests a manufactured component rather than an irregular piece of shrapnel.”
He stared.
“Manufactured?”
“Yes.”
She turned the monitor toward him.
A small oval object appeared beneath the tissue.
Smooth.
Defined.
Distinct from the surrounding structures.
Dante leaned forward.
“Could someone have put that there?”
“It's possible. We need surgical and forensic evaluation to determine what it is and how it got there.”
He looked at the image.
Three years of headaches.
Three years of missing conversations.
Three years of relying on Victor to tell him what he'd supposedly said or done.
“Is it causing my symptoms?”
Dr. Bennett shook her head.
“We can't conclude that. Its location may explain local tenderness, but memory problems require a separate neurological assessment.”
He nodded slowly.
Then asked, “Can it be removed?”
“A surgeon will need to evaluate the risks. It appears relatively superficial, but we won't make that decision from one image.”
Dante stared at the screen.
Then whispered, “I want to know who put it there.”
Dr. Bennett's expression softened.
“That's a question for investigators as well as physicians.”
An hour later, Dante contacted Detective Elena Vargas.
She had investigated several financial crimes connected to businesses in Chicago.
Unlike many people who knew the Moretti name, she wasn't impressed by it.
“Dante,” she answered, “this better be important.”
He almost smiled.
“It is.”
He explained the discovery.
The object.
The medical records.
The missing drawings.
The attempted entry into Anna's apartment.
When he finished, Vargas was silent.
Then she said, “You need to preserve everything.”
“I know.”
“And don't confront anyone before we understand what happened.”
Dante looked toward the hospital window.
“That's going to be difficult.”
“Then consider it practice.”
He laughed bitterly.
She continued.
“Your reputation doesn't disappear because you're reporting a crime. I'll investigate this properly, including anything you may have done.”
Dante appreciated the warning.
At least she was honest.
That afternoon, a specialist examined the object and recommended a carefully planned removal under local anesthesia, subject to consent and appropriate precautions.
Dante agreed.
The procedure was scheduled for the following morning.
Before leaving the hospital, he asked Dr. Bennett to review his medications.
She obtained records directly from the pharmacy and prescribing practice.
Then frowned.
“Mr. Moretti, have you been told why you're taking this combination?”
Dante looked at the list.
“No.”
“One medication can cause considerable drowsiness. Another may contribute to slowed thinking in some patients.”
His throat tightened.
“Victor said they helped my headaches.”
“Some may have legitimate uses, but we need to assess whether the prescriptions remain appropriate and whether the doses match your needs.”
Dante looked away.
For years, he had believed the fog was permanent damage from the explosion.
Now he understood that medication might be contributing.
He wasn't certain.
But he was no longer willing to accept explanations without review.
That evening, he returned to the mansion.
Victor was waiting in his office.
“Where have you been?”
Dante slowly removed his coat.
“At the hospital.”
Victor's expression changed.
“Why wasn't I informed?”
Dante looked directly at him.
“Because I'm thirty-eight years old, Victor. I don't need your permission to see a doctor.”
The older man's jaw tightened.
“Dante, I'm only concerned about your health.”
“Then you'll be pleased to know I'm receiving an independent evaluation.”
Victor stared.
“What evaluation?”
Dante reached into his pocket.
And placed a printed image on the desk.
Victor looked down.
His face lost every trace of color.
For a moment, he forgot to pretend.
Then he whispered, “Who showed you that?”
Dante went still.
Not what is that?
Not why is it there?
May you like
But who showed you that?
And suddenly, he knew Victor recognized the object.
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