The Clone's Mother by Cheri Gillard Page B

shift. I had volunteered to be on the committee to escort the JCAH—that’s the Joint Commission on the Accreditation of Hospitals—and show them the hospital. I would get a little extra pay for it, something I could always use. Of course, because this was the association which regulates procedures and sets the standards for all the workings of the hospital, I had to be on my best behavior. Sheila said she’d do it, but Charge Sarge knew better than to send Miss Clairol with the very people who said red claws were not appropriate in the hospital. The Nursing Office issued me a master swipe key card to give us access to locked areas, plus a master key for the areas not yet converted to electronic key cards.
    My assignment on Thursday was to give a tour to a group of inspectors. A giddy feeling spread through my insides when I looked over the list of destinations and saw I’d be escorting them through the bowels of the building. I would lead the troops to Dr. Mackenzie’s laboratory. His area resided in the subbasement of the hospital, part of the original structure that was over a hundred years old. The hospital had a dozen stories, plus the main and lower basements. Back in the 1950s the “modern” addition had been built across the street and was connected back then to the original hospital building by a long underground tunnel. A glass skyway between the old and new third floors had been added five years ago. It was a great asset during the worst of the winter days.
    Our tour included an endless journey through medical units, Central Supply, the Main Pharmacy, the kitchens, and even a janitor’s closet. After all that, we finally progressed to the subbasement.
    Before I let my gaggle of detectives impinge upon Mack’s space, I peeked my head in the door, hoping to give him a heads-up he was about to be invaded.
    The room looked like a typical lab. Counters and cupboards lined the walls and an island counter sat in the center of the room. Every type of equipment you can imagine clogged the room—cryo tanks, microscopes, incubators, a stainless refrigerator, autoclave, laminar flow hood, a centrifuge, and several things I didn’t know the names of, but they looked very scientific.
    One of the doors in the back of the lab was next to a giant window. Through the window you could see an animal lab—a spacious room with elaborate animals cages, like those gerbil habitats with tubes and compartments, only these were big enough for cats. Another scientist was in the animal lab, holding and petting one of the felines.
    Mack was in the front lab working under a flow hood.
    He was so intent on his work, it took my whistle to catch his attention.
    He turned and looked. Safety goggles distorted his face. His blue-gloved hand held a giant eyedropper over a row of racked test tubes. His lab coat was draped over another chair and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His penguin tie was tucked in between two shirt buttons, military style. And of course, his ever-present cup of coffee sat on a bare, stainless Mayo tray pulled up alongside the hood.
    Bill Nye had nothing on this Science Guy.
    I said, “I hope you washed behind your ears. The ‘Inspect-Yours’ are here and they’ll swab and culture anything they can stick a q-tip into.” I didn’t think it was that bad a joke, but his expression told me otherwise.
    He grumbled something and put down his eyedropper. He grabbed his coffee, dumped it down the drain, and chucked the cup into the trash. He snapped off his gloves and removed his goggles.
    I let the Commission in and, suddenly, it was as if I’d never known Mack. He became stiff and formal, and seemed very uncomfortable. He obviously hated the JCAH. While some of the group asked him questions and requested to see some of his logs, others poked around. Mack’s attention stayed more on the people snooping through drawers and cabinets than the inspectors talking to him.
    They came to a closet next to the door into the