The doctor informed me earlier today that this would be my last night in this boring hospital. My 104-degree fever had almost broken. At least he thought it had, but I must have still been seriously sick. Why would I see a doctor switching the labels on the blood donations?

I peered closer and stealthily stepped out of my lumpy hospital bed to widen the crack of the off-white door. A tall, slender man was peeling the labels off the generous blood donations and switching them around. ‘A positive’ became ‘O negative’ and ‘AB negative’ was now ‘B positive.’ The man strolled away as though nothing had even happened, as if he did not just jeopardize several patients’ lives.

As I walked back to my bed in awe, I felt my forehead, which showed no signs of extreme heat, in fact it reminded me of glass left outside on a breezy day. I went to bed hoping that it was all just an intriguing hallucination. Unfortunately, it was not.

I woke up to the hustle and bustle of busy doctors, disease-stricken patients, and melancholy visitors. The bright white walls seemed to reflect the fluorescent lights right into my still-sleepy eyes. Suddenly, I remembered what had happened last night. I had to find someone to tell. Who was I even supposed to tell? Doctors, the receptionist, maybe even the culprit himself. I am only a fifteen-year-old boy. They would think I was pulling some sort of malevolent prank.

I ran my fingers through my dark blonde hair, as I walked out of my room to observe the metal cart where the blood had been last night. The only problem was that the blood was missing in action. Before I even had time to ponder where the blood could be, I saw a teary-eyed African American woman following a deep-voiced doctor down the main hallway.

“…blood transfusion… did not work…sorry,” the doctor mumbled.

I snuck in closer to hear the captivating conversation.

“This has never happened before, but the ‘type A’ blood we received for your husband’s surgery turned out to be ‘type B.’”

“So you’re saying Jonathan is dead,” the African American woman said staring up at the tall and lean doctor.

“I hate to say this, but I’m afraid so.”

The woman wept into her hands as I chimed in, “I know what happened.”

“What do you mean you know what happened?” the doctor replied loudly.

“I saw someone in a white lab coat switching the labels on the blood last night from my room,” I nearly bellowed.

“You do realize this is an incredibly serious accusation. I have no time for your tomfoolery. I need the truth.”

“But this is the truth, Dr. Grady,” I said as I read his nametag.

“Can you tell me who you saw or what they looked like?”

“Well…um. He was very tall, very skinny, and had dark brown hair.”

“You can’t possibly mean Dr. McDune, the brilliant brain surgeon that has been with this hospital for over fifteen years,” Dr. Grady said with doubt in his voice.

“But I know I saw someone switching-”

“Enough! Now get on back to your room and quit acting so childish,” Dr. Grady roared.

I trudged back to my room very glumly. Dr. McDune was a murderer that needed to go to prison immediately. As I arrived in my room, I saw my frantic mother talking to my doctor who reassured her that I was fever free and that I could return home. There was no way that I was just going to leave this crime scene.

“Excuse me, Dr. Raap. I think my fever hasn’t completely left,” I lied as I pretended as though I felt immensely weak and feverish.

“Really? Well, let me take your temperature to check,” he replied quizzically.

Dr. Raap magically pulled out a blue thermometer from his right pocket and injected it into my left ear as though he were giving a patient a shot. I bit my tongue while hoping that a fever still contaminated my body.

“Oh my goodness! Your fever is still 100 degrees,” he shouted. “This is completely my mistake. You are free to stay here until you have fully recovered.”

Relief spread through my entire body like yawns spread from person to person. “Thank you Dr. Raap,” I answered.

The day went by unusually quickly as I planned for tonight. I would sneak out of my room and take a picture of the day’s blood donations with my cell phone. With the hope of Dr. McDune returning to commit yet another crime, I would then take another picture through the crack of my door of Dr. McDune in action. After he leaves, one more photograph of the new blood labels will ensure that the wicked man will spend his life locked up. I quickly thanked technology and then my plan commenced.

“Good night, James,” the nurse told me before she dimmed the hallway lights in order to provide our wing with some well-needed rest.

The door closed slowly and then I charged like a bull out of my bed to the small pile of my few belongings, which included my neon orange backpack and some extra clothes to wear. My backpack, with everything from an Algebra II textbook to my torn physics notes, also contained my brand new iPhone 5. With a simple tap of the unlock button and a slide of my finger, I was ready for part one of my life saving plan, but first I debated whether I should ask Siri what to do if I was ever the only witness of a horrid crime.

I decided not to ask Siri what to do, because I could not afford to get distracted. I carefully peered out of the door to my room, and then I scurried like tiny rodent over to the blood. I pulled my phone out from my jeans’ pocket without making one sound. I would have definitely pleased the strictest librarian. Just as I was about to snap the first photograph, I heard footsteps.

“What do you think you are doing, young man!” a deep voice boomed.

It was Dr. Grady.

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” I replied just as loud.

“Get back to your room. I have important business to take care of.”

Suddenly, I realized that Dr. Grady and Dr. McDune looked quite similar. Both had dark brown hair and were very lofty and narrow.

Dr. Grady personally escorted me back to my room while calling me practically every word in the book. I then realized that Dr. McDune did not switch the labels at all. Dr. Grady switched the blood labels and merely suggested to me that someone else had done it, and I fell right into his trap. He slammed my door shut and propped a wooden chair up against the doorknob in order to ensure that I could not escape from my room.

“Dr. Grady, what do you think you’re doing?” I heard a distant voice shout in an appalled tone.

It was Dr. McDune.

“Are you-? So it was you that caused Mr. Fern’s death earlier today.”

I rammed the door with as much force as my fever would allow me to. Within half of a second, I was sprawled on top of a broken chair and then whacked by the door that ricocheted off the now dented wall.

Dr. McDune was already on the phone with the police. “Yes. The hospital on Sixteenth Street next to the rather large Starbucks.”

Before I could even brush off the sawdust from the broken chair off my nearly new Abercrombie shirt, the New York Police Department handcuffed Dr. Grady.

“You have the right to remain silent,” I heard one of the officers say as they forced the criminal down the hallway.