In order to pay his medical school tuition, Thomas Merrick was working two jobs over the summer.

By day, he worked at LeClaire’s Market—a butcher shop. He wore a stiff white coat splattered with crimson and trimmed fat.

By night, he transformed. Down at St. Ambrose Hospital, he traded cleavers for stretchers. As an orderly on the graveyard shift, his white coat now clean and crisp, worn over hospital scrubs.

One night, long past midnight, Thomas was called to prepare a patient for surgery. Room 216. Elderly woman. Appendectomy.

He arrived with his usual calm, smiled softly, gently eased the gurney beside her bed, and began to help the nurses ready her for the trip down to the OR. She was pale. Small. Her eyes fluttered open, cloudy but alert.

As Thomas leaned in to adjust the straps, the room froze. Her eyes locked onto him—wide, horrified. Her lips trembled. Then, as if struck by lightning, she bolted upright and screamed with the terror of a woman who believed her last hour had come: “God save me! It’s the butcher!”