“Maybe you should, you know, talk to somebody about it?” Dan had suggested in the car on the way home. He’d managed to beat the patrol officers to the scene and talked the woman out of pressing charges. Luckily, there was no record that any of it had ever happened. He’d said we’d come back later for my car.
“Talk to somebody about the fact that there are sick people in the world who want my autograph because my sister is dead?” I asked, pouncing. “How is talking to anyone going to change that?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Dan snapped right back, at long last annoyed.
“Then what did you mean?”
“I’m just saying— sometimes, Julia, you only see what you want to see.”
“So this is me in denial?” My face was hot, my voice loud. I’d been gunning for this fight— the big one— and I was ready.
“Maybe counseling could help you process things. So you don’t have to feel so angry.”
“Stop the damn car!” I shouted, already reaching for the door.
“Whoa, calm down!” Dan jerked the car onto the shoulder. “Julia, wait . . .”
I don’t remember exactly what I said next, only the rage I’d felt. And how it had ended: with me getting out of Dan’s car on the side of Route 32 and walking the four miles home.
“Room 304,” the nurse says finally, waving a printed visitor’s badge at me. “They had him in the system wrong. Elevator at the back.”
I see the sleepy uniform on the door as I step off the elevator. Mark, I think. A young guy, clean-cut and too small for his uniform. He pushes himself off the wall when he sees me coming.
“Where’s the treating physician?” I ask.
People admit surprising things to doctors, a lot of it unrelated to their medical treatment and hence not privileged. The trick is getting the doctor to tell you any of it. Their ethics tend to go beyond the letter of the law.
The officer points a short index finger toward a young South Asian woman standing a couple doors down, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Even tired-looking and in her scrubs, she’s quite pretty. I wonder how many patients ask for someone less attractive and more male.
“Doctor?” I ask, flashing my badge.
“Yes,” she says briskly, glancing in my direction before looking back down at the chart in her hands. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
I point behind me. “The AMA who wouldn’t identify himself?”
She nods, then frowns. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t have called the police. As far as I’m concerned, people have the right to their own medical decisions and their privacy.” Great, a doctor and a libertarian. “But we were informed to be on the lookout for an injured individual related to a homicide. And there’s no doubt this patient was assaulted.”
“Serious injuries?”
“Moderate. He has some minor internal bleeding,” she says, eyes still on the chart. “That’s why they brought him in. He was found passed out in the train station. But it seems as though it’s resolving itself.”
“Could the injuries have been caused by a car accident, and not an assault?”
“I’m not a forensics expert, but the pattern and size of the bruising appears more consistent with fists. Also, there’s hardly any damage to his face. If it was an accident of some kind, you wouldn’t expect injuries that are so well contained.” She looks up at me. “Not that the internal injuries to John Doe’s torso would be easy to cause with your bare hands, mind you. Whoever beat him up was efficient and effective. Professional, you could say.”
When I finally enter room 304, a tall, white man is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. He is good-looking and well-built, longish hair pulled back in a ponytail, a little bit of a beard. He still has an IV lead in his arm, the tube detached, and he’s got jeans on under his hospital gown. There’s a balled-up T-shirt in his hands, like he managed to get the jeans on and then was overwhelmed by exhaustion. His lower lip is swollen, but otherwise he has no visible injuries to his face or arms. Strange— the doctor was right. John Doe is bracing himself, hand on his knee, like it’s painful to stay upright.
“Who the fuck are you?” he breathes. His voice is hoarse.
I flash my badge. “Detective Julia Scutt. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Don’t think so.” I hear a touch of a southern accent. “I already told your friend out in the hall I wasn’t talking. But I’ll happily repeat myself: I’m not answering any fucking questions. I don’t have to. Not unless it’s a crime up here to get the shit kicked out of you.”