“He was either unconscious or he didn’t want to fight back. He’s got a contusion near his temple. Maybe that incapacitated him and then whoever had the knife just started slashing.”
“Age?”
“Around twenty.”
“And no one’s come forward with any information?”
“Missing persons isn’t looking for this guy. Not a word. He’s off the grid, or no one cares.”
He thought about that as the doctor waited with studied patience. “Got a picture?” Lang asked.
“You’re such good friends with Nunce, get it from him.” He stomped off and Lang was alone. He stared down at the man’s face a long time, memorizing it. Angular cheeks. Black hair, longish.
Young.
Carefully, sensing the quiet of the room, the sharp scents, the feeling of a deep, impersonal institution—exactly what it was—Lang closed the drawer. Even with his effort of quiet, it seemed to clang and reverberate, a harsh metallic sound that spoke of the finality of death.
“Dr. Norris! Jane Doe. Cat…she might be coming to.”
Claire glanced at Alison, then at her office clock. It was almost five. “What’s happening?”
“She’s tense. Gripping her chair. Gibby says she’s talking.”
Claire and the aide shared a look. “I’ll be right there,” she said and Alison nodded and hurried away. It was early, but she might be able to leave after she checked on Cat. There was no pressing reason to stay late, and she’d already spent far too many hours on the job.
Grabbing her coat and tossing her purse strap over her shoulder, she walked briskly down the hall toward the skyway that led to the main hospital and the gallery above the morning room. Descending the steps, she could smell the scents of cooked carrots and potatoes and chicken. The kitchen was preparing the evening meal and tables were being arranged in the morning room. Patients could eat in their rooms or one of several dining rooms, or the morning room, if there were seats available. Claire frowned and headed down the hall toward room 113, Jane Doe—Cat’s—room. Side A of the hospital had three floors; Side B, which housed the criminally insane, sported four floors and two subterranean levels as well.
The door to room 113 was open. Dr. Freeson was staring down at the patient, whose blank face stared right back.
“Alison said she might be coming to,” Claire said.
“Well, you can see that’s not true. Why did Alison go to you?”
“What happened?”
Freeson fluttered a hand. “That Gibson boy was bothering her, so we took them both back to their rooms. Actually, I was just about to call you, so it’s just as well you’re here.” He frowned at the sight of her coat and purse. “There’s a meeting tomorrow morning with the Marsdon family concerning Heyward’s incarceration. I want to make sure you’re available.”
“I’m not available,” she said tightly. “I have patients.”
“Well, rearrange them, for God’s sake,” he said. “This matters, Claire. Eleven o’clock. Avanti will be there, and Neumann, and of course Dr. Radke.”
As hospital administrator, Radke was the big cheese and was also the man in bed professionally with the Marsdons.
“I’m no longer Heyward’s doctor,” she said.
“In Heyward’s mind, you are,” Freeson replied. “I’m not asking, Claire.”
“You never do.”
“You want to take this up with Avanti, be my guest.” Color swept up his neck and his voice tightened. “The Marsdons will be there, too, and the team from Side B: Zellman…Prior…”
Claire could see the pressure was going to be on her to agree to Heyward’s release from Side B to Side A. “Maybe someone from the lockdown section will argue that Heyward should remain with them.”
Freeson looked at her as if she were dense. “Just be there.”
Feeling someone else’s eyes on her, she glanced back and saw that Cat had turned her head and was staring at her. Claire stared back and a frisson slid up her arms in spite of herself. Was there any chance she understood their words? “Hello,” she said.
But the girl’s gaze was in the middle distance. Not on Claire. After a few minutes, she turned back to stare toward the blank television on the wall across from her bed. Claire turned the set on and put the remote near Cat’s right hand, next to the call button. Then she headed out of the room and to the side exit where her car was parked.
Lang sat in his truck, his head against the headrest, eyes closed, ears filled with the pitter, pitter of rain and then sloppy plops when it started pounding in earnest. He opened his eyes. He was in the lot of the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, parked in a visitor’s spot, nose out. He’d been there an hour. If he stayed much longer he suspected someone would come and knock on his window and demand to know what the hell he was doing. He would, if he worked there.
But he didn’t want to move. He was caught in a funky inertia, the same one he’d battled since Melody’s death. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. It had a strong grip that had lessened a bit over time, but still held on hard. He had no family now. He was alone, and a voice in his head kept asking him, What now? What’s next? What’s the point?
Shifting in the seat, he sighed, a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. He supposed he suffered from depression, although it didn’t completely immobilize him. In fact, given the slightest chance to get Heyward Marsdon a guilty verdict and send him to the big house, he’d be sprinting down the halls to do that.
He glanced toward the sheriff department’s front doors. He’d called for the sheriff again, but had been told the man was out. Lang figured Nunce must still be on vacation, because he was never in. He was asked, again, if he wanted to speak with someone else, but Lang had once again declined. Going to see the medical examiner, pretending that he’d talked to the sheriff, that maybe hadn’t been wise for positive relations with the department; however, he didn’t regret it. What the hell. Sometimes you just had to forge forward in life, and he hadn’t been particularly good in that regard lately.
Although he’d overstepped bounds all over the place and if he were caught, had no backup plan, he didn’t much care. Part of his “depression,” no doubt, but he kinda thought his very lack of interest was the reason he’d gotten past the ME. He wasn’t desperate or pushy, didn’t want anything really, and so he’d raised no alarm. If he wanted to see the John Doe’s body, it was fine, fine, fine. No reason to call the sheriff and check. Just go goddamn look at it already, and get out.
The dead man’s image crossed the screen of his mind. The stitched Y-cut from the autopsy. The muscular build. His youth. No defensive wounds…
Why hadn’t the guy fought back? What had stopped him? Did he know his attacker? Was he unconscious before the knife attack began?
Lang knew the man had been found by a trucker, but unless he looked at the case file he wouldn’t know
