Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  She was an only child.

  The Medical University was about twenty minutes from her apartment, unless she was in a hurry. Which she was, so it took about half the time. She should have brought Jake. He loved exercise. The more the better. She was positive the hospital staff wouldn’t appreciate a ninety pound dog running around their Emergency Room. Even if the dog was as adorable as Jake.

  MUSC was enormous. A sprawling brick complex positioned smack-dab in the heart of downtown Charleston. Janice was out of breath as she ran by the front entrance of Roper Hospital (private, well-to-do), past the side entrance and around to the back, where the ER was located. Evans’s voice greeted her as she rounded the corner.

  “You remembered to wear clothes for a change?” Evans snapped his fingers, loudly. “Damn the bad luck.”

  Evans was a police officer friend of Donny. They palled around together, went out for pizza, bowled on the same league, played in the police softball team. Janice tagged along with “the guys” from time to time. Men. She ran up the cement steps two at a time. She neglected holding onto the steel banister. “That call was from you, wasn’t it?” She whispered into his ear. “I might have guessed.”

  Evans looked around, then nodded. “Yours truly.”

  Evans had been diligently trying to make a move on Janice since the first day she arrived in Charleston. Call it Southern hormones. Or plain old stubbornness. Janice didn’t have the heart to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree. She guessed Janine and Donny didn’t either, because Evans just kept right on coming, exerting a whole lot of exhausting effort in her direction. Eveready, she called him. She hoped he might run into Lisette and her out one night. It would certainly make things a hell of a lot easier. Besides, she hated the job of crushing another male’s ego. Southern gentlemen were so, so sensitive. “Everybody’s Ashley.” Then again, if it helped get her a story, hells bells, Janice could flirt and play and cajole with the best of them. And did. So, she was a whore at some level. Wasn’t everybody? She watched Evans flick his cigarette into the street.

  “Thought you were giving it up?” Janice said, adding insult to injury. “Can’t expect me to be kissing you with your mouth tasting and smelling like an ashtray!” She was so bad. Tease. Flirt. Repeat.

  Evans turned to his partner. Janice had embarrassed him. “This is Officer Rogers,” he interjected, changing the subject. “He’s new to the force. Janice Porter from the Courier.”

  Janice shook his hand. Hard. She liked making strong first impressions. “Pleasure.”

  “Nice hand shake.”

  She looked through the windows of the Emergency Room. “So, what’s going on here? Where’s my story of a lifetime?”

  Evans put his hands in his front pockets. Why did men always do that when they got nervous? “Old Hammerhead just arrived. He’s inside questioning the guy that brought the girl in. That’s about it so far.”

  Janice pulled out her steno pad and started jotting down notes. “What’s his name? You know him?” She looked up at Evans. He was attractive. Buzz cut. Blue eyes. Crooked front teeth that overlapped.

  “Madden. George Madden.”

  “M-a-d-d-e-n?” She spelled it back to him. She would never misspell another name as long as she lived. She also always remembered to cross her “t’s” and dot her “i’s.”

  Evans nodded. “Madden. He found the girl. We’re taking him back to the precinct for questioning, if Hammer ever gets his ass back downstairs.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Officer Rogers spoke up, out of nowhere, like a jack in the box, too long ignored. “The girl went into surgery. Been some time now. She’s supposedly on her way to Intensive Care.” He fished around in his front pocket for another Marlboro Red.

  Evans interrupted, “… over two hours, I heard. Hey, pass me one.”

  “Buy your own!” Instead, Rogers offered one to Janice.

  “No thanks.” Janice never smoked, never did, and never would. Once an obsessive, always an obsessive. Her attention went back to Evans. “So Hammer’s upstairs waiting to talk to..?”

  “The doctor. The admitting doctor. She did the surgery.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah.” Evans lit up the cig and took a deep drag, exhaling smoke rings into the damp, night air. Janice shook her head. Evans smiled. “I’ll brush my teeth.”

  “Madden a suspect?”

  “Ask him yourself. You’re the reporter.”

  Janice walked past Evans and elbowed him in the stomach. “You’re a shit, you know it?” Evans flinched as Janice pushed the metal entry button. “Let me know if you spot Hammer. Knock on the window or something.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  The automatic door swooshed open. Inside, Janice blew Evans a kiss. A big one. Thanks for the tip, she mouthed. He understood. He appreciated her discretion. The last thing an officer needed was pressure from the brass for alerting the press. What did they think they were? Piranhas? Hell, Janice was trying to make a living just like everybody else. Okay, if she were to be totally honest… it was also to get her name out there too.

  Officers gave tips for personal reasons, like Evans. Or, they did it to get back at the Chief for some cockamamie injustice or another. There were probably a thousand different reasons. She didn’t really give a rat’s ass, as long as she was on the receiving end.

  In the beginning, Janice couldn’t get arrested. No leads. Nothing. She was poison, except of course to Donny. And those leads were few and far between. It was almost expected that Donny would squeal, so anytime a story hit the press with Janice’s byline attached, the finger automatically pointed in Donny’s direction. It caused some grief at home and at work, and with Janine expecting a baby at the time, Janice stopped asking. A pushy broad she was, but she wasn’t out to make anybody’s life miserable. Or, get somebody fired, which is what they threatened to do to Donny. Bastards.

  The Emergency Room buzzed with its own distinct order as Janice approached Madden. He was sitting down on one of those generic, orange plastic chairs. Janice called out his name and he jumped a bit. He wasn’t expecting to have a conversation with her, she guessed. A woman. After all, he was waiting for Hammer. The man.

  “George Madden?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “May I have a few words with you? Is that okay?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Janice Porter. I’m from the Post and Courier.” Janice showed him her press card. Legit. Professional.

  George looked at the ID and at her picture. He glanced for a second at Janice then back down to the floor again. “Post and Courier?”

  “I’m wondering if you might be able to give me some information about the girl you found this evening.”

  George took another long take at the photo before speaking. “What do you want to know?”

  “What time did you find the girl? Where did you find her? How old is she, guessing that is? You know, the usual questions. You watch the same TV shows I do, don’t you?” Go for humor. Lighten him up a bit.

  “This has never happened to me before.”

  “I hope not.” She flipped to a fresh page in her steno book.

  “I’m kinda nervous. My wife, Edna, she’s not here. She’s at home.”

  Janice sat down beside him. Of course, he was nervous. Little dots of perspiration were beading up on his forehead. His thumbs were rotating in and out of each other like an overzealous water mill. She was getting dizzy just watching them.

  Go for sweetness.

  “I understand,” she said in her most syrupy of voices. She reached out and touched his wrist. Dry, pale skin with sporadic patches of thinning dark hair. She should be ashamed of herself, but she continued. She checked the time. She had to squeeze out this information before the Hammer got back. She looked outside. Evans and Rogers were still there. Still smoking. Still shooting the shit. They would let Janice know if Hammer was coming. Hammer was no saint. And, he hated reporters. On several occ
asions, he’d been known to throw the press out. Literally. Pick them up and boot them out the door. It was known. Don’t mess with Detective Dan Hammer. Particularly since his partner’s death. Everybody knew. Everybody abided. Charleston was a smallish community. Reputations spread quickly. Like swamp water.

  “Have you talked with Detective Hammer yet?”

  George cleared his throat. “Well, when the Detective first got here, he started askin’ me some questions, but then that nurse over there…” he pointed a crooked arthritic finger toward the ER where a nurse was talking on a telephone. “… called him over to the desk. After she stopped talkin’, well, he ran back there, to the elevator, I guess.”

  “Did he say he’d be back?”

  “Nope. But those cops outside there, well they arrived first, before the detective, and I overheard him telling them to wait until he finished upstairs. I guess they want to take me to the precinct.”

  Story of a lifetime…

  The phrase kept repeating in her head like a bad Barry Manilow melody. Janice smiled. Fucking fantastic. She was the first one on the case. The first to arrive at the scene. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Evans. She glanced out at him. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Hell, she might have sex with him after all. Call it a charity fuck! All right, young lady, compose yourself. Don’t go overboard. Get the details first. See if you have a story before getting all excited.

  “George..?”

  “Yes?” George prepared himself. He folded his hands in his lap like a choirboy and sat straight up in his chair.

  Good boy, George, Georgie…

  She began like a schoolteacher. A nice one. Like Lisette. The kind you brought an apple to. “I’m going to ask you some very important questions, George, and I want you to answer them as honestly as you can. Okay?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He took a short pause, scanned the room, stretched his neck from side to side and then looked back at Janice. His expression was one of a child. An inquisitive child. A sweet, innocent child about to ask for a piece of candy. Then quietly, he spoke. “Will I be in the paper tomorrow? My wife, Edna, she wants to know.”

  Janice watched the small hand of the generic wall clock yawn toward two. “Maybe George…” She smiled sheepishly, embarrassed by her indulgent self-involvement.

  Story of a lifetime…

  “… if all goes well, we both will.”

  2:00 AM

  June 15, 2007

  Friday

  MUSC

  8

  She had several nicknames in the Operating Room. “Precision,” being her favorite, which was self-explanatory. “Ambo,” she’d deduced, was her innate raw talent, the ambidextrous gift she possessed, while closing. Her hands working together, an elite, effortless team, symmetrically pulling, twisting, tying and cutting the clear sutures as if choreographed, as if Divinely guided. “The Michelangelo of the OR.” Apropos. Although, now that she actually thought about it, it could very well be the surgical staff calling her “Rambo.”

  Bitch, of course.

  Young scrub nurses and OR technicians assisting her had been known to whisper under their breath the proverbial bitch. Better that, than nigger. What that little shit called her earlier in the evening. She had a difficult time even thinking the word, let alone saying it. Peculiar how one small word could penetrate the thick skin she’d developed. More like Naugahyde, by now. At this age and stage, she didn’t have the time or the need to worry about infantile name-calling. The truth was, she was an excellent surgeon. One of the best at the University. And any of her colleagues or peers would concur.

  The little girl she just worked on would agree. She was lucky to have her as her surgeon.

  She needed her.

  Initial examination of Jane Doe (unfortunately, the hospital had no patient identification on the girl and began emergency procedures before any consent form could be signed) revealed a well-nourished, thirteen to fifteen year old white female, admitted via the Emergency Room Trauma Center at around eleven o’clock PM, June 14, 2007.

  Patient presented exterior evidence of multiple trauma wounds, three deep, moon-shaped lacerations to the right cheek area, all made from a sharp object, perhaps a razorblade or a knife. Several surface hematomas were displayed across her forehead. External ligature marks were noted on both right and left ankles, and both left and right wrists. At the time of admission, neurosurgery was not called in for a consultation since patient responded, although slightly, to painful stimulus. A CT scan later confirmed a large subdural hematoma at the base of her skull, most probably due to a massive hit against the occipital cranial wall. No skull fracture was evident on x-ray. No rib or extremity fractures were noted upon initial examination. No irregular stomach patterns. Limited bowel sounds.

  Patient coded in the ER due to left ventricle shutdown, most probably hypovolemic. Patient was intubated and infused with Ringer’s Lactate solution, 1 mg. Epinephrine per/hr. IV piggyback to hydrate. Dopamine, 2 mg. administered to increase blood volume to heart. Type and cross ordered, including a full drug screen. Complete battery of blood work was obtained and sent to the laboratory. Urinary catheter was inserted. Urinalysis and urine cultures were taken. Patient was transported immediately to the OR and infused with two pints of O negative blood while awaiting type and cross results. Patient underwent surgery (see surgery chart for vitals), and stabilized slowly in recovery. Last recorded systolic blood pressure was at 70, and patient was taken off life support. She is now breathing on her own.

  Excessive blood loss originated from the patient’s vaginal area. Labia majora, labia minora and clitoris had been completely excised in a mutilated fashion, more commonly referred to as a “complete circumcision.” Patient’s vaginal wall had been sewn together with what appeared to be black animal hair, perhaps from a horse. Small bone fragments, perhaps those from a chicken, had been used to pierce through what was left of the surrounding adipose tissue and laced up.

  Patient’s right areola had been lopped off in similar barbaric fashion. Plastic surgery consultation was completed in the AM. Left breast appeared intact, except for multiple pinpricks around the areola.

  Once the removal of the bone fragments and animal hair were completed, the vaginal wall was opened. No evidence of penetration or internal trauma. A small glass vial was recovered from deep within the cavity. Inside the container, on a bloodstained piece of tightly folded cloth was written…“for her sins.”

  * * *

  “Dr. Garrison. Excuse me, Dr. Garrison.”

  She heard the voice. It came to her through water. She found herself in thought, dispatched to some remote exotic island, lying back lazily on a white sandy beach listening to the azure waves break against a sun-drenched shoreline.

  “Dr. Garrison,” the voice became clearer. “Her parents are here. The girl has been identified. They would like to speak with you.”

  The steady drone of Jane Doe’s heartbeat beeping on the cardiac monitor and Rebecca’s nasally voice catapulted her back into the Recovery Room. Her parents? Identified? She has a name.

  “What?”

  “Also, Detective Hammer is here to see you. He’s down in the Emergency Room.”

  Suddenly, she was very popular.

  She finished her entry in Jane Doe’s chart. She walked a fine line with emotion tonight. She raced against it routinely. It was the part of her job she hated. Thankfully, she was very competitive. Rarely was there much of a contest. But this evening, with that young girl, the race almost won out. And, she almost allowed it to win. Just thinking about the prospect of what that girl had to live with for the rest of her life, well, it literally took her breath away. It wasn’t often she wanted to leave the OR to vomit, the sight of something so horrible, so hideous that she might actually succumb to the pressure. Usually, she could remove herself. Another gift she possessed. Most doctors had it, and utilized it from time to time, she presumed. They had to. The profession would be sheer torture without it, without something. She believed
knowledge, if applied correctly, had the innate ability to allow distance, a safe shore away from emotional jeopardy. The God Syndrome, she called it. She happened to think it was a part of the Hippocratic Oath. Read the fine print. It’s there, between the words, the hidden lines.

  She walked around to the side of the bed and felt the girl’s forehead with her palm. She was a firm believer in hands-on healing. It came from her ancestry, handed down through generations. She was prevented from feeling the girl’s skin due to a maze of sterile gauze wrapped around her head like a mummy during surgery. The girl was gone. Totally sedated. She was absent, somewhere far away. Maybe close to where she had just returned. An exotic island? Are azure waves beating against your shoreline, little one? She hoped so. Better for her she was out. God give her strength once she awakened.

  In the nurse’s station, Dr. Garrison filled out post op orders. She wanted to continue the sedation with plenty of pain medication, PRN as needed. Give the girl as much comfort as possible. She would start with a wide spectrum antibiotic. God only knew what cutting utensil had been used. From the tear of the skin, it appeared as if it could have been the lid from a tin can. Truly horrific. She was lucky, though. She was a healthy girl, with a strong immune system. Then again, who’s to say she’s lucky?