by Debra Webb
Somewhere, in another room, Katlin would have lain, the same rapid-fire observations and decisions being made to determine her condition…to evaluate the urgency.
But someone had made a mistake—no, two mistakes. Mel’s life had never been in grave danger. But Katlin…
“Melany.”
Mel snapped her eyes open and jerked toward the sound of Ryan’s voice. He watched her closely, as if he feared she might evaporate before his eyes.
“Yes?” she said, the word scarcely a whisper.
“Dr. Wilcox can give us a few minutes now.” Ryan kept his tone even, quiet. But worry etched itself across the masculine terrain of those lines and angles.
“Good.” She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin in defiance of her own weakness. “I’m ready.”
She wasn’t ready. Not in the most remote sense of the word. Ryan wanted to shake her and demand that she go home and lie down. She looked ready to drop. He’d never seen her so vulnerable…so fragile.
But she wasn’t about to back off and nothing he could say or do would change her mind. He marveled at how a person, man or woman, could love a child so much…could risk this very kind of hurt. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t give that much. Wouldn’t give that much.
Ryan led the way to the doctor’s lounge where Wilcox had agreed to take a brief break and spare them a few moments of his precious time. Already Ryan did not like the man. He was arrogant and indifferent—two things Ryan despised in medical professionals. Maybe because those traits reminded him too much of his own self-protective faults. The E.R. was crowded, but he’d seen at least one other doctor on duty and there didn’t appear to be any true emergencies. Not life-threatening ones, anyway.
Five minutes wasn’t going to kill anyone.
Inside the lounge, Wilcox paced impatiently. He drew deeply on a cigarette then quickly plopped it into an abandoned, half-empty foam coffee cup on the closest table. “We’re not supposed to smoke in here, but everybody does it,” he offered unapologetically.
Ryan resisted the urge to take a seat in hopes that Mel would follow suit, but he needed to be on the same level with Wilcox as he questioned him. Needed the man to understand the significance of the questions.
“No problem,” Ryan said in regard to his comment as he reached into an interior pocket and retrieved his notepad and pen. Unlike Bill, Ryan never bothered with notes, but in this instance, it was a deliberate tactic. He wanted Wilcox to know that whatever he said was on the record. “You remember Ms. Jackson,” he said casually.
Wilcox’s beady eyes darted between Ryan and Mel. He swallowed hard, the nervous movement visible along his long, skinny neck. “Of course.” He blinked and reached a hand up to smooth back his short reddish hair. He was fairly tall, but rail thin. Small brown eyes. Long, narrow nose. Birdlike features, Ryan decided. And a cocky attitude. A rooster. He gritted his teeth for a second to hold back a grin, then he asked, “You were on duty the morning Melany Jackson and her daughter were brought to the E.R.?”
He nodded, stealing another glance at Mel. “Yes. I’ve already given my statement to the police.”
“You said—” Ryan flipped through a few pages as if he were referring to something he’d written previously “—that Ms. Jackson appeared to be in a coma. In fact, a CT scan identified an inoperable brain stem injury.”
Wilcox stretched his neck to one side, then the other. “Dr. Reddi made that diagnosis. He was the radiologist on call. A neurosurgeon later confirmed that assessment and determined that our hands were tied.”
“But,” Ryan pressed, with his gaze as well as his tone, “in reality, she was simply in a trauma-induced coma from the severity of her concussion, is that correct?”
He cleared his throat. “That’s correct.” Another quick cut of his eyes toward Melany.
“So, it’s safe to say that someone made a mistake.”
“We’re only human,” he insisted humbly, the tone clearly feigned. “Mistakes are made at times. We do the best we can. There was every indication that her condition was fatal. She was completely unresponsive.”
Ryan scribbled meaningless letters. “It’s possible then—” he lifted his gaze to the doctor’s “—that another mistake was made that day.”
Wilcox’s posture grew rigid. “If you’re referring to the child, Katlin. There was no mistake.”
From the corner of his eye Ryan saw Mel stiffen. Damn, how he wanted to shield her from this. “How can you be so certain? The child was under another doctor’s care when she coded.”
“Dr. Letson,” Wilcox provided, since Ryan didn’t bother checking his nonexistent notes this time. “He and Nurse Helen Peterson.”
“But you weren’t there. You didn’t see her expire,” Ryan persisted. He didn’t have to look this time, he felt Mel’s discomfort span the three or four feet that stood between them. “You didn’t view the body at any time after she left the E.R. Is that correct?” Ryan knew that even if a doctor questioned his peer in a matter such as this, it wasn’t something he would willingly discuss. But then, the body was missing, there was no denying that glaring fact.
Wilcox nodded. A slight flush had crept up his neck and face and he worked hard at not looking Ryan directly in the eye.
“Yet, you’re certain there was no mistake.” Ryan tucked his notepad and pen away. “I’m sorry, Doc, but, as you say, you guys are just human. Dr. Letson could have made a mistake.”
The flush deepened to a crimson red. His long, slim fingers balled into fists. “Dr. Letson pronounced. She was transferred to the morgue where she was refrigerated until she was identified the next morning, then the funeral home attendant signed for her body that afternoon. I hardly see how there could be any doubt.”
Melany did an abrupt about-face and bolted from the room. Ryan had to physically restrain the need to go after her. He had to finish this…couldn’t show any sign of weakness to this man.
“But the medical examiner never saw the body,” Ryan suggested.
Wilcox looked startled.
Ryan was fishing. An assistant medical examiner had signed the death certificate, but he’d bet his right arm that the guy had simply gone along with Letson’s call.
“Why would you say that?” Wilcox said, doing a little fishing of his own.
“Because the M.E.’s office is closed on Sunday and that’s the day the funeral home attendant signed for the body.”
The color drained from the good doctor’s face. “I’m sure he must have. Dr. Letson likely called him in on Saturday night.”
Maybe. The assistant M.E. was just someone else he intended to interview—if the guy ever got back into town. He’d had a family emergency that took him back to Iowa, his home state. How convenient.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Wilcox.” Ryan offered his hand. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions before we’re finished here.”
Wilcox shook his hand briefly. “You know where to find me.” He reached for his breast pocket and the cigarettes there and Ryan took that as his cue to leave.
When he stepped back into the long white corridor outside the lounge, Ryan steeled himself before facing Mel. She’d leaned against the wall, looking pretty much like that was all that kept her vertical. The urge to take her into his arms was almost overwhelming.
He’d already made one mistake this morning. He’d touched her—wrapped his fingers around her arm—and even through the layers of clothing the effect had rattled him. Going down that road would be a catastrophe. One he intended to avoid.
“Look,” he said tautly, “this isn’t going to get any easier. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
As weary as she looked with those dark circles under her eyes and her lips thinned into a grim line, she still managed to come to life with fury. “Don’t be stupid, Braxton,” she snarled. “Of course I’m not up to this. It’s hell.” Her voice quaked and she blinked furiously. “But it has to be done.” She pushed off from the wall and squared her slender shou
lders like the good little soldier she was. “What’s next?”
For one fraction of a second he considered manacling her by the arm and dragging her out of there. He could take her home and force her to eat a decent meal and get a few hours’ sleep. But then reality slammed back into his brain and he pushed aside that option. Mel had had the same training as him. When assigned a case like this, going without the usual creature comforts, even the more basic ones, was the norm. Standard operating procedure.
“We pay a visit to Nurse Helen Peterson,” he said offhandedly. “Dr. Letson isn’t on duty today, which is good since I want to talk to her alone.”
“You mean,” Mel corrected, “since we want to talk to her.”
“Yeah.” Ryan felt his lips quirk. Sleep deprived or not, she was still on her toes. “Right.”
The pediatric wing occupied the fourth floor at Memphis General. Brightly painted cartoon characters danced on the walls. The nurses’ smocks were equally colorful. Mothers sat in chairs in the rooms they passed, the televisions alive with their ill or injured child’s favorite program. Mel ordered her tense muscles to relax, but that wasn’t happening. She kept thinking that this was the last place her little girl had been…the last things she had seen before…
She’d fallen behind. Ryan stood watching her closely, waiting for her to catch up. If he asked her one more time if she were all right, Mel felt certain she would scream. Of course she wasn’t all right! Her child was missing…presumed dead. A shudder rocked through her. She wouldn’t be all right again until they found her.
And for that very reason she had to be strong. She swallowed back the rock climbing into her throat and forced determination into her step.
Seeming to read her mind, he chose not to comment, but simply continued toward the nurses’ station. He displayed his credentials for the first nurse who looked up.
“Ryan Braxton, special advisor to the FBI. I’d like to speak with Helen Peterson.”
Stuffed animals and plants for delivery littered the counter. The nurse peered over her glasses and beyond the clutter to glance from Ryan to Mel and back. “She’s doing inventory right now. She just got started, she’s going to be a while.” The uncertainty in her voice was impossible to miss.
Surely the police had been here before, these ladies should know the situation by now, and yet this nurse—McCormick, according to her name tag—appeared oddly startled. Then Mel remembered that Ryan had said FBI. That, to most people’s way of thinking, especially with all the talk of terrorism in the news, was cause for alarm.
“I’ll only take a few moments of her time,” Ryan assured the woman as he slipped his credentials case back into his pocket. “If you’ll just point me in the right direction.”
Nurse McCormick moistened her lips, then pointed down the corridor behind the station. “First door on the left.”
“Thank you, Ms. McCormick.”
She blinked but didn’t respond.
A frown of irritation working its way across her brow, Mel followed Ryan to the door marked pharmaceuticals. No matter the excuse, somehow she got the feeling that cooperation was not in the hospital employee training program.
Without knocking, Ryan turned the knob and pushed open the door. Mel assumed the door would usually be locked but was open now because there was already someone inside doing inventory.
Helen Peterson looked up from the logbook in her hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed—”
“Ryan Braxton,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’m working with the Bureau on the Katlin Jackson case.”
That same expression of dread mixed with a measure of fright that had claimed the other nurse’s face crept across Helen Peterson’s. “I don’t understand,” she said, only then noting Mel’s presence. Her eyes widened briefly before she composed herself. “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
Ryan moved the three steps required until he stood directly in front of the woman who’d gone on the offensive. “As I said, I’m working with the FBI. This case is now under Federal jurisdiction. I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
She painstakingly placed her pad and pen on the stainless steel cart she’d been using to facilitate her inventory, then closed and locked the one open cabinet door. She glanced about the room ensuring that all else was secure. Row after row of locked glass and steel cabinets lined three of the walls in the small room. Two beige file cabinets, also locked, sat against the wall next to the door. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she clasped her hands in front of her. “I don’t know what else I can tell you,” she said with finality, “but ask away.”
Ryan watched the woman drop a firm mask in place, concealing the whirling emotions he’d seen only moments before. Her voice was too stiff, too formal. Mentioning the Bureau generally had that effect on civilians. Like the nurse at the desk. She’d been nervous, uncertain what the federal authorities could possibly want with a co-worker. But this woman, Helen Peterson, displayed a different kind of anxiety. She posed herself, made a show of checking the security of the room before she gave him her full attention. He knew the tactic for what it was, buying time. Then she clasped her hands to ensure she didn’t fidget.
When a person was merely nervous, it showed despite their best efforts. Being nervous didn’t send off warning bells, but deliberate efforts to conceal emotions, to put on a show of normalcy, control, now that set him on edge.
“You were with Dr. Letson when Katlin Jackson coded?”
She nodded once. “Yes. It was about 12:35 p.m. She’d been brought up to pediatrics approximately thirty minutes prior and appeared to be in stable condition. She presented absolutely no symptoms prior to going into cardiac arrest.”
Twelve thirty-five, not twelve-thirty. Too precise. Planned, not recalled. “You remember the specific time because…” Ryan suggested, allowing his amazement at her detailed answer to show.
She blinked, but that was the extent of her reaction. “It was past time for me to take a lunch break. I remember thinking that I should have left earlier.” She flicked another glance at Mel. “I pride myself in maintaining a steady routine.”
“Do you usually go to lunch around 12:35 when you’re on duty?” he prodded. She didn’t look like the type who put food before all else. Helen Peterson was medium height and impossibly thin. Gaunt, almost. The smock hung on her slight shoulders as if it were a size or two too large. In fact, she looked exactly like the type who more often forgot to eat than not. Like Wilcox.
“At noon,” she insisted. “I always go at noon. We work as a team here. If one of us gets off schedule, it throws everyone off.”
Ryan nodded. “What warned you that the child had gone into distress?”
Annoyance furrowed her brow. “The monitor. She flat-lined.” Another surreptitious look beyond him.
“So, she was stable but being monitored. Is that routine procedure? Cardio monitoring, I mean.”
Her eyes flared briefly. “Well, for…for MVA patients we take extra precautions.”
“You’re saying then that whenever a patient has been involved in a motor vehicle accident, you pull out all the stops even if they appear stable enough that they would otherwise go home?” He pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “According to Dr. Wilcox, the only reason the child was kept for observation was to allow time for family to be contacted.”
Another of those slow blinks. “You’ll have to ask Dr. Letson about that. I only followed his orders.”
“You assisted when he attempted extreme measures to resuscitate the patient?” He didn’t have to spell it out. She would know what he meant. Saying the words out loud would only add insult to injury with Mel so close by.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you, personally, take her down to the morgue later?”
“No.” She looked from him to Mel and back. “A morgue attendant came for her.”
Ryan resisted the urge to look back at
Mel just to be sure she was holding up all right, but he couldn’t risk breaking the tension he’d built. Her pain was reflected well in the nurse’s expression. Each time she glanced at Mel she seemed to lose a bit more control of that staunch composure.
“How long does it generally take you to do the inventory in here?” he asked casually, doing a hundred-and-eighty degree turn in his line of questioning.
Surprise flashed in her eyes. “About two hours. Sometimes a little longer. If I’m not interrupted.”
“You usually work straight through this task without stopping?”
Annoyance replaced the surprise. “That’s right. This isn’t the kind of task you can come back to. Once you’ve started you have to finish, otherwise someone will need something that changes your figures and throws off your inventory.”
“Nurse McCormick said you just got started,” Ryan plugged away.
“That’s right.” She reached for her pad and pen. “If you don’t have any more questions I’d like to get back to it. It’s imperative that I finish before we prep for afternoon meds.”
Ryan looked at his watch—10:40 a.m. “You’ll be late taking your lunch break again today,” he noted.
“It certainly looks that way,” she returned shortly.
“Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Peterson.”
When he would have turned away he hesitated. “Just one more thing.”
Her impatience abraded the air with a sigh.
“Did you know that Katlin’s mother wasn’t expected to survive?”
Helen Peterson focused on the inventory log in her hands. “Yes. We’d all heard. It was terrible. Just terrible.”
“Had someone already attempted to contact next of kin?” Ryan knew the answer to that one. Wilcox had insisted that steps were taken in the E.R. to contact family the moment the severity of Melany’s situation was known.
“There was no next of kin.” She cleared her throat. “At least that’s what we were told. We were operating under the assumption she was Rita Grider, single parent. No next of kin.”