by M. Z. Kelly
“I hope we’re here during visiting hours.”
Peggy nodded. “May I ask what your relationship is to Ms. Crawford?”
Natalie seized the opening. “Judie is Kate’s birth mum, but she’s never met her. Thought we’d chat it up for a few, share a few stories. Shouldn’t take us too long, really.”
Peggy turned back to me. Her tone became more confidential. “Let me get someone to assist you.”
After a ten minute wait we were met by Janet Larsen, St. Clair’s administrator. She was pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes, but was a little on the heavy side.
She waddled like a duck as she led us down a hallway to her office. It was one of those big, modern offices with framed art and dried flower arrangements. I was grateful when she closed the door and the pungent smells of the hospital drifted away.
Larsen took a seat behind her large modern desk and offered us bottled water. We declined the offer. She took a moment, moving some folders around on her desk. When she spoke, I had the impression that she was choosing her words carefully. “Do either of you know what PVS is?”
“Is that some kind of drug?” Natalie asked. “Like something that makes you loopy as a loon and steal stuff?” She looked at me. “Kate knows all about that. She’s a copper in Hollywood.”
The administrator shook her head. “It’s not a drug.” Her eyes came over to me and her voice softened. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, dear, but your mother won’t be able to ever see or talk to you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Janet Larsen said the words I realized my eyes were filling. “I don’t understand.”
The administrator came around the desk, pulled a chair over, and took a seat next to me. “Your mother was in an accident a little over a year ago. She was left…” She looked away and exhaled. Her gaze slowly came back to me. “Your mother is in what the doctor’s call a PVS or Permanent Vegetative State.”
The shock of what she said left me momentarily speechless. Finally I recovered enough to ask, “You mean she suffered some kind of brain injury?”
“She’s been on a ventilator and unconscious since the accident.”
I took a deep breath and brushed the tears from my cheeks. Natalie took my other hand for support. “And you’re telling me that she will never regain consciousness?”
“I’m very sorry. There’s almost no chance of that.”
It took me several minutes to process what I’d been told. The realization that I’d never be able to have a conversation with my birthmother, to tell her that I loved her, despite everything that happened, began to settle in. I realized that both my biological parents were essentially dead. One had been murdered and the other was in a vegetative state, unable to see or talk to me.
Janet Larsen spent some more time explaining about my mother’s condition, telling us that she was in a state that was similar to a coma but with no chance of recovery. I then excused myself and went into the restroom where my tears came harder. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. After a few minutes, Natalie came in to check on me. I fell into her arms, losing all control.
“I’m so sorry,” Natalie offered. “I don’t know what to say.”
I went on for several minutes, blubbering about the parents I never knew before I finally managed to regain some semblance of control. Natalie brought me some tissues. I dried my eyes, apologizing for my emotional breakdown.
“That’s nuth’n, sweetheart,” Natalie said. “I once cried for a week over some numb nuts bloke who broke me heart. It’s a good way to flush out your system, run some water through the pipes.”
After drying my eyes I resolved to stay in control of my emotions. I then made a decision. Whatever faults I had as a person, there was one thing I took pride in. I’d never hidden from the truth, no matter the cost to me personally, and sometimes professionally.
I pushed down my emotions and said to Natalie, “I’m still going to see my mom. I’ve come a very long way, both physically and emotionally. I have to do this.”
Natalie took my hands. “I’ll be right by your side, sweet pea. We’ll do this together.”
After a few minutes we rejoined the administrator in her office again. I told her about my decision.
Janet Larsen stood up from her desk and said, “I understand completely. Just keep in mind what we’ve talked about. This won’t be easy.”
After I filled out some visitation paperwork, Natalie and I followed the administrator to what we were told was the skilled nursing wing of the hospital. We walked down the nearly deserted corridor, our footfalls echoing on the polished linoleum floor. I imagined that there were other patients in the wing who were in a similar state to my mother’s condition. I felt queasy from the smell of the facility that reeked of cleaning solvents, stale food, and something I couldn’t place.
We stopped outside a room toward the end of the corridor. Janet Larsen turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I nodded and followed her into the room with Natalie right behind us. The lights in my mother’s room were dim. I heard the whir and swoosh of machines that I imagined were keeping her alive. A curtain was drawn, separating my mom’s space from another patient who also looked to be on life support.
The administrator pulled the curtain back on my mother’s bed and said, “Take as much time as you like. I’ll be back in my office.”
I thanked her and then gulped in a breath as Natalie took my arm and we stepped closer to the small unconscious figure in the hospital bed. The impact of what I was seeing suddenly hit me. My heart did a staccato thump against my rib cage. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I was lightheaded, unsteady on my feet.
I took a breath, tried to regain my bearings, and looked down into the face of the woman I would never know. “Oh my God,” I said, weeping and falling against Natalie. “I didn’t realize she would be…”
“It’s okay, pet,” Natalie said, hugging me. “No one could have prepared you for this. I’m so sorry.” My friend also had tears in her eyes.
My mother’s upper arms were drawn into the sides of her emaciated body, her hands at right angles to her forearms and pointing to her waist. Her legs were drawn up against her body, knees up, reminiscent of an awkward, rigid ballet pose. A tube, probably for nutrients, was inserted into her nose. Another tube assisted with her breathing, the machine at her side making robotic whooshing sounds. My mother’s green eyes were open, the unfocused pupils partially showing but registering nothing.
“She can’t weigh more than about seventy pounds,” I said to Natalie, at the same time reaching out and touching her forehead.
Her translucent olive skin was warm to the touch but also wet, like she’d been sweating. I had the odd sensation that I was touching a wax figure that had partially melted into the emaciated figure that had become my half-dead mother.
Natalie brushed her tears away. “Fraid she’s wasting away, Kate. It’s so sad.”
My hand trembled as I let my fingers move up. I felt the coarseness of my mother’s sparse, graying hair. If there was any resemblance that I bore to what was left of her, I realized it was probably in my mother’s hair and eyes. I moved my hand to her forehead; let it stay there for a long moment, trying to offer some comfort that I knew in my heart wasn’t registering.
In those few moments, I realized that I was saying goodbye to the mother I would never know. This was a final parting, a momentary glimpse of something that might have been, but could never be. The sadness of that realization was overwhelming as tears again spilled down my cheeks.
I reached over, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I love you, mom.”
After a few minutes at my mother’s side, I turned to Natalie, blotted my tears and said, “I think I’m ready to go now.”
By the time we reached Janet Larsen’s office I’d regained control of my emotions. I was still sad but at the same time full of questions. After another brief discussion of my mother’s condition with the administrator, I w
as ready for some answers.
“The accident,” I said. “Tell me what happened to her.”
Larsen motioned to a manila folder on her desk. “I was just looking over her medical background while you were gone. Your mother suffered a fall at home. Apparently she was getting out of the bathtub and lost her balance.” A thin smile parted her lips. “Do you know that your mother was famous at one time? She was in several movies and a couple of television shows.”
I nodded. “Yes. I did some research on the Internet.”
“She was quite beautiful. I can see the resemblance that you share.”
“The accident,” I said again. “When my mother was taken to the hospital do the records show who brought her?”
The administrator checked the file for a moment and then looked up at me. “A man named Ryan Cooper brought her to the emergency room. He’s listed as her husband.”
I glanced at Natalie. She nodded. I knew that we were both thinking the same thing. My earlier sorrow was now replaced by anger as I looked back at the hospital administrator.
“His address. Does the medical file have an address for Cooper?”
She glanced through the paperwork again. “We had an address but I’m afraid he must have moved and we’ve lost touch with him. It looks like our correspondence has been returned without a forwarding address.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. Who is paying for my mother’s medical care?”
“I’m afraid she’s considered indigent, dear. The state is footing the bill for everything.”
“Has Ryan Cooper ever visited her?” I asked.
Janet Larsen took a breath and released it slowly. “I’m afraid not. You’re the first visitor your mother’s ever had.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“My theory is that the son of a bitch hit or pushed my mother, causing the fall,” I said to Charlie in the squad room the next morning.
Bernie and I had arrived at the station early, in anticipation of my meeting with Haley Tristan. I’d already apprised Lieutenant Edna of the results of my trip before taking a seat at my desk across from my partner.
“Did the hospital suspect any kind of domestic abuse?” Charlie asked. “Were the authorities ever called?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. An older woman suffers a brain injury due to what looks like a fall in the bathroom. She wasn’t able to talk, so absent any obvious physical signs of abuse they had no reason to suspect anything.”
“Any idea what happened to Cooper?”
“He disappeared right after he brought my mom to the emergency room. He moved, left no forwarding address, and has never had any contact with her again.”
“Bastard,” Charlie said, pushing the remnants of a chocolate mini donut into his mouth. Bernie came over to sniff around. I decided I needed to lecture my coworkers and roommates about not giving him handouts. “Did you tell John Duncan in the Cold Case Unit what you found out?” Charlie asked.
My father’s death investigation was still considered active, but the department hadn’t made any progress on the case in over two decades. “I’d already updated him on what I learned about Cooper from my adoptive mom. I’ll let him know what I found out in Vegas but I doubt that it’s going to change anything.”
All we knew about Ryan Cooper was that he’d surfaced about five years ago, getting a California driver’s license. We believed that he’d worked for the movie studios as a makeup artist at one time, but there was nothing currently in the system showing a recent driver’s license, earnings reported to the IRS, or a criminal record. We’d speculated that maybe Cooper and my birth mother had left the country before coming back to the states and Judie ending up in the hospital, but it was all just speculation. Ryan Cooper, the man who had murdered my father and put my birthmother in a vegetative state, had simply disappeared into thin air like a ghost.
Charlie swallowed another donut and popped open a pint of a strawberry flavored Slim Fast. My partner has a theory that the diet drink will even out any prior caloric binge. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you Kate?”
I shook my head, pushing down the anger that had been with me since I left Las Vegas. “Never. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my father and my mother. I won’t rest until he’s brought to justice.”
Charlie excused himself and went to the break-room, probably to look for something else in the fridge, while I took a moment and sorted through the paperwork on my desk.
I’d almost forgotten about the Jezzie Rose case over the past twenty-four hours. I wondered if Gooch and Glade had any luck finding Jezzie’s personal trainer, Shane Mumford.
“Just got a call from Tristan,” Lieutenant Edna said, coming out of his office and stopping at my desk. “She said she’s not much of a morning person, probably won’t get here until nine. Somebody from media relations will be coming over to meet with the both of you. It should give…”
He turned as we both heard the brothers coming down the hallway. Edna swiveled back to me. “Pearl is off today but those two bozos can update you on the case. Then see if you can come up with a fucking plan to do damage control. We might have to let the reporter into the investigation, but we sure as hell don’t have to give her every piece of evidence we obtain.”
Our new partners stopped a few feet from my desk. We looked up as they simultaneously saluted the lieutenant.
“We are not worthy,” Kyle Gooch said.
“Ditto that, dude and dudette,” his partner agreed.
Edna jabbed a thumb in their direction and said to me, “We’re screwed if Tristan has any contact with these two. Find a way to get them under control. If the press realizes we’ve gotta couple of refugees from a frat house working for us we’re fucked.” The lieutenant stomped off, not looking at the brothers.
Kyle Gooch took a seat in Charlie’s chair across from me. “Our boss looks like someone just gave him a giant wedgie.”
“His Fruits do seem to be in a bit of a twist,” Glade agreed while reaching down and stroking Bernie.
“It must have something to do with the press,” I said as Charlie came back from the break room with what looked like a bag of stale fries. “Let’s meet in the conference room in a couple of minutes so you can update me on our case.”
After sifting through the remaining paperwork in my in-basket, I met up with Charlie and the brothers in the conference room. I asked for an update on Shane Mumford as Bernie settled at my feet.
“One of the students at WU told us that Jezzie’s trainer is working out of a place called Club Z,” Gooch said. “It’s an upscale joint over in West Hollywood where the hottie housewives jiggle the silicone.”
“Word has it that Mumford’s a player,” Glade added. “A brother looking for a hot mother.”
“Let’s plan on paying him a visit this afternoon.” I looked at Charlie who was tossing Bernie some fries. “No more, Charlie. He’s on a diet, remember?”
Charlie shrugged. “Lots of that going around.” He rubbed his belly. “Knocked off five pounds last week but I’m starving.” Charlie was not only a food addict, he was a chronic liar about his weight. He munched and said, “Should we give them the bad news now, Kate?”
I looked at the brothers, my lungs deflating. “Our little taskforce is about to get bigger.” I explained about Haley Tristan and media relations being embedded in our investigation thanks to The Beast. “The lieutenant wants you both on your best behavior.”
“You mean we have to go all PC for her?” Glade asked. He looked at his older soul mate. “This is going to seriously cramp out style, bro.”
“Not sure I can hang,” Gooch said. “I gotta be real.”
“You’re both going to be on your best behavior or you will hang,” I said. “And that’s real as in acting like real cops. When you have contact with Tristan you have to pretend that you’re like something out of Law and Order. No crazy comments, no cussing, and no slapping hands and trash talking.”
> Gooch brushed a hand through his highlighted hair, straighten up, and in a deep echoing voice said, “In the criminal justice system murder is considered the most heinous of all crimes. In Hollywood the dedicated detectives that investigate these vicious crimes are members of an elite squad…”
“…known as the Special Victim’s Unit,” Glade said, straight-faced and in an equally officious voice that was followed by a dun dun sound, mimicking the popular TV show’s theme music.
“God help us,” I said as the intercom buzzed. I answered and was told that Haley Tristan and Muriel Shafter from Media Relations were at the front desk.
I stood up and said to the brothers, “I’m bringing the reporter and the media officer back for introductions. After that you two can wander off and do paperwork. Let’s plan on paying a visit to Club Z later this afternoon.”
“Ten-four,” Gooch said. “By the way, I heard that Chucky Wilson was released on bail last night.”
“Swell,” I said. “I’d love to introduce Hannibal to a reporter I know.”
***
The introductions went as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Muriel Shafter of Media Relations gave a little talk about how Chief East wanted to improve the department’s relationship with the press after the last chief had resigned.
Shafter was a thirty-something, buttoned down version of Diane Sawyer, the TV news reporter. She had shiny golden hair, an almost unlined, perpetually smiling face, and blue eyes that reminded me of something I’d once seen in a gold-fish bowl. I immediately decided that I hated her guts.
Charlie and the brothers introduced themselves, Gooch and Glade saying lots of ma’am’s, and then offering up a couple of we’re here to help comments. They even said something about wanting to establish a good working relationship with the press. It took a lot of effort on my part to keep a straight face, knowing they were mimicking TV cops.
After they wandered off with Charlie, I closed the conference room door and gave Shafter and Tristan a brief update on our case.