Friends Like These(48)

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.”

I hold up my hands and smile, as warm and flirty as I can stomach. He strikes me as the kind of guy who will respond to fawning. “Hey, come on, take it easy, Mr. . . .”

“Take it easy? You can’t just keep me here. I will sue the fucking shit out of you for violating my civil rights. I’ll own this whole town by the time I’m done.”

But buried underneath that anger is fear. A decent amount of it. He’s scared of whoever did this to him. Maybe the same person who’s responsible for what happened in that car.

“We’re holding you here because there’s been an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

“Why don’t we start with your name? And then I can tell you what I know.”

He glares at me for an impressive length of time. Not that I care. We can do this all day if he wants.

“Finch Hendrix,” he answers finally. “What incident?”

Ah, Finch, the elusive missing sixth person in my weekend party. I was hoping it might be him.

“Something has happened to your friends,” I begin, watching for a guilty tell. But he looks only confused and concerned.

“What friends?”

“Keith Lazard and Derrick Chism. One of them is dead, the other missing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His alarm seems genuine— eyes wide, face flushed. “Who’s dead?”

“The deceased hasn’t been identified. But we know it’s either Derrick or Keith. The other is missing.”

“What the fuck?” He leans forward, then winces.

“There was a car accident,” I say, treading carefully. “The death does look suspicious, maybe not caused by the accident. A positive ID has been difficult because of the condition of the body.”