Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(13)

They lapsed into silence, Phil blowing experimentally on his coffee, D.D. already sipping hers.

“And your plans tonight?” Phil finally asked.

“Don’t ask.”

He grinned. “Hey, wasn’t tonight the big date with Charlie’s wife’s friend?”

“I’m telling you, don’t go there.”

“You went to dinner first, didn’t you? Come on, D.D., you should know better by now. You get a night off, you can’t be wasting time on fine dining. Cut straight to the chase before the pager finds you.”

“What? Drag a stranger through my door and bang his brains out? Hi, hello, the bedroom is down the hall.”

“Trust me, guys won’t complain.”

“Men are pigs.”

“Exactly.”

D.D. rolled her eyes. “You and Betsy have been married, what, ninety years now? What would you know of twenty-first-century dating?”

“Oh, but I hear things.”

D.D. was spared further heckling as a harried-looking doctor blasted through the double doors. His hair stood up in brown tufts, and he had both hands shoved deep in the pockets of his white lab coat.

“Detectives,” he called out.

“Dr. Poor.” D.D. and Phil stood up.

He waved at them to follow, so they fell in step as he dashed across the waiting room, through another set of double doors, then made his way through the maze of sterile hallways. “Gotta get some coffee. You need any more? It’s pretty good here. For a hospital and all.”

“We’re all set, thanks,” D.D. replied. She and Phil had to work to keep up with the doctor’s rapid strides. “So, Doctor, we have some questions regarding a patient who was admitted to the ER early this evening, a Patrick Harrington—”

“Injury?”

“What?”

“Injury. What was he admitted for? I don’t have time for names, just wounds.”

“Uh, small-caliber gunshot wound to the head.”

“Ah.” The doctor nodded vigorously, taking a left, then a right, then bursting down a flight of steps to the lower-level cafeteria. “GSW to the left temple, yes? No exit wound, so I’m guessing a twenty-two. Bullet mushroomed upon impact, lost too much velocity to blow out the back of the skull. You know, I saw two separate gunshot wounds last week caused by forty-fours. Blows the skull to smithereens. I think the drug dealers are watching too much Dirty Harry.”

They’d arrived at the basement cafeteria. Dr. Poor beelined for the java station. D.D. thought he might have had quite a bit of coffee already.

“We’re interested in Harrington,” she prodded.

The doctor nodded, poured heavy cream and four packets of sugar into his cup, stirred, then found a lid.

“Okay. Single GSW to the head. Upon admittance, we debrided the wound, examined the damage to the scalp, and evaluated the head injury. Patient had only limited responsiveness and scored poorly on the Glasgow coma test. I sent the patient for an urgent CT scan, then referred him to surgery for removal of the projectile lodged in the left posterior frontal area of the brain. I believe the neurosurgeon on call this evening was Dr. Badger. He does good work, if that helps you.”

“Prognosis?” Phil spoke up.

Dr. Poor made a waffling gesture with his hand. “Three issues with head injuries. First, the bleeding. Second, the direct trauma. Third, the resulting swelling. So far, the patient has survived the bleeding and direct trauma. Swelling, however, remains a concern, as is risk of infection. And, for that matter, further bleeding. Even the best neurosurgeon can do only so much to repair the damage inflicted by a bullet to the brain. It’s like throwing a butter knife into a bowl of pudding. The pudding doesn’t stand a chance.”

“When will he regain consciousness?” D.D. asked.

“Haven’t a clue. I’d have to look at his chart. I’m guessing he’s heavily sedated, which is probably for the best.”

“But we need to ask him some questions,” she persisted impatiently.

Dr. Poor arched a brow. “Half the man’s brain has been turned into the Panama Canal. What do you think he could tell you at the moment?”

D.D. and Phil exchanged glances. It was hardly surprising news, but disappointing.

“Can you describe the entry wound?” Phil asked.

D.D. chewed her bottom lip. She knew what Phil was going for. From a detective’s perspective, it would’ve been better if their suspected shooter had died at the scene. In which case, the ME’s office would’ve bagged the man’s hands and preserved the contact wound on the left temple. Back in the morgue, the ME would then test the shooter’s hands for gunpowder residue while conducting a forensic examination of the entry wound. In twenty-four hours or less, they’d have scientific evidence that Patrick Harrington had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

Furthermore, Harrington’s clothes would have been carefully preserved, then analyzed for blood spatter and other evidence related to the homicidal rampage. Bada bing, bada boom, the blood spots on Subject’s A’s clothing tied to the wounds inflicted on Victims B, C, D, and E, meaning Patrick Harrington stabbed his entire family before shooting himself in the head.

Case closed, detectives move on.

Instead, their suspected family annihilator had been rushed to the hospital by the EMTs. Where his bloody clothing had been cut off and tossed aside. Where his hands and wounds had been washed and scrubbed. Where countless opportunities to collect evidence had been sacrificed in an attempt to save the sorry bastard’s life.