Puncture

Greer Watson

They wheeled the first victim into the Emerg late on a Friday evening.  She wasn’t there to see it.  Sandy was on duty, and triaged the man through from the waiting room as soon as she heard what Oz had to say about his injuries and blood loss.  It wasn’t as gory as many car accidents, but the puncture wounds to the neck had gone into the vein.  The patient was rushed through—Lisa saw the com­motion—and they did their best (and their best was good):  indeed, he was almost stabilized when his heart stopped suddenly.  They tried to bring him back.  She would have assisted; but, by the time she had got her own patient deloused and passed over to the waiting social worker, the death had been declared.  But then, as the staff consoled each other later, it was a wonder the man hadn’t bled out on the scene.

The second victim came in the following week.  Another man—young and good-looking even with his face drained to pallor.  Similar injuries.  She assisted Dr Fawcett on that one, rushing with O-Negative as one bag drained and the next started.  No time to type and cross-match, of course.  That one pulled through (or, at least, survived the tender mercies of the Emerg).  Of course, they seldom heard the final outcome.  Once admitted to a ward, a patient disappeared upstairs into the silence of someone else’s responsibility.  Meanwhile, downstairs in the thick of it, the Emergency Room staff had long since moved on to the next case.

After the third victim (who died), they were visited by the chief pathologist from the Coroner’s Office.  She wanted to know all the details of each case.  No one got home on time that day:  she took each of them aside, going over the case notes as they racked their memories.  Lisa had seen her in the hospital once or twice; but she hadn’t actually met her before, not that she remembered.  (Dr. Lambert might have told her otherwise; but it had been years, and neither recognized the other after all this time.)  What struck Lisa was the woman’s tenacity.  It was clear how she’d got to be where she was:  she never let anything pass.  Plumply smiling, she bore unremittingly in on every decision and probed every observation, taking notes on her BlackBerry.  Lisa felt wrung out long before she was thanked with a crisp, perfunctory politeness and sent back to her shift.

“I wonder,” she overheard Dr Fawcett say later to Oz and his partner, Toby, “whether she maybe has some private knowledge of this case.  Did you see that high-collared blouse she was wearing?”

“I don’t really notice women’s clothes,” said Oz, with a grin.  “’Less they’re not wearing any—sorry, Olivia.”

“So you should be.”

Toby looked at her oddly.  “She was once a patient at this hospital, wasn’t she?” he said.  Then he added slowly, “You’ve … seen her medical history.”  Lisa was not surprised the comment elicited a sharp look and an admonition.  Clearly the doctor had been telling him details from the files, in violation of patient confidentiality.

Whatever happened the next time took place primarily outside the hospital.  Until she got home and saw the full news report on television, Lisa knew only her own side of it—in so far as she had a side.  The little she overheard was perforce out of context at the time.  It was the police who tried to handle it.  Whatever “it” was.

Someone dialed 911, obviously.  The SRU could never have become involved otherwise.  An ambulance came in with shrieking siren:  Oz again, picking up a spare shift.  This time, he was accompanied by a pretty blonde who would have made Sandy look at her with jealousy, if they’d not all been preoccupied with the patient.  Accompanying the ambulance was an SRU officer, who came through with the gurney.  She hung around the door as Dr Fawcett worked, impatient for the victim to regain conscious­ness—if he ever did—and careful to warn everyone that potential evidence from his clothes and person needed to be bagged or sampled for Ident.

They got his blood pressure up to merely low; but, to the frustration of the officer, another ambulance came in and the doctor was called away, leaving an intern finishing the suturing.  Lisa remained, checking vitals.

“I wonder if you could tell me when he’s likely to wake up.”

Lisa turned.  “I’m sorry:  it’s hard to say.  He’s lost a lot of blood.  Do you know how long he was unconscious?”

“Sorry.  We were called about—”  She checked the time.  “—over thirty minutes ago.”  It had been nearly twenty minutes since the ambulance had arrived at St Luke’s.  After a moment’s hesitation, the woman nodded briskly and added, “I’d better check in,” before hurrying out, thumbing at the radio on her shoulder.

“Hey, boss.  It’s Jules,” Lisa heard, as the woman headed through the double doors to the waiting room.

A half hour later, it was on the news; and the staff were finding reasons to ask perfunctory, trivial questions of the people in the out-patient waiting room.  Lisa had just handed a fresh ice-pack to a probable sprained ankle waiting for an X-ray, and lingered to look at the television.  There was a shot of police barricades around a Goth club in the entertainment district.  By the grey dawn light, she had no trouble seeing what was going on, and caught a glimpse of Jules, carrying a massive gun, trotting away with a similarly armed blond man.  Whatever was going down, it was far from over.

She was called back to deal with a bitten arm—not a dog bite, nor a raccoon, but a younger sibling quarrelling over a toy.  Their mother, who had been making breakfast, kept justifying herself.  Through the gap in the half-drawn curtain, Lisa saw Oz’s usual partner, Toby, pass through into the Emerg from the outer waiting room, accompanied by a fair-haired woman she didn’t recognize.  “Hey, Liv,” she heard.  “We got a call that your John Doe was waking up?”

“Who made that call?” she heard Dr Fawcett say, with a sharp tone in her voice.  “He’s not awake yet … more hovering just under.  Someone’s getting ahead of themselves.”

“Still, I might be able to pick something up.”

Pick what up neither of them said.  Lisa’s attention returned to her own patient, whose arm she was swabbing.  The child was trying to be brave through her tears.  “I know it hurts,” Lisa said comfortingly, “but it’ll only be a little while longer.”

The girl looked over at her brother, and said in a sweet, clear voice, “I forgive him,” with a saintliness that Lisa, having been that age herself once, found unbelievable.  She was not surprised when the younger child looked up at their mother and said indignantly, “She deserved it.”  The bitten sister virtuously forebore to respond.  Still, retribution seemed imminently probable—in both directions, judging by the look on their mother’s face.  It was one of those fraught moments.

By the time the family left, there were raised voices down the hall.  Lisa dropped off her clipboard of notes at the unusually empty desk, and followed the noise to find the clerk, two nurses and an orderly all looking with interest at the confrontation outside the John Doe’s room.  Jules had clearly been recalled from whatever duty the news cameras had caught.  Bristling with weapons, she faced down the trimly-dressed, fair-haired woman who had been with Toby.

“Sgt McCluskey,” declared Jules, “you’re RCMP; and the Horsemen don’t have jurisdiction in Toronto.  Or is there something about this case that we haven’t heard about?  You have murders like this from elsewhere in Canada?”

“No,” said the plainclothes sergeant, with measured patience.  “It’s simply the sort of major case the IIB gets involved in … as you know.  We’re here as liaison, not to take over.”

“No,” Jules agreed, “you’re not taking over.  Not the case, and not the interrogation.  Not without authorization from above, which I haven’t heard about.”  Her emphatic finger made her point all the sharper.

“Constable Callaghan,” said the blonde, following this with a significant pause.  “We have a series of attacks—two deaths, now—and a new victim who may be able to tell us more than the last survivor, who recalled nothing.”

“Sergeant McCluskey,” responded Jules, with corresponding emphasis.  “If you want to talk rank to rank, I can call Sgt Parker.  Only he’s a bit busy right now.”

“I know.  You think you’ve got the perp boxed up in a building downtown.”

“We have got him boxed up,” Jules responded.  “Or her,” she added.  “Team One’s on scene.  Our guys are taking position right as we speak.”

“So,” said McCloskey sweetly, “any intel we can get you will be welcome, won’t it.”

“Yes,” said a voice from behind.  Lisa turned to find Dr Lambert.  “I’ve autopsied two victims so far.  I don’t want another.”

Her firm authority turned the younger women’s assertion into bluster.

“I don’t believe I know either of you,” she added.  “Introductions?”

They muttered their names.

“Thank you.  Now, who got here first?”

“That would be us,” said McCluskey, raising her hand slightly as if in school.

“Fine.  You get first go, then.”  With that, Dr Lambert stayed silent, in clear expectation of compliance.

There was a moment’s hesitation and no triumph.  The officers shared a glance:  it was Homicide that worked with the Coroner’s Office, not the SRU.  Still, Jules looked back at the older woman and held her tongue.  The decision had clearly been made.

As Sgt McCluskey went into the room and Jules headed outside to report, Lisa realized that Toby must have remained inside, letting the women duke it out.  The watching staff dispersed.  As Lisa also turned to leave, though, she was stopped by Dr Lambert.

“Your name finally rang a bell.”

Lisa looked puzzled.

“Lisa Cooper.  I was going over the notes I made after the last incident, and … it rang a bell.  You are the same Lisa Cooper who was a witness in the Angelo murder—oh, it must be almost twenty years ago now.  You were just a kid.”

Startled, Lisa agreed.

“I met you then,” said the older woman, with a smile.

“I don’t remember,” Lisa said apologetically.  “Don’t remember you, I mean.  I remember what happened, of course.”

“Hard to forget,” said Dr Lambert, with an understanding look.  “Seeing a man shot, at your age; witness protection; testifying in court.”

“Well, it got my Dad to find a job in Toronto, at least,” Lisa said.  “For about a couple of years, anyway.  The rigs paid better.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr Lambert, remembering how bitter the child had been about her father’s absence so soon after her mother’s death.

“I was older by then, though,” Lisa said simply.

“So, you became a nurse?”

“Yeah, I guess it was that or traffic cop, right?  I saw a drunk driver mow down my mother:  now I try to stop the bad things for other kids.”  She smiled wrily, knowing the transparency of her motivation.

“You do good here, either way,” Dr Lambert said with gentle firmness.

“Ah, well,” said Lisa, feigning a light tone.  “We can’t all be superheroes like the ones in those comic books I used to read.”

“Janey Jinx.”

Lisa laughed.  “Oh, my!  Janey Jinx!  You remember?  God, I almost forget!”

“Well, it’s a long time at your age,” said Dr Lambert.  She smiled, and headed off to find Dr Fawcett.

An awkward conversation, Lisa thought—the more so since she still couldn’t quite place the older woman in her memories.  There had simply been too many strange adults bustling about trying to keep her safe in those scary couple of days before her father had got home from Newfoundland.

It was pure curiosity that made her look back down the hall to see the door open and Toby come out of the John Doe’s room, expostulating to Sgt McCluskey.  “It’s just dreams,” he was saying.  “Nightmares, really.  Nothing that makes sense.  I’ve tried to get through with prompts, Michelle:  you heard me.  All I’m getting is someone flying at him.”

“His attacker, right?” said McCluskey, stating the obvious.

Toby licked his lips, uncertainly.  “No, when I say, ‘flying’, I don’t mean leaping towards him, jumping from a fire escape or something.  I mean flying.  Like Superman.”

“Well, I’m still getting used to the idea of working like this with you, but it seems to me—”  Before she could say more, though, she spotted that someone was listening.  With a quick, slight gesture to silence any response from Toby, she turned and asked, “Did you need something?”

Lisa had not lost the knack of a quick save.  She said, with feigned assurance, that she had to check on the patient, and passed between them.  To her surprise, she found that the John Doe was unconscious, though restless.  She didn’t comment:  it was, after all, probable that he’d only just slipped back under.  Still, it stuck with her after she’d gone through the routine and left; and she made a point, when she got back to the front desk, of mentioning it.  The patient was really still in too serious a condition to be pressed for answers.  She did not, as she spoke, look in the direction of Toby and the IIB sergeant, who were lingering; nor did either of them venture to respond.

Jules Callaghan returned to tell them briskly that she was leaving.  She’d just got the update.  “It’s over,” she said.  “At least for now.”  The take-down of the Goth club had proceeded without a hitch, no shots fired.  The SRU had gone in, but found nothing.  “Well, nothing except a fire someone set,” she said.  “Right in the middle of the club dance floor, for some reason.  Ashes and a bit of charred wood.”

“So you blew it,” said McCluskey acerbically.  “The perp obviously found an escape route.”

Jules bit her lip.  “If he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there,” she said weakly.

“Or you let him slip through your fingers with out-of-date intel on the layout of the club.  I suppose now we wait for the next attack?”

Lisa quietly picked up another clipboard and left them to it.  She headed for the out-patient lounge.  There she saw Dr Lambert, looking at the updates on the news channel.  The announcer knew of the take-down, but not of the fire.

“Ah,” said Dr Lambert, when Lisa told her, in a quiet voice, what Team One had found.  “Yes, I see.”  She didn’t say what she saw, though.

“I remember that club,” Dr Lambert added after a moment.  She sounded almost wistful.  Happy dancing days of yesteryear, no doubt.  “Many years ago, I met the owner once or twice.  It’s changed hands—changed names—several times since then.”  She looked thoughtful.  “Someone’s not going to be happy about this.”

It seemed the understatement of the century:  four attacks, two dead, and “someone’s not going to be happy”?  Even the fire on the dance floor was surely going to make the owner furious.

Lisa was tempted to linger, to follow the news updates if not to ask questions about Dr Lambert’s memories of the club.  However, the hopeful faces of bored, waiting patients turned to her; and she dutifully called out, “Hoskins?”  Belatedly, she recalled that this was the sprained ankle.  She helped him hobble down the hall to X-Ray.  Shortly, they returned to the waiting room, where she told him that it would be the usual “few minutes” before the doctor would come with the results.

By then, Dr Lambert was no longer watching TV.  Returning to the desk, Lisa found her talking to Toby and the IIB sergeant.  Jules Callaghan had evidently retreated from the verbal combat and left to rejoin her team.

“Clearly just a nightmare,” said Dr Lambert briskly; and Lisa realized that they’d been telling her the little information they’d learned from the John Doe.  “Blood loss, trauma.  Even just the workings of the unconscious mind!  After all, no one can fly for real!”  She laughed.

McCluskey smiled.  So did Lisa.  So did Toby, for a moment.  But then it faded; and Lisa saw an odd look in his eye.

She added the clipboard to the stack on the desk.

“We’ll be back when he wakes up properly,” said McCluskey.  “Given that his attacker remains at large, we need clear memories.  A detailed account; a photofit, if he’s up to it.  Given the trend, there’ll be another attack in a week or so.  Maybe less, the way these serial things go in the end.”  She headed for the door.  Toby lingered, with a slightly puzzled look on his face.

“Toby?”  With a last glance at Dr. Lambert, he followed.

Lisa wondered what he had found so odd about the pathologist’s remark.  Only in their phantasies could people fly!  (Well, phantasies and comic books.)  Long long ago, she had once made up stories that she had actually met a man who could fly.  Met him in the flesh for real.  It was the only one of her tall tales that she had never told anyone, a secret phantasy that she had treasured for years.

Toby paused in the open doors.  She saw him turn, with that odd puzzled frown—to look in her direction.