Chat - Archer Mayor [90]
She squeezed his hand in return, her eyes bright with gratitude. “No, no, Doctor. It’s quite all right. We’ll take humor any day. Would it be all right to see him?”
Weisenbeck stood up. “Of course. Now, he’s not going to start up a conversation, you know. He is still asleep. But you can check out his improved breathing for yourself, and see how much better he looks without all that plumbing stuck down his throat. You might even get a response if you squeeze his hand.” He laughed and added, “especially if you use a little rough stuff.”
A nurse came in to get her ready for her visit, and Joe and Weisenbeck stood side by side before the viewing window overlooking the rows of beds.
“Straight?” was all Joe asked.
Weisenbeck smiled without looking at him. “Straight. I’m not saying something can’t still go wrong—it definitely can. But the odds are hugely in his favor now. If his progress is any indicator, all he has left to do is wake up, get his strength back, and go home. All of which, I won’t deny, will take time, but still . . .”
Joe patted his shoulder. “Thanks, and not just for the doctor stuff.”
Weisenbeck glanced quickly at his watch, looking pleased, and then moved toward the door. “Happy to help, Mr. Gunther. Call me anytime, for any reason.”
Joe waited until he saw his mother being wheeled into the ICU before going outside to his usual cell phone corner in the hallway. He dialed Gail’s number, got her answering machine, and said, “It’s Joe. Good news from the hospital. Leo’s not fully awake but he’s starting to come out of it. The doc’s pretty optimistic. Just thought you’d like to know.”
He then called Sammie. “How’re things going?” he asked.
“I should ask the same thing,” she answered.
“Good,” he said. “He’s starting to improve.”
She laughed. “I should probably say the same thing. The chief down here is being a little starchy about Willy not checking in before all hell broke loose, and the VSP is curious if we always run solo after suspects in major cases, but no one’s really faulting what happened. We got lucky with a bunch of realists, for once. I’m betting he gets a clean bill on this one.”
“And there’s no doubt about Nugent being the guy? ’Cause I plan to tell Andy’s father that we got him.”
“I double-checked, boss—promise. He did it. By the way, we got a hit on that long shot you asked Les and me to check out—the irate parental type who might go after people like Nashman and Metz? Lester found someone named Oliver Mueller. Lives in Bratt, heads up a bereaved-parents support group, writes letters to the editor all the time, rants at selectmen meetings, hassles the police chief for more action against child molesters. He’s been arrested for disorderly a few times, including once for resisting and assaulting a cop. His daughter’s death two years ago is about all he lives for anymore.”
“I don’t remember that. What was her name?”
“Didn’t happen here. He’s a New Jersey transplant. Kid died, and everything went with her—the marriage, the job, the house, you name it.”
“What makes him homicidal?” Joe asked, unsure that his own reaction to a child’s murder wouldn’t push him at least a little off center.
“Last year, there was an incident in Brattleboro. The cops thought a guy in the neighborhood might be going after kids. Mueller caught wind of it, bushwhacked the guy, and threatened to kill him. I won’t bore you with the details—I’ll be writing them all down anyhow—but, long story short,