Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [18]
“You see a fair amount of self-inflicted gunshot wounds?” D.D. asked him.
“Enough, I think.”
“How does this compare? Gut reaction, doesn’t have to be scientific. It’s just us three standing here.”
The doctor waffled again. “Can’t really say there’s a quintessential self-inflicted wound. Other than it’s almost always a male. But gun type, location of wound … Too many variables to make that call.”
D.D. scowled, wanting a more definitive answer, but again, not terribly surprised. Doctors hated to be nailed down. “Did you notice his hands?”
“Nope, too busy looking at his head.”
“Did he say anything, have any moments of consciousness?”
“Not when I was around.” The doctor had his coffee between both his hands and seemed ready to motor again. He headed toward the cafeteria exit. They followed, more slowly this time.
At the last moment, he turned. “Might want to check with the charge nurse, though,” he called back. “Find out who admitted him. That person might know more.”
The doctor disappeared up the stairs.
They went in search of Nurse Terri.
Turned out, Rebecca Moore, currently working a double, had been the ER nurse who’d admitted Patrick Harrington. She pulled herself away from a vomiting three-year-old to answer their questions.
D.D. recoiled at the smell. Phil remained steadfast. He had four kids at home, and liked to joke that he worked homicide to escape the gore.
“You admitted a gunshot victim earlier this evening: Patrick Harrington,” D.D. prodded. “We were wondering if you could tell us anything about him.”
“GSW to the head?” Rebecca wanted to know.
“That’s our man.”
“EMTs brought him in. I noted his vitals, then paged Dr. Poor, given the head injury. He referred the patient to Dr. Badger for surgery.”
“Was the patient conscious when he first came in?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did he ever regain consciousness while in the ER?”
“No, ma’am—Oh wait, when they were wheeling him out for the CT scan. He opened his eyes then.”
“What did he do?”
“He was moving his lips, looked like he was trying to speak.”
“Did you hear what he said?” Phil asked sharply.
The nurse shrugged. “I can’t be certain. Sounded like ‘hussy.’”
CHAPTER
SIX
VICTORIA
A knife is missing. It’s four a.m., and I’ve crept out of bed to take inventory. Evan woke up at eleven, midnight, two a.m., and three. Now he will probably make it until five. At least I hope so.
I haven’t slept, but that’s nothing unusual. The first few weeks of sleep deprivation are the hardest. Now it’s been so long since I’ve had more than three consecutive hours of rest that it’s the nights I do sleep that mess me up. I find myself foggy, barely able to pull it together. It’s as if, having finally gotten sleep, my body realizes what it’s been missing and rebels.
I don’t have time for rebellions, so I’ve given myself middle-of-the-night chores. Several times a week, this includes inventory of the kitchen utensils.
He must have gotten the knife from the drying rack. I try to be diligent, but I’m rarely functioning at one hundred percent. My fine motor skills have eroded to the point that I drop small objects half a dozen times a day. When people speak to me, I have moments when I see their mouths moving, but I can’t process English.
Evan once watched a show describing how Navy SEALs must survive more than ninety-six hours without sleep as part of Hell Week. I wanted to scream at the TV, Ninety-six hours, my ass. Try eight years!
I might have started laughing hysterically. These things happen.
Now I try to marshal my limited coping skills. Assuming Evan got the knife from the drying rack, he had roughly three to five minutes alone with it before I discovered him in the kitchen. He would’ve hidden it; he’s clever that way. But somewhere close; he wouldn’t have time to make it downstairs and back, nor could he go down the hallway because I would hear him. So the knife is close, stashed somewhere in the kitchen, dining room, entryway, or family room. I should be able to find it—I just