“You’re not allowed in the back but they’ll give you a ride to the hospital,” he said. “I telephoned the consulate already.”
“What? Why?”
“Standing instructions from the Swedish consulate,” Val said, “for emergencies.”
Made sense. Erik, Lanny’s husband, had been deputy consular general there for twenty years. Since his death, Lanny continued to help with the peacekeeping trips the Scandinavian ombudsmen and negotiators made to hot spots around the globe. They’d been busy before 9/11. These days, they were even more active.
“Val, please call them back. Either speak to Lars Oldenburg or get a message to him, say it’s urgent,” I said as I ran to the ambulance’s passenger door. “I know, I know,” when Val protested he’d done just that. “Tell Lars it’s vital he find out if there’s a neurosurgeon on staff at the hospital who knows the work of Dr. Ghajar.”
“Dr. Ghajar,” Val repeated and hurried back into the club.
I squished myself next to the ambulance crew in the front seat, breathing a sigh of relief that I’d remembered what I’d read about head trauma victims. Anyone in a medical emergency needs an advocate but it was more than that, correct treatment as early as possible is vital for victims of head trauma. After her savage beating in 1996, the correct treatment had saved the life of the woman the newspapers called the Central Park Jogger.
What New Yorker could forget the hideous attack on the jogger, Trish Meili? Not expected to live, reports of her incredible recovery stressed that the miracle was due to a radical new way of treatment developed by a Dr. Ghajar. Despite the documented success of this treatment, it was taking time to percolate through the hierarchy of the medical ranks. I hoped desperately that the hospital had a neurosurgeon who knew about Dr. Ghajar’s innovations. I sat staring blankly at the streets as we drove, siren blasting. For years, I’d beefed about the ear-rending sound, now it was comforting.
At the hospital, I was detoured to Admissions to help the woman at the computer fill out Lanny’s name, address, age, the minutiae of implacable routine. Val had found Lanny’s purse and pushed it into my hand as we left the club so I had all the details.
Eventually, I was allowed into the cubicle where Lanny lay, still unconscious. The neck collar had been removed and she was strapped to a rigid spine support to keep her immobile. I sat holding her hand, speaking to her now and then in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. People who are unconscious can hear what’s said to them, I’d read enough firsthand reports testifying to that. I stuffed my anxiety deep in my gut where it surfed uneasily over hunger pangs. It was almost two PM. Barely one terrifying hour since I’d dashed into the club for lunch with Lanny but it felt like a month ago.
Why had my godmother been attacked? What was going on? Was it something to do with the club? It was true the place was in discreet turmoil. Members’ unhappy rumblings at the club had skyrocketed way beyond disgruntled some time back and percolated at roiling boil ever since. Matters had been outed nationally with a New York Times article. “Records Seized in Investigation at National Arts Club.” The New York Post wasn’t as restrained. “City raids posh Gramercy club over ‘tax dodge.’” The coverage by the New York Observer, Newsday and the Daily News fell somewhere in between the sober Times and the strident Post. Headlines sizzled, club members seethed. Lanny, I was certain, would not be involved with any of the groups. Where was the connection?
Early one chilly January morning, twenty-four detectives and agents from the New York City Department of Finance arrived at the club with a search warrant. They were on a mission to investigate possible larceny and tax evasion by the club. The club founders had to be twirling in their graves. Mark Twain and Teddy Roosevelt were among the members whose vision had been for a national arts club that would be educational, not juicy media fodder. Articles in the Gramercy weekly newspaper, Town & Village, alerted local readers that there might be trouble. “State Slams Arts Club” ran one heading. Another pointed out that the club’s bylaws protected the board and the president from responsibility and legal fees.
One headline aimed straight for the viscera, “Aldon James labeled racist, liar by Harlem Opera director.” The bottom line was that the club was allegedly guilty of tax evasion. The newspaper then took the usual step of mailing their articles to the city’s finance department for investigation. But Lanny wasn’t a tax lawyer or an accountant, so that surely wasn’t any reason for her to be embroiled in that particular mess.
Then there was a group of members agitated about the club’s financial activities. Aldon James labeled the group of “Concerned Artists” pure dissidents. The group retaliated, claiming their queries about finances had gone unanswered for years. While the charges, counter-charges and investigations were ongoing, people strained to hold on to their tempers and stay civil. Had someone from the Concerned Artists group or any one of the other factions had too much to drink and lost control, attacking Lanny in a rage because he thought she didn’t agree with them?
It didn’t make any sense. Nothing made sense.
I sat holding Lanny’s hand and mulled over the little that I knew about the lawsuits spawned by the club’s dissenting members. Was Lanny ever involved in one? She’d never mentioned anything to me. Had she been legally bound to silence? Surely Lanny wouldn’t have concealed something like that from me, she knows I’m not a blabbermouth. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the club but fallout from one of her peace-keeping missions. I shivered as I visualized the fury of Lanny’s attacker. And I considered one more nasty fact: was this the danger I’d been warned about yesterday?
A nurse hurried in. “People from the consulate are here,” she said. “The doctor says they can come in but we’ll be taking the patient for a C.A.T. scan soon.”
Lars Oldenburg, the Swedish consulate’s UN delegate, arrived on the nurse’s heels. Erik’s brother, he was Lanny’s dearest friend. After she’d been widowed, Lanny had made a living will giving Lars durable power of attorney for health care, a sign of their closeness. Impeccably groomed as always, the intensity of his slate blue eyes and the faint flush on his fair skin were the only outward indications of his concern. He had two men in tow. To my immense relief, Lars told me that one was a neurosurgeon on staff who knew about Dr. Ghajar’s work. The other was introduced simply as Dag, an attaché from the consulate, a Nordic diplomatic type, useful whether he was at a party or a panic station.
Lars and the neurosurgeon moved over to Lanny. Tears pricked my eyes as Lars bent over Lanny, kissing her cheek gently, stroking her face and murmuring her name. She didn’t respond, didn’t move, and he straightened up, a stunned look on his face. The neurosurgeon reached for Lanny’s chart and conferred quietly with the nurse.
Someone else hurried in and identified himself as the staff doctor and rapidly explained what they knew so far.
“Slight cuts, all in the hairline, above the left temple. Minimal bleeding. Preliminary tests indicate the aftermath of what was possibly a small stroke, perhaps the shock of the fall. It’s hard to evaluate the combined effects of the trauma at this stage.” He hesitated, reluctant to pile dire news on top of bad. “It could be there’s damage to the brain stem. It’s a question of time, of wait and see. We’ll have a C.A.T. scan and that will give us more information.”
Lars absorbed this wordlessly then turned and gave me a hug.
“Thank heaven you’re all right, Yoko. You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Shaky but okay.”
I didn’t add that I was dreading the complete evaluation. I didn’t have to. Lanny was deeply unconscious. If that lasted for more than a few hours it was likely to cause permanent brain damage. Would she be identified as traumatic brain injured, TBI? Even mild TBI has lasting consequences. Every year, over two million in the U.S. are left TBI after sports, industrial and auto accidents, an incomplete estimate because only hospitalized patients are counted. Add a new category I thought angrily: vicious attack.
The doctor
s turned their attention to Lars. The neurosurgeon, a tall, balding man, didn’t sugarcoat his words.
“Now is a critical intervention point, so soon after the accident. We need to monitor pressure on the brain, try to avoid causing any more insult to the body, which would be like a second injury––the first injury, of course, was the accident. It’s possible that part of the brain was bruised during the accident.”
“What must you do?” asked Lars. His self-control was complete but he was deathly pale, the faint flush on his face gone.
“We monitor brain pressure by putting a tube into the middle of the brain. That gives us a number to tell us how swollen the brain is. Then we try and prevent the brain from swelling more and causing a second injury.”
“How do you do that?”
“We’ll talk later,” the neurosurgeon said firmly. “At the moment, the patient is not breathing adequately so we’ll monitor her carefully.” As if on cue, I heard Lanny struggle for breath and heard her ragged, short breaths.
“Surely she needs a respirator?” Lars, skilled at diplomacy, couldn’t keep the agitation out of his voice.
“No, we would not use a respirator. It can cause the individual to breathe so rapidly that blood pressure drops and not enough blood gets to the brain. The standard response has been to give steroids but these have no effect on head injury in terms of outcome. The drugs cause you to lose so much fluid that eventually blood pressure drops. Then you die.”
Lars nodded his understanding of the terse explanation.
Orderlies arrived to take Lanny for the scan. The doctors huddled in intense discussion. Lars only had to look once at Dag, the diplomatic type, and the man immediately fell into place behind Lanny’s gurney, following it out of the cubicle. The doctors started to follow and the staff doctor paused to speak to Lars.
“If you want to talk to me or the neurosurgeon, you could wait in the office next to the nurses’ station, but it may be some time before we’re free.” The two doctors left.
Grabbing Lars’ arm, I steered him down the hall. He sighed, a shuddering release of tension.
“Yoko, what happened? Val called to tell me Lanny was at the hospital. You two were meeting for lunch? Val said Lanny’d had a terrible fall and was unconscious. When he gave me your message, I called Lanny’s family doctor and told him what you’d said. He immediately told me he recommended this neurosurgeon who is, thank god, on staff here.”
I shepherded Lars into the doctor’s office, glad to find it empty. I told him what I’d seen at the club, how Lanny had been deliberately pushed over the upper gallery. Lars was by turns shocked and angry. Nothing I told him helped make sense of the attack. Finally, I asked the questions bothering me.
“Could this attack be anything to do with a peace-keeping mission? Or one of the lawsuits about problems at the club?”
“No, she’s not involved in any lawsuit,” Lars said heavily. “I doubt it’s anything to do with peace-keeping trips. Sounds like a spontaneous assault. Today’s terrorists would be embarrassed at the lack of sophistication, the lack of planning, lack of arms. It’s got the mark of an amateur, an unpremeditated attack. What did the man look like?”
“Thin face. Short dark hair, lots of it. No beard or mustache or glasses. A dark gray jacket, pale blue shirt. Solid dark blue tie. I only saw him from the chest up.” I rattled off the sum total of my visual impression and for the first time wondered what Lanny’s attacker had seen when he looked down at me. I was wearing a navy blazer, a red blouse and khaki pants. I tend to be casual, the natural look of underpaid college faculty. This was quite dressy for me, in honor of lunch with Lanny. My straight black hair is cut a couple of inches below my ears. Epicanthic eyelids show my Japanese ancestry.
“Would you know him again?”
“I think so.” Unfortunately. Would he know me again? Bleak thought.
At the back of my mind, I wondered again if this attack was connected to yesterday’s warning of danger? Could it really be coincidence, two crazy situations when I was around? Before I could say anything, an orderly stuck his head round the door.
“A police detective has asked to see you both as soon as possible.”
“I also want to see the police,” Lars said.
The police officer in the bland waiting room was a plainclothes detective, one I recognized––Dan Riley. Today he was in baggy chinos with a black Yankees’ windbreaker. Very Gap. Very nice. We stared at each other for a surprised moment. My heart thudded uneasily. What would he think, finding me at a second catastrophe?
“Mr. Oldenburg? I’m Dan Riley from the Thirteenth Precinct. The National Arts Club where Mrs. Oldenburg was attacked is in our jurisdiction. Can I ask why the two of you are here?” Obviously he’d been briefed. His words were diplomatic but informative, which is more than some diplomats are.
“I was called because the consulate is always concerned about those connected to it,” Lars explained. “Mrs. Oldenburg is my sister-in-law, Dr. Kamimura is part of our family, has been since she was born.”
“I understand,’ Dan said. “The chief caught me before I left home and suggested I swing by the hospital on my way to the station. I can take statements here but it would be best if you’d both go back to the club. Detectives have begun an investigation there.” He paused and thought for a moment. “I’ll call the lead investigator and tell him about your interview yesterday, Dr. Kamimura.” His nod was businesslike, yesterday’s x-ray look was not present.
“We can go to the club together, Yoko,” Lars said. “I want to talk to Aldon and Val.” Lars looked at me. “On the way, you can tell me what ‘your interview yesterday’ means.”
As we left, the two men exchanged appraising looks. Was it my imagination or did Riley give me an odd sideways glance? Who could blame him? How often did he find the same witness at two bizarre situations, one right after another? One woman shot dead, another in the hospital, unconscious. Would he now ask whether there was a connection between these two situations? Would he begin to believe there was danger? Whatever the detective thought, he didn’t say anything about yesterday and I felt too frazzled to revisit that particular issue.
Lars scribbled a note on his business card and left it on the desk in the doctors’ office. He pulled out his cell phone when we reached the street. I listened as he told Dag he’d left a message for the staff doctor that Dag was to be kept informed of everything to do with Lanny.
“Connect with the staff doctor and the neurologist as soon as possible. Reiterate that I want you to keep the consulate updated on Mrs. Oldenburg’s condition. Let me know the room number when one’s ready. Set up round-the-clock supervision in the hall. I want you inside the room, she must not be left alone for a minute.”
I knew Lars too well to doubt this would be done.
“All right, Yoko, what did the detective mean about an interview yesterday?”
Quickly, I filled Lars in on the shooting I’d witnessed and the stranger’s warning of danger. Lars nodded slowly. I didn’t say how worried I was still.
“Yesterday’s warning might mean nothing, but what if it’s connected to the attack on Lanny?” I asked. “When I was at the police station, the police totally dismissed my concern about the warning of danger.”
“I can understand the police would feel there was little to be done about the warning of danger, if you can’t think of any reason why you’d be in danger?” Lars looked at me. “Can you?”
“No, none,” I said.
“It’s hard to see any connection between the two situations. It sounds like a psychotic attacked Lanny,” Lars said.
He had found a legitimate parking space for his Volvo on Greenwich Avenue near the hospital, even though he had diplomatic plates. We drove east and turned uptown on Park Avenue and Lars negotiated potholes and jaywalkers with equal care. His face was calm but I knew his insides had to be churning like mine.
“Oh, Auntie Ai,” I suddenly said. “We have to let her know, but
….” I stopped in mid-sentence. I didn’t have to explain to Lars how hard it would be to break the news to Auntie Ai. She was my only living relative and loved Lanny as much as I did. It was going to be a horrible shock for Auntie Ai, whoever telephoned with the news. Auntie Ai’s multiple sclerosis had worsened so that these days she wasn’t able to get out and about without a lot of planning and a someone to help her. A trip from Brooklyn to the hospital would be impossible, which is why Lanny often visited her and I went out regularly.
Lars understood my sudden silence. “Look, why don’t I call her? It might be easier on both of you.”
“Thank you, Lars,” I said gratefully. “Let her know that we’ll both be visiting Lanny and will call her with updates. She knows that when Lanny’s out of the hospital, she’ll be sure to visit. ”
Lars and I exchanged one of those long looks where nothing is said but much passes between two people.
At the club, Lars was immediately closeted with police in the main office. Aldon and Val descended on me.
“Thanks, Val, your message got through. The hospital did have a neurosurgeon who knew about the specialized work of Dr. Ghajar. No, Lanny didn’t come round before we left the hospital,” I answered Val’s query miserably. It didn’t bear thinking about, easier to bury the emotion, put on a calm face. “She’s scheduled to have surgery as soon as possible.”
“A terrible, terrible accident, if it was an accident, given Mrs. Oldenburg’s connection with ombudsmen negotiations,” Aldon said. “We’ve police swarming through the club. They’ll find out what this is all about.”
“Lars thinks the attacker wasn’t a professional,” I told Aldon and Val, who digested this insight in silence. “And Andy mentioned to me when I came in that he saw someone who followed Lanny and was talking to her. He didn’t recognize the guy but said he looked upset. We have to ask Andy again what the man looked like. ”
Eye Sleuth Page 4
