The first thing I needed to do was get back to the hospital and catch Susan as she made afternoon rounds. The comatose girl could be the key to everything, and if she regained consciousness and could speak, I wanted to be there.
When I got to Tommy Lee’s floor, I noticed the nurse on duty was Judi Perez. In fact, Judi was hard not to notice. As she stood outside Tommy Lee’s door, her loose-fitting hospital uniform did little to hide the figure that should have been on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue.
Judi was a transplant to the mountains of North Carolina. Susan had told me Judi had been a nurse at Cook County Hospital in Chicago until a messy divorce made her seek a change of scenery. She’d come to Gainesboro just to get away from the hassle of the big city for a while, but she’d found that she liked the pace and had never left. Susan thought highly of her, and I was sure the male employees thought constantly of her.
“How are our patients doing?” I asked her.
Judi gave me a broad smile of perfect teeth. “Tommy Lee and Cindy are progressing as expected and our mystery girl is showing some slight improvement. Her cranial pressure has stabilized.”
“Any idea when she might regain consciousness?”
“Dr. Chandler called in a consulting neurosurgeon from Asheville to review the readouts but nobody can say for sure when we’ll be able to bring her out of her drug-induced coma.”
I thought I saw a mist of tears in her eyes.
She took a deep breath. “Crazy isn’t it? This is the kind of thing I’d expect to happen in Chicago, but not here. That’s why I came to Gainesboro. Things were supposed to be slower and easier.”
I touched her shoulder, surprised at the emotion she was expressing. Her muscles tightened as my concern made her realize she’d momentarily lost her professional persona.
“Oh, well. The best laid plans and all that.” Judi tossed her head and her soft brown curls settled perfectly around her angelic face. “I’d better get back to work.”
I found Patsy sitting bedside with Tommy Lee. Both were asleep, but she woke before I could retreat from the room.
“Stay,” she said. “You won’t bother me and I think he’s finally fallen into a less fitful sleep.” Patsy’s bleary eyes showed me she could use more than a few hours’ rest herself. “He told me you’re a deputy.”
I should have figured Reece would have let Tommy Lee know as soon as we hung up. “We hope not for long.”
“Thank you for doing that.” She started to cry and then laughed at her uncontrollable tears. “You live knowing something like this is a possibility. Part of the job. The world’s a dangerous place and law enforcement puts Tommy Lee right on the borderline of that danger. But an old man at a square dance.” She threw up her hands at the absurdity.
“Something pushed that old man over the border.” I stepped closer and gently touched her shoulder. “I want to find out who and why.”
“God knows I want you to, otherwise he’ll never really rest.” She looked at her battle-scarred husband. Tenderly, she adjusted the black patch over his eye. “The mayor came by. He said the merchants association made a thousand-dollar contribution to aid the investigation. Extra overtime if necessary.”
“Good.” I didn’t doubt the sincerity of our community’s concern. I also knew everyone wanted the case closed with an explanation that would make the tourists feel safe.
“And Howard Jefferson came by while Mayor Whitlock was here. He said the computer and phone are ready. The hospital’s covering all long distance charges.”
There was a knock at the door. A metal cart bearing a computer, monitor, and keyboard rolled into the room. The young man behind it looked like anything but a hospital employee. He wore black cargo pants, a tight black tee shirt, and multiple silver rings perforating the rims of his ears. The ID badge dangling from his neck looked as out of place as a third eye on the Mona Lisa.
“Is this the room to be linked to the network?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “I requested a computer for the sheriff.”
“Then you got it. One of the new dual processor hyper-thread super RAM babies. Sweet.”
Patsy eyed him cautiously as if he’d started babbling in tongues.
The man picked up the CPU and his biceps swelled. For a computer geek, he knew his way around a weight room.
“Actually, it’s for me,” I assured Patsy. “If I’m not in the way, I can work here. Tommy Lee can participate as much or as little as he wants.”
Patsy relaxed. “Okay. Howard also asked me if I wanted to restrict visitors.”
“Not a bad idea. Have you had inquiries from the press?”
“Some calls at home. Kenny’s handling those. I spoke to Melissa Bigham. She’s on vacation in Colorado and heard about the shooting. She was concerned about us, not just the news story.”
Melissa Bigham was the top reporter for our daily paper, the Gainesboro Vista. Although she was a good friend, I was glad she was out of town. When she learned I was a deputy, she’d be hounding me for the inside scoop. At least I had a week’s reprieve.
“Howard’s running all media inquiries through his office,” Patsy said.
“Sounds like they’re on top of things.”
Patsy laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Howard’s no fool. When I agreed to an authorized visitor’s list, he said he’d put the mayor at the top. Whitlock strutted out like he had the keys to the Oval Office.”
The computer installer dropped to his knees and unraveled a thick cable to the wall. He popped loose a faceplate in the baseboard, yanked free a multi-pinned connector, and tied the computer’s cable into it. He pulled a small screw driver from a Velcro pocket on his thigh and started tightening the plugs together.
I told Patsy I’d stay for a while if she wanted to take a break. She left for lunch and a change of clothes. A few minutes later, the dark wizard scrambled to his feet. He switched on the computer and turned to me. “Take her for a test drive.”
I sat down at the desk. When I scrolled the mouse across the pad, the monitor screen turned to blue wallpaper consisting of Laurel County Memorial written multiple times, with the hospital’s laurel blossom logo framing each corner.
“You’re on the system,” he said.
I hit enter and a prompt for a password appeared.
“What do I type here?”
“Not my department. You’ll have to get a password from administration. They’re on the wing directly under us.”
“Can I get it over the phone?”
“Probably not. Someone should see you in person. But if you have other questions, call for Nate.”
“Nate?”
He twisted his badge around where I could read Nate Bumgardner. “See. Here I am. Fast, huh?” He pulled the empty cart out of the room, laughing at his own joke.
Administration occupied one wing off the main lobby. I decided to go straight to Pamela Whittier’s office and have her direct me to the proper department. Her administrative assistant sat behind an impressive oak desk, files neatly stacked on one corner, a computer monitor and keyboard occupying a return along the wall.
The furnishings were fitting for the head of a hospital. Tasteful, traditional, and expensive. The only surprise revealed more about my stereotypes. Whittier’s assistant was a man.
“May I help you?” he asked in a pleasant, educated voice. The well-groomed gatekeeper wore a conservative red tie and starched white shirt. He looked to be in his early thirties and spoke with the confidence of someone older.
“I’m Barry Clayton. Nate sent me for a password.”
“Joel Greene.” He stood to greet me with a handshake. “Ms. Whittier thought you might be by. She had a board luncheon that’s running long, but she left this.”
He retrieved a business envelope from the center drawer of his desk. “This contains the access code for long distance and a temporary password for our computer network. Change the p
assword as soon as you log on and remember it.” Greene handed me the envelope as if it might explode. “You’re the only one who can get to your files. We take computer security very seriously. Forget the password, and those files are irretrievable.”
“Even to Nate?”
Greene smiled. “Nate’s a piece of work, isn’t he? Fortunately, he stays hidden in central computer operations where he can’t scare the patients.”
“How’d the hospital find a guy like that?”
“Referral. From Dr. Chandler. Nate had done some freelance computer work for the clinic and Chandler said he was a genius. The former head of Information Technology retired the end of last year. Nate’s run circles around him, but with Nate, what you see is what you get.”
When I returned to Tommy Lee’s room, Susan was making a few notations on his chart. He appeared to be sleeping.
“How’s your patient doing?”
“How are you doing?” Tommy Lee croaked, and half-opened his eye. “Solved the case yet?”
I looked at Susan. “I liked him better when he was unconscious.”
Tommy Lee grunted and closed his eye.
“He’ll be drifting in and out.” Susan sounded stuffy and wore a mask as well as latex gloves. “For the next few days his bark will be worse than his bite.”
“How’s your cold?”
“Going from runny to clogged. My head feels like it’s packed with concrete. Doug Larson’s got samples of some new over-the-counter medication he suggests I try.”
“Want me to pick them up for you? I’m going by the Sheriff’s Department later this afternoon.” Doug Larson owned Larson’s Discount Drugs on Main Street and would be on the way.
“If it’s no trouble.” Susan walked to the door and returned the chart to the holder.
“Anything on the girl? I heard she might come out of her coma soon.”
“Maybe this evening.”
“Can I leave word for someone to call me?”
Susan frowned. “She certainly won’t be up for a police grilling.”
“No, but she might mutter a few words on her own. You know how the mind works.”
“All right. I’ll speak to the duty nurse.” Susan turned to go.
I caught her arm. “One more thing. Do you know where her clothes are stored?”
“Probably in a personal articles bag in her room’s closet.” Susan pointed to a cabinet by the bathroom. “Why?”
“I’m trying to see if she’s local or from Florida. Does she have a tan?”
“Nothing more than normal exposure to the sun. She hasn’t been lying out on the beach or in some salon.”
“Do you think I could take a few pictures of her? Then I could have an artist’s sketch made that would get rid of the bandages.”
Susan shrugged. “If it helps find out who she is. You’d better run it by Howard Jefferson, but under the circumstances I think he’d take his chances with HIPAA privacy regulations.” She thought for a second longer. “There is one thing about the girl. She has a few tattoos.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Earlier in the spring Tommy Lee and I had solved a crime based on tattoos I’d found on a body. That adventure nearly cost me my life.
“Nothing so dramatic,” Susan said. “A rose on her ankle, a butterfly on her left shoulder. You should list them in the descriptive markings you circulate with any picture. She also has body piercings—multiple ear, one nose, and a tongue. But there was no jewelry or studs in any of them. Some were starting to close over.”
“Sounds like she was running with a new crowd.”
“Yeah. If she recovers, she might want to think about going back to the old one.”
Susan continued with her rounds and I sat down at the computer. I opened the envelope and found the temporary password GAINESBORO CSI. Someone in administration had a sense of humor. I logged on and changed the password to KOWALSKI, figuring that would be a word I wouldn’t forget.
I called the Delray Beach Police Department and was told Lieutenant Spring would be in at four. I asked for an email address so I could send him a description of the girl and he could give me an update on any information unearthed about Mitch Kowalski’s movements since his wife’s death. I concluded the email with my cell phone number and a request he call me.
Patsy returned around three-fifteen with her daughter Samantha. I didn’t want to horn in on family time so I said I’d be back after supper. That would give me time to check in with Reece, run up to my cabin, and swing by the funeral home.
To Reece’s credit, he had all the paperwork ready to officially put me on the force. He had a deputy shoot a digital photo for my ID card and then included it with a badge in a new leather flip case. Over five years had passed since I’d left the Charlotte police force, and I must admit I felt a thrill at slipping the badge into my pocket.
No one named Lincoln turned up in the first round of canvassing the major motels. Without an accurate description, finding him registered under an assumed name would be difficult. I suggested they include the girl; maybe they’d traveled as father and daughter because of the age difference. An artist’s sketch of the girl would help, and Fletcher and Susan had seen Lincoln head on. I’d get them to provide whatever details they could for the composite sketch.
Nothing had been found left on the street. No folding chairs, no abandoned car, no one who had seen where Lincoln had gone. In the aftermath of the shooting, he had disappeared.
I drove up to my cabin to let my yellow lab, Democrat, out for a run and restock lettuce and water for George, the guinea pig. Those two roommates were accustomed to my comings and goings, but Democrat always gave me a pitiful brown-eyed stare that made me feel guilty. His tail accelerated into double time when I whistled him into the jeep. Tonight he’d stay with Mom and enjoy a little pampering.
Tonight I was a sworn officer of the law, and I remembered I needed to carry more than an ID and a badge. I left Democrat in the jeep and returned to the cabin. From the back corner of my sock drawer I retrieved my holstered .38 Special. The nickel-plated Smith & Wesson didn’t have the firepower of the Glock that I’d carried as a patrolman, but the five-shot revolver never jammed and was intimidating enough if you were on the wrong side of the barrel.
I had taken an oath to uphold the law and protect the citizens of Laurel County. I had to be prepared to kill in order to honor that oath, and I knew even the most routine investigation could suddenly turn deadly if you crossed paths with the wrong people.
I looped my belt through the holster, positioned the gun just above my right hip, and headed for the funeral home.
When I got there, I found Uncle Wayne and Fletcher sitting at the kitchen table divvying up homemade chocolate chip cookies while Mom stirred something on the stove. Democrat went straight to his cushion in the corner, but kept an alert watch on Mom’s every move. If she dropped so much as a crumb, he usually snagged it in midair.
“Can you stay for supper?” Mom asked. “Fletcher’s being introduced to grilled pimiento cheese.”
I gave Mom a quick wink. “Looks like he’s well acquainted with dessert.”
“Just a little something to tide them over. I’m also fixing fresh asparagus.”
“Hurt me.” I grabbed a cookie off the plate. “But I can’t stay. I’ve got to pick something up for Susan.”
“Hey, that’s stealing,” Uncle Wayne said.
“Then I’ll put myself under arrest and take another for evidence.”
“Has the girl regained consciousness?” Fletcher asked.
“No. Maybe this evening. I plan to be there. I’m also—” I bit off my words in frustration. “What an idiot. I walked off and left my camera.”
“Your what?” Uncle Wayne asked in between bites.
“My digital camera. I was going to take a photograph of the girl so an artist can make a sketch.”
“A sketch?” Wayne looked puzzled. “Why not just use the picture?”
“Because of t
he bandages. We need her to look like she did before the shooting.”
Fletcher finished his cookie and picked up another. “Photoshop her.”
“That’s way beyond my computer skills.”
“I’ve got the program and some facial feature plug-ins on my laptop. We use it in coursework for reconstructive cosmetics. I could take the photos and see what I come up with.”
“What are y’all talking about?” Uncle Wayne asked.
“Using the computer instead of an artist,” Fletcher said. “I saw the girl at the street dance so I’ve got a good idea about hair length and color. If it doesn’t work, you’re no worse off. You still have the photos.”
“Can you give me anything for the man she was with?” I asked.
He shook his head. “That might take a police artist. I can’t draw freehand, but I’ll see if I can assemble something close.”
Uncle Wayne turned to Fletcher. “Kinda like Mr. Potato Head? Different eyes, different noses? Barry’d play with his for hours.”
Fletcher stared blankly at Wayne, trying to connect his twenty-first century computer program to me and a spud.
After a few seconds, I let Fletcher off the hook and answered my uncle. “A real sophisticated Mr. Potato Head. But I still need to go back for my camera.”
Fletcher regained his bearings. “I’ve got a Canon Rebel. I’ll use it. Doing the composite might take me a while. Maybe I’d better go now.”
I looked at Mom still working at the stove. “I’m not coming between you and your first taste of Mom’s grilled pimiento cheese sandwiches. Have supper first. I’ll call the hospital and clear your access.”
“Be ready in fifteen minutes,” Mom said.
Uncle Wayne bit off half a cookie and mumbled, “Mr. Potato Head. Now there was a toy.”
Like most of Gainesboro’s downtown businesses, Larson’s Discount Drugs closed at six on Saturdays. Doug Larson had inherited the business from his father, and it was the last of the Main Street stores going back to the 1950s. Everyone knew the age of Wal-Mart and the super drug chains killed small retailers like Doug. If not for foot traffic and loyalty from longtime customers, Larson’s Discount Drugs would never have made it into the twenty-first century.
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 5
