Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Volume Two: Three Complete Novels: Road Kill, Puppet Master, Cross Wired

by Jan Coffey

  There was no room for error in any of this. He couldn’t afford a screw-up, and none of the others would stand for it. A number of the involved partners had been on the phone to him. Everyone was shaken up. They all wanted it done and forgotten.

  For the second time this week, he dialed his man’s number. The jobs were across country, and they had to be done immediately. But there were others who worked for him. He’d take care of it. His man had handled this kind of problem for him before.

  Hopefully, this would be the last time.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday January 16

  Yale-New Haven Hospital, New Haven, Connecticut

  Juan’s records were being called misplaced. Mislaid. Misdirected. Everything but lost.

  Lexi listened impatiently to the young resident make his excuses and ask them to stay put while he went to collect the backup files they had on every patient. It took great control not to butt in, not to chew him out for the error. She was pissed off. Medical files don’t grow legs and walk away. Someone was responsible for this. They had to backtrack and they’d find them. She kept reminding herself that she was here as a mother and not as a physician working in this hospital. That only made her seethe more. She understood the system. There was no excuse for this carelessness.

  The resident had introduced himself as Dr. Barlow. She figured he couldn’t be even thirty years old. It had become the standard practice for the youngest and least experienced to work the graveyard shift in these big hospitals.

  Lexi focused on her surrounding. The meeting room where they were asked to wait was only eight by ten, and a round table and four chairs swallowed up most of the space. Three blown-up sepia prints showing the hospital around 1900 were on three of the walls. She glanced over at the Secret Service agents. Two totally different men.

  Lexi had immediately liked Hank Gardner’s disposition a lot better than Atwood’s. There was nothing confrontational about the psychologist, no accusing mannerisms, no superiority complex that seemed to go part and parcel with so many of the people she was meeting lately.

  Their looks were far different, too. Frankly, she preferred Gardner there, as well. Hank had a wiry build and was of medium height. His hair was thinning. His wire-rimmed glasses added a scholarly look to his expression. He was soft spoken. The man appeared to be a gentleman. Completely unthreatening. Unlike Agent Atwood.

  Lexi took a chair closest to the door and placed the milkshake she’d been forced to buy on the table in front of her. Even the drink had been a point of contention between them with Atwood insisting on a meal and her only wanting something that was fast and would get her to the doctor’s office quickly. A soda or a bottle of water wouldn’t do. No, she had to at least buy a milkshake. Lexi had been tempted to complain that she was lactose intolerant. The argument would have taken energy that she didn’t have.

  “Well, this explains why they didn’t send me any of Juan’s medical files,” Gardner said, sitting down on a chair next to Lexi.

  “The records can’t really be missing,” she said to him. “The hospital’s procedures won’t allow it. There is too much administrative concern about malpractice to allow something like that to happen.”

  “One would think so, especially considering the attention this case has been and will be getting. So many different doctors on different shifts have been looking after him; it’s likely that one of them still has the files.”

  She felt like a sponge, absorbing every ounce of information she could about Juan.

  “I did get a brief report from one of the doctors about my son’s condition last night,” Lexi told him.

  Gardner turned more fully toward her. She noticed that even Agent Atwood was paying attention.

  “Would you mind sharing what you were told?” Gardner asked.

  These two had allowed her to come down here and be part of this question-and-answer session with the doctor, so she didn’t mind telling them what she knew.

  “As you know, the eventual outcome for a patient in a coma is closely associated to the quality of the response during the first twenty-four hours after a suspected injury. I was told that, using the Glasgow Coma Scale—which scores from three to fifteen, with three being the lowest possible score for a person in a coma and fifteen being a normal-appearing person—Juan scored nine.”

  “What does that mean?” Atwood asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the far wall.

  Lexi paused for couple of seconds, testing to see if Agent Gardner would answer the question. He didn’t, so she continued.

  “In patients with a Glasgow Coma Scale of eight to ten, twenty-seven percent will die or remain in a coma, while sixty-eight percent will have a moderate disability and/or good recovery.”

  She’d been doing more research about this on Allan’s laptop last night. She’d hoped for better statistics. She wanted a full recovery. As a physician, though, Lexi knew that the probability was that she would never have Juan back to a hundred percent, the way he’d been. Putting aside the legal battles ahead of them and thinking only of Juan’s health, Lexi knew their lives were forever changed.

  She was choking up with emotion again.

  “None of this is exact science,” Gardner put in. “Each case is different. Each patient works to his or her own clock. The medical field tends to be very conservative.”

  Lexi needed to comment. She cleared her voice and kept the tears at bay. “They took Juan for more tests this morning. I was allowed to accompany him. He responded to environmental stimuli. He opened his eyes and spoke during the MRI test. I believe that’s great news for his prognosis, despite the fact that he slid back into a coma.”

  Neither agent said anything. Neither of them reminded her that she wasn’t a neurologist, or that she was building her hopes up for nothing. Or that even if her son fully recovered, he could be spending the rest of his life in jail. They didn’t have to; she knew they had to be thinking it.

  “Maybe the records are lying around in radiology,” Atwood suggested.

  Lexi appreciated the quick change of topic.

  “If they had them, they’d be done by now, wouldn’t they? he persisted.

  “Interpreting the output of a two-hour MRI session takes some time,” Hank Gardner said. “It isn’t a small undertaking.”

  “Just because you’re a Ph.D., Agent Gardner,” Atwood said gruffly, “doesn’t mean you have to defend them for screwing up.”

  Lexi glanced at him. The agent was actually joking. She didn’t know he had it in him. The man was intense and restless. Even in this small room with little space to do anything but sit down, he’d chosen to stand, a brooding and darkly powerful presence against the far wall.

  Hank turned to Lexi, ignoring the other agent. “Do you know what other kind of diagnostic tests were done on your son?”

  “From the little that I’ve been told and what I’ve pieced together myself, there were no neurologic tests done on him when they first brought him to the hospital Monday afternoon.”

  “And why was that?” Atwood asked shortly. “They had to treat him the same as any other patient.”

  Lexi glanced at the agent. She had a suspicion that his comment was in her support. She reminded herself that if it weren’t for him, she’d be still sitting upstairs in the hallway, waiting for one detective or other to show some mercy and get some doctor to talk to her. Also, he hadn’t had to care about whether she ate something or not. But he did. He was gruff, but right beneath the surface, there seemed to be a touch of compassion that he worked hard at hiding.

  “There was no apparent head injury,” she told him. “His vitals were good.”

  “No neuropsychiatric tests at all?” Hank asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I might be wrong. I wasn’t allowed to be with him that afternoon. He was unconscious, and his condition didn’t change until the brief seconds this morning,” Lexi said. “The doctor I spoke to last night told me that, so far
, they were focusing on the structure of his brain. They’d planned an MRI and CAT scan for yesterday, but they were only able to get him in for the CAT scan.”

  “And you didn’t see any of those results?” Hank asked.

  Lexi shook her head again. “I have to beg to get information out of anyone about my own son.”

  When she looked up at Atwood, his eyes darted away, but she’d seen the sympathetic look that passed across his face. It surprised her. His expression had hardened again a moment later when he looked back across the table.

  “I thought they were looking for his MRI records,” he said, staring at his partner.

  “As far as I know, all of Juan’s records are missing,” Hank answered. “Including today’s MRI.”

  “We should just have them redo the tests now,” Atwood said impatiently.

  “They can redo the MRI,” Lexi explained, “but not the CAT scan. The radioactivity involved with the CAT scan precludes it from being done again right away.”

  Atwood moved restlessly to the open door. Standing with his back against the jamb, he glanced down the corridor before looking back at them. He was clearly not a man built for waiting patiently.

  “As far as the results, what’s the difference between the two tests?” he asked.

  “The MRI and CAT scan slice the brain radiographically into slabs,” Hank explained. “The MRI does this with magnetic fields, the CAT scan uses x-rays. The MRI provides more detail than the CAT scan.”

  “The brain damage seen on an MRI—lesions as small as one to two millimeters in size—may escape detection in a CAT scan,” Lexi added.

  “But the CAT scan is superior to the MRI in detecting fresh blood in and around the brain,” Hank Gardner put in, “while the MRI is better at detecting the remnants of old hemorrhaged blood.”

  This last bit of information reminded Lexi of one thing that had been nagging at her. There were many case reports of mental illness, including obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, mania and hallucinations, that followed head injuries long after the actual incident. The first two and half years of Juan’s life were a mystery to her. She knew she was grasping at straws, but there was no saying that he hadn’t had a serious injury that early in his life.

  Their conversation abruptly ended when Atwood pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He looked at the display and moved out into the corridor to answer it, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “May I ask you a question in your capacity as a psychologist and not as a government agent?”

  “So long as it doesn’t create a conflict,” Hank answered. “I’m part of the investigating team here.”

  Lexi nodded. “My question has to do with Juan and…and what he did on Monday. He is the perfect young man in every imaginable way. And I’m not only saying that because I’m his mother. There are many who will attest to that. People at the high school, people in the community, anyone who he’s had any interaction with over the past—”

  “I know Dr. Bradley,” Hank interrupted her. “I’ve already heard many positive things about your son.”

  There was a gleam of hope. Lexi wanted to ask from whom—she needed to hear someone else praise Juan—but she focused on what she wanted to know. “Have you ever seen a teenager this flawless snap like this?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then paused. She watched him tap his pen a couple of times on the table. The dark eyes behind the glasses turned on her.

  “Do you watch the news much, Dr. Bradley?”

  “Not regularly. I don’t really have time and, to be honest, it’s too depressing to listen to what’s going on in the world. I don’t really watch any TV.”

  “Do you read the newspapers?”

  “Yes,” she said with hesitation. “Mostly I keep up with the local news and the medical news. Professional journals are my leisure reading. What are you trying to say?”

  “Have you heard anything about the high school shootings that have been happening across the country over this past month?”

  A shudder ran through her. She knew where he was going. She just couldn’t think of her Juan in the same way as those others. Finally, she nodded.

  “Of course. I…I’ve heard about them through my co-workers and the radio and headlines on the Internet.” She rubbed her neck wearily. “But they were out there, and Juan and I had our own safe, busy life. Those shootings have always seemed distant, not real, somehow. They were nothing that could ever happen in this little corner of Connecticut where we live.”

  “They were nothing that your son would do.”

  Lexi felt a knot form in her throat again. She didn’t trust her voice, so instead she shook her head.

  “To answer your question, Dr. Bradley, the families of all the assailants in the school shootings this past month claim the same thing. They raised perfect children. And then, one day, the teenagers just snapped.”

  She felt drained, as if something that had been held up in front of her…a warning…but she hadn’t seen it. Perhaps she’d ignored it.

  No, she told herself. There was nothing. Juan is not a killer. He’s not.

  The door opened and Atwood poked his head in and motioned to his partner. “I need to speak with you.”

  She was too wrapped up in what she’d just heard to try to consider what Atwood’s urgent summons could be about.

  Left alone in the room, Lexi stared at the beige walls. Gardner’s words continued to play in her head. She wished she knew more about the school violence that had ripped across the country recently. She wasn’t sure if his mention of other parents raising perfect children, too, had been said sarcastically or in earnest. Lexi was a proud and protective mother, but there were others who agreed that Juan was one in a million. He was an exceptional human being. She’d known that from the moment she’d first laid eyes on the toddler. He’d been her salvation. Their relationship hadn’t only been that of a mother and child. There was a connection that was impossible to explain to anyone who didn’t know how empty she’d felt before Juan had come into her life.

  Lexi let out a shaky breath and looked around the room. She needed to find out about these other teenagers, the ones she was certain wouldn’t match up to her son. Ignorance was paralyzing. Lexi felt she was at a point of emotional overload once again.

  She reached inside her bag for the cell phone. Allan had stopped at her house during his overnight stay and brought in the mail. Lexi had called in to the post office this morning and put a stop on the delivery of all new mail. Allan had also checked her phone messages. He’d warned her that most of the calls were from reporters who wanted an interview. He’d deleted them. There was nothing she could do right now about having her address and phone number listed. Allan had also mentioned that there’d been a number of sympathy calls from her friends and one from a doctor she worked with.

  Lexi dialed her home number to replay the messages. There were fifteen new ones on top of what Allan had warned her about. She listened to the older messages first. There was one from a neighbor down the street. There was also a lengthy one from Emily Doyle, the mother of Conor, a very good friend of Juan’s. The young woman offered her help in whatever way Lexi needed. She had to wipe away a tear. She’d doubted anyone in Wickfield would ever want to be civil with her again, never mind still treat her like a friend. The call from the other physician was also supportive.

  Whatever confidence she’d gained after these messages, she started losing it fast while listening to the new ones left since this morning. Reporter. Delete. Reporter. Delete. TV Station. Delete. A radio station in New Haven. Delete. The next one was breaking up, a bad connection. She listened to the short message not too clear what exactly she’d heard. Whoever it was seemed to be whispering on the other end. The next one was from a producer at CNN. She deleted that one and went back to the one before.

  It was a man’s voice, and there were a lot of pauses and static. She went back to the beginning of the message.

 
Your son…safe…

  Lexi stood up. Any number of people could leave her crank calls, harass her for what had happened. Still, none had. She moved to the door, turning up the volume before listening to the message again.

  “Your son is not safe. Watch him.”

  She leaned against the door, numb for a couple of seconds. Was this a threat? Was someone threatening Juan? Maybe one of the family members or friends of those children who’d been shot?

  All of a sudden, the room was too small. She couldn’t breathe. Lexi didn’t bother to listen to the rest of the messages. She opened the door. The hallway was deserted. She saw no sign of the two agents or the nightshift doctor. Worry had planted a seed deep in her stomach and she could feel it driving its roots deep into her.

  She had to see Juan.

  Lexi darted for the elevators, already knowing that the uniformed officers at the door wouldn’t let her see Juan. But she had to go, anyway. She had to try.

  Visiting hours were long over. The elevator was empty when it stopped on her floor. She stepped in, pressing the buttons, again and again, impatient to get there.

  The elevator crawled up to his floor and the doors finally opened. Lexi ran out and turned down the corridor toward Juan’s hospital room. The same two uniformed officers were still there. Both of them visibly stiffened as she approached them.

  “I’d like to see my son,” Lexi said in what she hoped was at least one level below hysterical.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow that. You need either a detective or—”

  “Please,” she interrupted. “If you want, I’ll stand here, and you go see my son. I just need someone to tell me that he’s okay. That nothing has changed.”

  The second officer seemed to feel sorry for her. “Look, Dr. Bradley, one of the nurses just checked on him a couple of minutes ago. He’s fine.”

  “Just open the door and let me at least see him from right here,” she pleaded frantically. Something was wrong. Her gut told her so. “I’ll just look right from where I’m standing.