Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (7 page)

2:00 AM

June 15, 2007

Friday

MUSC
 

8

She had several
nicknames in the Operating Room. “Precision,” being her favorite, which was self-explanatory. “Ambo,” she’d deduced, was her innate raw talent, the ambidextrous gift she possessed, while closing. Her hands working together, an elite, effortless team, symmetrically pulling, twisting, tying and cutting the clear sutures as if choreographed, as if Divinely guided. “The Michelangelo of the OR.” Apropos. Although, now that she actually thought about it, it could very well be the surgical staff calling her “Rambo.”

Bitch
, of course.

Young scrub nurses and OR technicians assisting her had been known to whisper under their breath the proverbial
bitch.
Better that, than
nigger
. What that little shit called her earlier in the evening. She had a difficult time even thinking the word, let alone saying it. Peculiar how one small word could penetrate the thick skin she’d developed. More like Naugahyde, by now. At this age and stage, she didn’t have the time or the need to worry about infantile name-calling. The truth was, she was an excellent surgeon. One of the best at the University. And any of her colleagues or peers would concur.

The little girl she just worked on would agree. She was lucky to have her as her surgeon.

She needed her.

Initial examination of Jane Doe (unfortunately, the hospital had no patient identification on the girl and began emergency procedures before any consent form could be signed) revealed a well-nourished, thirteen to fifteen year old white female, admitted via the Emergency Room Trauma Center at around eleven o’clock PM, June 14, 2007.

Patient presented exterior evidence of multiple trauma wounds, three deep, moon-shaped lacerations to the right cheek area, all made from a sharp object, perhaps a razorblade or a knife. Several surface hematomas were displayed across her forehead. External ligature marks were noted on both right and left ankles, and both left and right wrists. At the time of admission, neurosurgery was not called in for a consultation since patient responded, although slightly, to painful stimulus. A CT scan later confirmed a large subdural hematoma at the base of her skull, most probably due to a massive hit against the occipital cranial wall. No skull fracture was evident on x-ray. No rib or extremity fractures were noted upon initial examination. No irregular stomach patterns. Limited bowel sounds.

Patient coded in the ER due to left ventricle shutdown, most probably hypovolemic. Patient was intubated and infused with Ringer’s Lactate solution, 1 mg. Epinephrine per/hr. IV piggyback to hydrate. Dopamine, 2 mg. administered to increase blood volume to heart. Type and cross ordered, including a full drug screen. Complete battery of blood work was obtained and sent to the laboratory. Urinary catheter was inserted. Urinalysis and urine cultures were taken. Patient was transported immediately to the OR and infused with two pints of O negative blood while awaiting type and cross results. Patient underwent surgery (see surgery chart for vitals), and stabilized slowly in recovery. Last recorded systolic blood pressure was at 70, and patient was taken off life support. She is now breathing on her own.

Excessive blood loss originated from the patient’s vaginal area. Labia majora, labia minora and clitoris had been completely excised in a mutilated fashion, more commonly referred to as a “complete circumcision.” Patient’s vaginal wall had been sewn together with what appeared to be black animal hair, perhaps from a horse. Small bone fragments, perhaps those from a chicken, had been used to pierce through what was left of the surrounding adipose tissue and laced up.

Patient’s right areola had been lopped off in similar barbaric fashion. Plastic surgery consultation was completed in the AM. Left breast appeared intact, except for multiple pinpricks around the areola.

Once the removal of the bone fragments and animal hair were completed, the vaginal wall was opened. No evidence of penetration or internal trauma. A small glass vial was recovered from deep within the cavity. Inside the container, on a bloodstained piece of tightly folded cloth was written…“for her sins.”

*  *  *

“Dr. Garrison. Excuse me, Dr. Garrison.”

She heard the voice. It came to her through water. She found herself in thought, dispatched to some remote exotic island, lying back lazily on a white sandy beach listening to the azure waves break against a sun-drenched shoreline.

“Dr. Garrison,” the voice became clearer. “Her parents are here. The girl has been identified. They would like to speak with you.”

The steady drone of Jane Doe’s heartbeat beeping on the cardiac monitor and Rebecca’s nasally voice catapulted her back into the Recovery Room.
Her parents?
Identified?
She has a name.

“What?”

“Also, Detective Hammer is here to see you. He’s down in the Emergency Room.”

Suddenly, she was very popular.

She finished her entry in Jane Doe’s chart. She walked a fine line with emotion tonight. She raced against it routinely. It was the part of her job she hated. Thankfully, she was very competitive. Rarely was there much of a contest. But this evening, with that young girl, the race almost won out. And, she almost allowed it to win. Just thinking about the prospect of what that girl had to live with for the rest of her life, well, it literally took her breath away. It wasn’t often she wanted to leave the OR to vomit, the sight of something so horrible, so hideous that she might actually succumb to the pressure. Usually, she could remove herself. Another gift she possessed. Most doctors had it, and utilized it from time to time, she presumed. They had to. The profession would be sheer torture without it, without something. She believed knowledge, if applied correctly, had the innate ability to allow distance, a safe shore away from emotional jeopardy.
The God Syndrome
, she called it. She happened to think it was a part of the Hippocratic Oath. Read the fine print. It’s there, between the words, the hidden lines.

She walked around to the side of the bed and felt the girl’s forehead with her palm. She was a firm believer in hands-on healing. It came from her ancestry, handed down through generations. She was prevented from feeling the girl’s skin due to a maze of sterile gauze wrapped around her head like a mummy during surgery. The girl was gone. Totally sedated. She was absent, somewhere far away. Maybe close to where she had just returned. An exotic island? Are azure waves beating against your shoreline, little one? She hoped so. Better for her she was out. God give her strength once she awakened.

In the nurse’s station, Dr. Garrison filled out post op orders. She wanted to continue the sedation with plenty of pain medication, PRN as needed. Give the girl as much comfort as possible. She would start with a wide spectrum antibiotic. God only knew what cutting utensil had been used. From the tear of the skin, it appeared as if it could have been the lid from a tin can. Truly horrific. She was lucky, though. She was a healthy girl, with a strong immune system. Then again, who’s to say she’s lucky?

Soon, she would transfer Angie across the hall to the SICU. In her own, private room, if available. She wanted the girl to have some privacy.

“Dr. Garrison?”

“Yes.” Her tone was flat. She was exhausted.

“Are you willing to talk with the parent’s now?” Rebecca, one of the Recovery Room nurses stood in front of Dr. Garrison, pert and well put together. Even in her scrub greens, she appeared pressed. Her blonde hair was tightly curled and lacquered with layers of hair spray. A pink barrette secured a clump of petrified bangs. Rebecca was holding a chart. The nail polish on her manicured fingers matched the barrette to a “t.” What a surprise!

“I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” She wasn’t impressed by Rebecca’s appearance. She’d been known to occasionally bite at her fingernails, particularly after three pots of coffee and no sleep. A nasty habit she was trying to quit. Nail biting, that is.

Rebecca gave a reassuring smile.

Dr. Garrison wanted to slap her.

She pushed Jane Doe’s chart into Rebecca’s chest and passed by her, pressed the metal doors of the Recovery Room open and entered into the florescent waiting area.

She should have brought sunglasses.

A couple in their mid-forties immediately stood up and approached her, desperation chiseled on their faces. She was far too tired to try accessing them.

“Doctor, oh my God, is she all right? How is my Angie?” The woman’s voice was pleading, seeking solace the doctor couldn’t provide. She noticed an older version of Angie rapidly moving toward her. Same facial features, particularly the nose. Petite and perfect. The mother’s hair was showing gray, but styled in much the same manner as her daughter’s. The mother didn’t want to let go of her youth. Her power.

Dr. Garrison couldn’t help herself. Accessing.

The husband stood back. He tagged along behind, his tail between his legs. In matters such as these, the women want the news first. Men tended to think things over, ruminate, come up with a plan of action, or at least try. Even if it was futile.

Women sought relief, men tried to fix things.

The wife hurried across the room, black flats shuffling across the linoleum. Dr. Garrison realized she was not the only one who’d lost the race with emotions. She could tell both of them had been through their own hellacious obstacle course. She was also aware that there was nothing she could tell them that was going to make them feel any better, other than the fact their little girl, Angie, was alive.

June 15
, 2007

2:04 AM

Friday

MUSC

9

It was a rare event, Dan Hammer vi
siting hospitals. For one thing, not many of his clients ended up here. Most weren’t so lucky. Usually, they went straight to the morgue. Pass GO. Do not collect two hundred dollars. No need for a FREE, get out of jail card. Sometimes, he wondered who was better off.

In his mind, there was never anything good associated with hospitals. The corridors were cold and impersonal. What they lacked in warmth, they certainly didn’t make up for it in comfort. To add additional insult to injury, the elevators were large and sterile and freezing. Huge refrigerators on pulleys. Just navigating to the fourth floor was an all-night adventure.  Dan was on his way to the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. That was where the “Good Doctor” was supposed to be.

You would expect the elevator ride to be on express service at this late hour. Not on your life! Each floor the car stopped on, another hospital employee either got on or got off. Like worker ants, they entered into their private world of sterile tunnels. Dan looked at his watch. He was praying he didn’t miss her. He grabbed the crumpled piece of paper the nurse from the Emergency Room had given him. Perfect script, the letters identical to the ones lining the chalkboard back in elementary school. Dan gave her an ‘A’ for penmanship. He silently mouthed out the name. Gar-ri-son. Easy. Dr. Garrison. Look for a female, the nurse had said.

Fourth floor.

The metal doors slid apart with a ding. Dan entered onto more tiled floors. A rival ant colony was thriving. Buzzers and beeps in the distance, the faint sound of water running.
Could there be a waterfall nearby? Was he hallucinating at this late hour?
A sign on the opposite side of the elevator met him at eye level. To his right, the hospital chapel, to his left, SICU. Bingo.

Sectioned off behind glass windows was a waiting area. Inside, an assortment of chairs and sofas lined the walls. Cheap, dime store lamps dimly lighted the room. A selection of current magazines were scattered across a wooden coffee table. A few people slept, undisturbed by the light, hospital- issued blankets thrown over their shoulders for warmth. Dan ventured into the confined space. Outside, Charleston harbor blended in with the night sky. Houseboats twinkled on the horizon like stubborn fireflies. He took a seat. He felt like he should take a number. He tried being quiet. He didn’t want to disturb anybody.

At the far end of the hallway, near the entrance to the SICU, a middle-aged couple stood next to a tall woman dressed in scrub greens. The nurse in the ER had informed Dan the girl would be spending the night in Intensive Care before moving her across the hall to the general surgery ward in the morning.

From behind the glass divider, Dan tried eavesdropping, hoping to absorb a drop of information the technician was telling the couple. He couldn’t. So, he sat patiently and waited.

Even though Alexandra wasn’t born in this hospital, Dan could remember the day of her birth. Gina had endured a difficult labor, Alexandra being her first baby and all. Unfortunately, Dan wasn’t around to watch or offer much support. Gina made it to the hospital by herself. In a taxi. In time, thank God. As usual, Dan was on duty somewhere, fighting the forces of evil, his cell phone on mute. Dan arrived at his baby girl’s birth late. Of course, it was another strike against him. One more “out” in the continuing games between Gina and him. At the time, it felt more like the Olympics. Somebody should have been keeping score. Secretly, Gina was. In all honesty, Dan really couldn’t blame her. He’d be pissed off too. But, what was he supposed to do? What
could
he do? He remembered driving to the hospital like a lunatic, rushing into the nursery to hold Alexandra for the first time. She was wrapped head to toe in soft white and pink blankets. The feeling he got, holding his sweet newborn daughter… pure JOY. A father. Still, even now, that feeling gets to him. Right in the heart. The face of Alexandra materialized on the glass partition, as big as life, like somebody was actually projecting a video of her.

Dan focused on his vision. Outside, he noticed the technician hurrying down the corridor toward the elevator. Dan hurled himself out of his daydream and followed, observing her preoccupation, her forehead furrowed with obvious stress and fatigue.

“Excuse me,” Dan checked the spelling on the paper. “Is Dr. Garrison still in there, or did she leave already?”

She turned and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her green scrubs. “I’m Doctor Garrison.”

“You?” Dan was dumbfounded. He knew she was a woman, but not a
woman.

“I’m very tired. I don’t have time for this.” She turned toward the elevator.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to meet…”

“What?” Over her shoulder. “A woman?”

“No, I knew you were a woman. Beth, down in the ER… she told me…”

“How professional of her.”

“I just didn’t expect you to be, well, if you don’t mind me saying...”

“You know what? Cut the shit, all right. Whoever you are. What do you want?”

“A word. With you.” Dr. Garrison stared hard for a long time. Dan didn’t know if he was making headway or not.

“You’re a damn reporter, aren’t you?” She looked around as if seeking assistance. “I should have known. Goddammit, how the hell did you get up here?”

“Detective Dan Hammer from the Charleston Police Department. Homicide Division.” Dan showed her his badge. She wasn’t impressed. He passed her his calling card. She ignored it.

“This had been one hell of a night, Detective. And, as much as I would like to help you, I can’t. Not tonight…”

Dan enjoyed her feistiness, her edge. “You must be tired, I get it. But in order for
me
to make some sense out of all…”

She cut him off. “What exactly don’t you understand?” Her voice had a trace of an accent. British maybe. It floated over her words like soft snowfall.

“I hear an accent. Are you British?”

“Why are you wasting my time? Good night, Detective.” The good doctor turned her back and pressed the button for the elevator. Several times. Impatient. Annoyed. Exhausted. 

How could Dan not notice her height, her slender frame, the way her hair was piled up on top of her head? All messy.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Something. A soda, maybe?” Dan wanted to make peace. An offering.

“No, thank you.” She crossed her arms and began tapping her toe. She looked up at the ceiling becoming more irritated by the second. She watched the yellow elevator light count down the floors. She pressed the button again.

Dan bravely moved forward. “Whatever happened to that little girl, I don’t want happening again, all right? And in order for that not to happen, I need your help.”

The double metal doors opened. An empty elevator. It sat there, suspended, waiting and then closed. Without her. The doctor turned toward Dan and focused her intense green eyes on him. Now he understood why she was a physician. When she looked at him, he felt like the most important person in the world. “All right, Detective. What is it that you would like to know? I have her parents in the next room and they don’t even know the severity of her injuries.”

“At some point, I will need to speak with them.”

“You guys are all alike.”

Dan didn’t quite understand what she meant, but he knew it wasn’t a compliment. Dan faked it when he could. “It’s important to talk with the parents. Find out what they know, if anything.”

“What they know, or what they believe? At this point, it doesn’t make much difference. This afternoon, everything was fine. They watched their teenage daughter leave home and go out on a date with her boyfriend, and by midnight, someone, somewhere…”

Dan pulled a note pad and a pen from his back pocket and started taking notes. “Can you be a little bit more specific?”

“Specific? How’s this?” She whispered softly so as not to offend anybody. “Fuck off, Detective! Is that specific enough for you?” Her hand reached out for the elevator button again. Dan blocked it. Her skin was soft. Her nails were short and chewed. The picture somehow didn’t jell. Dan noticed clear polish. What was left, anyway. He had a knack for observation.

She flinched at his touch. “Get your hands off me before I call Security. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I apologize for my abrupt behavior, Doctor, but you have to understand…”

“I don’t have to understand anything.”

“This situation is much different then what I’m used to. In the little I do know about this case…”

“This isn’t a case, Detective. That little girl in there is more than a case. She is a living and breathing human being who happens to be all of thirteen years old. A
case
?”

“Terminology.”

“Death is a nasty part of my job, too, if that’s what you’re implying. I live with the likelihood that on any given day I’ll get to witness it. Firsthand. So, believe me when I tell you this Detective Hammer, I know all too well the thin line between emotionally separating myself from patients and getting involved. And this case, as you call it, is the exception. This girl needs every ounce of my emotional involvement. All of ours, for that matter. Including her parents.”

“Does the girl have a name?”

“Angie Kessler.”

“I don’t mean to sound cold or impersonal, but from what you’ve told me, and given the severity of the attack, if you want me to be brutally honest, I don’t think this young lady…”

“Angie.”

“Excuse me. I don’t think Angie was intended to stay alive. That may sound cynical to you, but I believe whoever did this, didn’t want Angie sticking around to tell the gory details. And, with that particular scenario in mind, Dr. Garrison, I wouldn’t be dealing with you at all this evening. Nothing personal. I’d probably be dealing with the Medical Examiner or the County Coroner. And probably have a whole lot more information to go on than what I do right now.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m happy Angie survived. It’s gonna save me a whole lot of paperwork later on this morning, but Angie’s torturer got sloppy. He didn’t finish the job, at which point, I don’t have diddly squat to go on. Understand now?”

Dr. Garrison glanced at her watch. “Sorry. I’ve been up now for…” she tried calculating the hours silently in her head, then stopped, the effort far too taxing, “… too long. I’m tired. I need sleep, not coffee, and lots of it. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I promise not to be such a bitch.”

“One quick question and then I’ll go.”

Huge sigh. “All right. What?”

“Was there anything left with the victim when she was brought in? Something left on her, maybe? Anything out of the ordinary? If this “thing” is about to strike again, he might want to let us know. As much as these kinds of killers crave isolation, they also want attention. It could be the only thing, if anything, we have right now.”

Pause.

“There was something.”

“Yes?”

The Doctor looked around, wanting privacy. “Angie had been sexually mutilated in a savage, barbaric fashion. Her entire labia, including her clitoris had been excised and then infibulated…”