This one’s badge said she was CORAZON DIAZ, UNIT ASSISTANT.
Hospital lingo for clerk.
Stahl smiled at her, worked hard at being a regular guy, told her what he was after.
“Police?” she said.
“Nothing serious, ma’am. I just need to speak with one of your patients.”
“We call them guests.”
“The guest I’m looking for is Donald A. Murphy.”
“Let me check.” Computer clicks. “Floor two.”
He rode a very slow elevator up to the second floor. More flocked walls but no mistaking this for anything but what it was: a ward. A nursing station was positioned at the center, and a couple of women in red uniforms stood around chatting. Then one long corridor lined by rooms. Two gurneys in the hall. Rumpled bedding on one.
Stahl struggled to maintain.
Even as he approached the nurses, they didn’t stop talking. He was about to ask them for Donald Murphy’s room number when he noticed a whiteboard above the station. Names inked in with blue marker, not unlike the case list at the station.
Two-fourteen.
He made his way up the hall, passing rooms occupied by very old people, some in wheelchairs, others bedridden. Waves of television noise hit him. The click-click of medical apparatus.
The smell, even stronger up here. The generic chemical reek, mixed with vomitus, fecal stench, sick sweat, and a host of odors he couldn’t identify.
His skin had turned clammy, and another attack of imbalance nearly doubled him over. He stopped midway up the corridor, pressed a palm against the fuzzy wallpaper, breathed in, out, in, out. Felt light-headed but a little better, and kept going to 214.
Open door. He went in and closed it behind him. The man on the bed had tubes running in and out of his nose and arms. A bank of monitors above his pillow proved he was alive. Catheter hosing trailed from under the sheets to a bottle on the floor filled with amber fluid.
The Navy said CPO Donald Arthur Murphy (ret.) was sixty-nine years old but this guy looked a hundred.
Stahl checked the patient’s wrist bracelet. D.A. MURPHY, the correct birth date.
His own heart pounding, he forced his way past the anxiety and studied the man on the bed. Erna’s father had a withered, triangular face topped by dry, wild white hair. A few of the hairs bore the remnants of their original color: a faint ginger at the roots. Murphy’s hands were large and thick and liver-spotted. His nose was a mass of gin blossoms. His toothless mouth had collapsed.
Eyes closed. Still as a mummy. No respiration Stahl could make out, but the monitors said otherwise.
He said, “Mr. Murphy?”
No reaction from the body on the bed or the equipment.
All the effort for nothing. He stood there, wondering who to talk to when another wave of vertigo hit him and a full-body sweat washed over him like hard surf- too strong to control, shit, this one was going to get him.
He spotted a chair. Made it over just in time. Closed his eyes…
A foghorn brought him out of it.
“Who are
Stahl’s eyes opened, traveled to the clock above the medical monitors. He’d been out for just a few minutes.
“Answer me,” demanded the same voice. Brassy, female- a blaring tuba of a voice.
He turned, faced the source.
Older woman- mid to late sixties. Big, broad-shouldered, heavyset.
Her face was a near-perfect sphere, topped by a puffy, sprayed bulb of champagne-colored waves. Made up heavily, way too much rouge and eye shadow. Burgundy lipstick did little to enhance her rubbery lips. She wore a grass green knit suit that had to be expensive, with big crystal buttons and white piping on the lapels. Too tight for her linebacker’s frame, she seemed to be bursting out of it. Matching shoes and purse. Crocodile purse with massive rhinestone clasp. The rock on her sausagelike ring finger was no rhinestone. Blinding white, humongous. Diamond earrings, a pair of stones in each. A string of huge black pearls encircled a turkey-ringed neck.
“I’m going to call Security, right now.” Her jowls shook, and her bosoms expressed sympathy.
Stahl’s head hurt; the sound of that merciless voice was ground glass in an open sore. He fumbled in his pocket, flashed the badge.
“You’re the police?” she said. “Then what in blazes were you doing sleeping in Donald’s room?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Not feeling well. I sat down to catch my breath, must’ve passed out for a second-”
“If you’re sick, then you
Stahl got to his feet. No more vertigo. Annoyance at having to deal with this battle-ax had vanquished his anxiety.
Interesting…
He said, “What relationship do you and Mr. Murphy have?”
“No, no, no.” A finger wagged. Diamonds glinted. “
“Mr. Murphy’s daughter was murdered,” said Stahl.
“Erna?”
“You knew her?”
“Knew her? I’m her aunt. Donald’s baby sister. What happened to her?” Irritated, demanding, not a trace of sympathy. Or shock.
“You’re not surprised?” said Stahl.
“Young man, Ernadine was psychiatrically disturbed, had been for years. Donald had no contact with her, nor had I. No one in the family had.” She regarded the man on the bed. “As you can see, there’s no point in bothering Donald.”
“How long has he been this way?”
Her expression said,
“Coma?”
The woman laughed. “You must be a detective.”
“What’s wrong with him, Ms…”
“
Murphy’s
He said, “Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me about-”
“No,” snapped Alma Trueblood.
“Ma’am, you didn’t hear the question.”
“Don’t need to. There’s nothing I can tell you about Ernadine. As I just said, she’s been disturbed for years. Her death was a long time coming, if you ask me. Living on the street, like that. Donald hadn’t seen her in years. You’ll just have to take my word on that.”
“How many years?”
“Many. They lost contact.”
“You say her death was a long time coming?”
