pertinent information once it becomes available.”
“I saw the Angel of Death come in a little while ago,” one of the female reporters said. “Is she here because of the burn victim?”
“Excuse me?” Ali asked. “The what?”
“Sister Anselm,” the woman replied. “She’s a nun, a Sister of Providence. She’s often called in to minister to dying patients, especially unidentified ones. If that’s why she’s here, it’s probably bad news.”
“I’m sorry,” Ali said. “I know nothing at all about that, and I would advise against any speculation in that regard.”
That response was followed by a chorus of questions.
“What can you tell us?”
“Do you know who she is?”
“What was she doing in the house?”
“Is she suspected of being the arsonist?”
Ali held up her hand once more, silencing the questions. “I can tell you that the burn victim from the Camp Verde fires was transported here last night and is being treated here. I have no information about her identity. You’ll need to contact Sheriff Maxwell’s office up in Prescott for details about the ongoing investigation.”
“Talk about passing the buck,” one of the men groused. “I already tried that. The sheriff’s department told me to contact the local ATF office. They in turn told me to piss up a rope. ‘No comment at this time.’ ”
His words were greeted with a spate of knowing and derisive laughter from his fellow reporters. While Ali waited for the group to quiet down, she finally had an inkling of what was really going on. Sheriff Maxwell had brokered a media relations truce with Agent Donnelley, which meant that media folks from the ATF would be in charge of dispensing any and all information concerning the investigation. By sending Ali to Phoenix, they had seen to it that she was safely out of the way, not so much demoted as remoted.
The idea of sticking Sheriff Maxwell with a bill for a suite at the Ritz was sounding more appealing by the moment.
Finally Ali was able to continue. “I understand that you’re all trying to do your jobs, but right now your presence here is interfering with the workings of the hospital. Once again, leave me with your contact information, and then be on your way. If anything breaks, I’ll be in touch, or someone from the ATF will be.”
Grumbling and muttering about it, they began to comply, gathering their laptops and recording equipment. Several stopped to give Ali contact information to add to her distribution list. The last of those was Sadie Morris, the woman who had mentioned the Angel of Death.
“Tell me about Sister Anselm,” Ali said. “What’s this about her being an Angel of Death?”
“She calls herself a patient advocate,” Sadie explained. “She’s usually brought into play when hospitals have seriously injured unidentified patients. Like after some coyote’s speeding Suburban goes rolling end over end and spills undocumented aliens in every direction. Sister Anselm evidently speaks several languages, and she works with the patients by standing in for family members until authorities are able to locate next of kin. She claims that her mission is as much about healing relationships as it is about healing bodies.”
“How do you know about this?” Ali asked.
“Someone wrote a feature about her a few months ago. It appeared in the
“I’ll do that the first chance I get,” Ali said. “Thanks.”
Once the reporters moved on, so did Ali. She made her way up to the burn unit on the eighth floor. A plaque on the wall opposite the elevator doors laid out the visitation rules. Only authorized visitors were allowed to enter patients’ rooms, where proper sanitary gear, including face masks, was to be worn at all times. Sanitary gear was to be deposited in the proper containers upon leaving patient rooms. Bottles of hand-sanitizing foam were mounted on the wall outside each door, and all visitors were exhorted to use it before entering.
Since Ali wasn’t a relative, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by speaking to any of the nurses. If pressed for identification, Ali had no doubt that her ID, with the words Media Relations written on it, would be enough for her to be sent packing. Ali ducked past the nurses’ station and made for the burn unit’s small waiting room.
Furniture there consisted of several worn but reasonably comfortable-looking chairs, a matching couch, a somewhat battle-scarred coffee table, a pair of bedraggled fake ficus trees, and two regular round tables surrounded by several molded-plastic, not-so-comfortable chairs. One of the tables was half covered with a partially worked jigsaw puzzle.
For Ali Reynolds, the place came with an all-pervading air of hopelessness that was far too familiar. Years earlier, when Ali’s first husband, Dean Reynolds, had been diagnosed with glioblastoma, she had spent months that had seemed like a lifetime in tired little rooms just like this one. Even now she still felt the same kind of overwhelming despair leaking into her soul. She was glad there were no other people around just then.
Three of the rooms she had passed as she walked from the elevator were empty, making her hope that perhaps this was a slow season for burn victims. Right at that moment, there were no other family members or friends around, but they would show up soon enough. Ali knew she would have to steel herself in order to deal with them. She understood that hearing their stories and encountering their heartache would bring back those same feelings in her as well. Some of the time-in fact most of the time-she managed to keep Dean’s death in the distant background of her life. But hospital settings always brought those bad old days to the foreground. At least this time she was here to do a specific job, and she needed to keep that idea firmly in mind.
Trying to shake off the unwelcome memories, she chose one of the easy chairs with access to the coffee table as well as a convenient power outlet for her computer. Then, with her computer on her lap, she logged on to the Internet. Her mailbox was full of requests for current information on the investigation-information she didn’t happen to have access to at that moment.
She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Sheriff Maxwell’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“I’m here at the hospital,” she said curtly. “I sent the reporters packing. Now what? I have a dozen requests for information sitting here in my computer and since I have no information to provide, what would you like me to do? Maybe the best thing would be to tender my resignation.”
“Look,” Maxwell said, “I can tell you’re pissed, but please don’t do that. Don’t quit on me. Donnelley had my nuts in a vise on this.”
And you threw me under the bus, Ali thought.
“How can that be?” she asked. “You’re the sheriff. It’s your department, isn’t it?”
“It may be my department, but I’ve also been given my marching orders,” he said. “Have you ever heard the term ‘Homeland Security’?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Ali asked.
“That’s the thing,” Maxwell told her. “The domestic terrorism aspect of this case trumps anything and everyone else. The feds are taking charge. They expect to have all available assets-theirs and mine-focused on the fire investigation. They also want their media guy to be in charge of disseminating any and all material that goes out on this.”
I called that shot, Ali thought. She said aloud, “Including the requests for information that I have on hand right now?”
“Yes,” Maxwell said. “Please. I’ll text you his address information in a moment.”
“From what you’re saying, I could just as well pack it in here and come home,” Ali said. “I haven’t checked into my hotel yet. Maybe I should call and cancel the reservation.”
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t do that. I want you there at the hospital as much as possible for the next several days.”
“Why? You sent me here to scare away the reporters. I did that.”
“As I said, the domestic terrorism aspects of this case take precedence over everything else. Donnelley is running that show, and he’s conscripted most of my available manpower into working the investigation as he sees fit. What that means in a nutshell is that while they’re out shaking every tree to see if ELF falls out of it, our attempted homicide is taking a backseat-a back backseat.
“We need to know who that unidentified victim is,” Sheriff Maxwell continued. “If she comes around, we need to have someone there to ask her what she knows. Once her family members show up, we need to ask them what they know.”
