and his face was distorted by the respirator mouthpiece. She switched on a light over the bed and looked at his right cheek. “Major contusion here,” she said.
The doctor looked at it. “I didn’t see that before. His head was already draped when I came into the O.R.”
She picked up his right hand and looked at it. There were scrapes and bruising on the knuckles. She walked around the bed and examined the left hand. Two nails were broken off to the quick, and there had been bleeding. “I need to look at his torso,” she said.
“I don’t want to move him to undo the gown,” the doctor replied.
“Then cut it open for me.”
He turned to the nurse. “Get me some scissors.” The woman opened a drawer and handed him a pair, and he cut down the front of the gown and opened it.
Holly held the gown back and looked at Marley’s trunk. “Big bruise on the left ribs,” she said. “Some swelling down here.” She pointed.
“You’re right.”
Holly closed the gown, and the nurse taped it closed. Holly gently pulled back the sheet and examined Marley’s legs and feet. “No injuries here,” she said.
“I concur,” the doctor replied.
“Did you note any powder burns around the bullet wound?” she asked.
“There was some blackening; it wasn’t severe.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” They walked out of the recovery room together. “With a wound like this, what are the chances for any kind of recovery?” she asked.
“Well, the damage was limited to the frontal lobe. Theoretically, he could make something like a full recovery, but I wouldn’t want to promise that. On the other hand he could come out of this with what amounts to a prefrontal lobotomy.”
“I’d like to see the chief’s clothes,” she said.
The doctor nodded and went to a phone. A moment later, a nurse appeared with a small trash bag and handed it to the doctor, who handed it to Holly. “Would you like to use my office?” he asked.
She nodded and followed him into the room, the nurse bringing up the rear. She emptied the trash bag onto the desk and spread out the objects. The shirt was spattered with blood and both the shirt and trousers had been cut off the chief’s body. She turned them over and found dirt and grass stains on the backs of the garments. His shoes and gun belt had the same stains. “Where is his pistol?” she asked.
The nurse spoke up. “He wasn’t wearing one,” she said. “I had someone check the ambulance to be sure it wasn’t there, and it wasn’t.”
“Thank you,” Holly said. She unpinned the chief’s badge, put it in her pocket, then stuffed the items back into the bag. “I guess that’s it,” she said.
The doctor led her back into the hall. Holly stopped walking before they reached the front desk. “Doctor, who are you reporting his condition to?”
“His secretary was here most of the night.”
“Do you know if the chief is married?”
“I assume not. A wife would have been here by now.”
“It would be a great help to my investigation if, in dealing with anybody but me, you would put the most pessimistic light on any assessments you make of his condition. And I’m not excepting other police officers.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” the doctor asked.
“Last night somebody tried to murder the chief. I’d like whoever did it to think he was substantially successful. If word got around that the chief was recovering, his assailant could try again. After all, the chief certainly saw who shot him and may have even known him. We don’t want assassins prowling the hospital’s hallways, do we?”
The doctor’s eyebrows went up. “I see your point,” he said.
“I think it would be a good idea if the hospital released a statement to the local press and the wire services saying that the chief has been critically wounded and may not regain consciousness, and that even if he should, the resulting brain damage would probably greatly impair his communication skills.”
“I can do that,” the doctor said.
Holly shook his hand. “Thank you very much. And if he should regain consciousness, I’d like not to be just the first person notified, but the
“How’s the chief doing?” Weathers asked as they walked back to the car.
“Bad, Jimmy, bad,” she replied. “Do you know where the chief was shot?”
“Yes, ma’am. I drove by there before they moved his car.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
CHAPTER
Jane looked up from her work. “How’s the chief?” she asked, looking fearful of the answer.
“In a coma,” Holly replied. “The prognosis is not good; he may never regain consciousness.”
Jane’s shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”
“How long have you worked for the chief, Jane?”
“Since he came here, eight years ago.”
“You were pretty close, then.”
“Yes, we were.”
“Is the chief married?”
“Divorced, before he came here. The ex-wife has remarried and lives in Germany.”
“Any family or close friends in Orchid Beach? Anybody who should be notified?”
“Nobody,” Jane replied. “His closest friend is Hank Doherty. They were drinking buddies.”
“I know about him from my father. Where does he live?”
“South on A1A, not far from your trailer park. Jimmy can show you.”
Holly put the trash bag on Jane’s desk. “These are the chief’s clothes. Will you send somebody with them to the state crime lab?”
“Sure.”
Holly produced the zippered plastic bag containing the bullet. “This, too. Please ask them to treat the ballistics as very urgent.” Holly took a deep breath. “You said that everybody on the force has to submit personal weapons for ballistics?”
“That’s right.”
“I want this bullet checked against every one of them—official weapons, too.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Do you think…?”
“I don’t think anything, Jane; I just want to eliminate our people as suspects.”
“I know somebody in the lab. I’ll get him right on it today,” she replied.
“Thanks.”
“Has Bob Hurst come in yet?”
“No, it’ll probably be this afternoon.”
“Do you know if he took charge of the chief’s gun?”
