“My customers don’t like being spied on by…”
“By you people?”
RT shrugged.
“Yeah, I can imagine,” Shipman said.
By then the FSU had packed up its equipment and departed. As far as she knew, Shipman was the only police officer left at RT’s Basement. She didn’t let it bother her, though. She asked more questions of the bartender yet learned nothing. She asked questions of his customers and got more of the same. Finally, she stepped out of the club onto the sidewalk and inhaled deeply the fresh May air, or at least as fresh as it got on Rice Street. The night sky was bright enough that she could make out some of the stars floating overhead despite the light pollution.
Most people would say that fall was the best time to be in Minnesota, yet Shipman had always preferred spring. Fifty degrees in early May always felt warmer to her than fifty degrees in late October. She wasn’t thinking about her comfort, though. She was thinking about how little information she had and just how pissed off Commander Dunston was going to be.
Bobby and Shelby were still sitting in their uncomfortable chairs when Nina arrived at the hospital. Normally, there would have been plenty of hugging and gushing, especially between Nina and Shelby. Instead, Nina moved directly to where they were sitting and asked, “How is he?”
Bobby and Shelby both stood.
“We don’t know. The woman…” He gestured at the admin in the white linen coat sitting behind her desk. “She told us a few minutes ago that McKenzie is still in surgery. There was a lot of bleeding from the bullet that lodged in his chest. It’s going to take time.”
“How much time?”
“It’s been over two hours now,” Shelby said.
She reached to take Nina’s arm, but Nina pulled it away, spun around, and marched to the desk where the woman dressed in the white coat was seated. Bobby and Shelby followed.
“I’m Rushmore McKenzie’s wife and I want to know my husband’s condition,” she announced.
“Mrs. McKenzie, there are forms—”
“My name is Nina Truhler and you’re not answering my question.”
“Ms. Truhler, if you care to take a seat—”
“Listen. You know how some people go right off the rails and start screaming and carrying on until you either end up calling security or giving them what they want?” Nina tapped her chest. “I’m exactly that person.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The woman escaped through the doorway behind her.
“I was counting,” Nina told me later. “I was counting slowly to one hundred. The admin returned when I reached eighty-eight.”
“What would you have done if you had reached one hundred?”
“Something I’d probably regret later,” was all she told me.
The woman in the white coat was followed by Dr. Lillian Linder, who was still wearing her blue surgical gown, the gown stained with blood. Not a lot of blood. Just enough for Shelby to say, “Oh, Jesus.”
Lilly smiled and said, “Hi, Nina.” Nina wasn’t fooled by the smile, however.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“Serious but stable.”
“What does that mean?”
Lilly said it meant that the bullet had been removed; that all the ruptured blood vessels had been repaired, that there had been no damage to the heart, and my vital signs had stabilized. However …
“However?” Nina asked.
My blood pressure was higher than it should be, although not so high as to cause Lilly to be overly concerned—so she said—and my pulse rate was hovering around one hundred, which wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm, either—so she said. It was her intention to keep me in an induced coma until my vitals returned to normal.
“Coma?”
That’s when Lilly explained that I had suffered sudden cardiac arrest twice during surgery. The first time, she zapped me once with a defibrillator. The second time she had to hit my heart three times. There would not have been a fourth attempt. Lilly didn’t tell Nina that but she did tell me a couple of days later when she thought I was ready to accept the news without freaking out.
“We induced the coma for a couple of reasons,” she said. “The first is so that the body doesn’t use any energy in physical movement. This reduces the stress on the heart as much as possible, giving it the best chance of recovery. Right now McKenzie’s heart is doing the absolute minimum amount of work, circulating his blood and very little else. That greatly reduces the chance of another SCA.”
“What’s the prognosis?” Bobby asked, getting to the point.
Lilly ignored the question.
“Another reason for the induced coma,” she said, “is that shutting down function gives the brain time to heal itself; time to repair any damaged areas without reducing blood flow to the other parts of the body that are also injured. The brain gets top priority for blood. If it thinks it needs more to fix itself, it’ll take more even if that means shutting down the supply to other organs.”
“What do you mean, give the brain time to heal itself?” Nina asked.
Dr. Linder told Nina that for four minutes and ten seconds there was a loss of blood to my brain. That my EKG had flatlined. Lilly took a deep breath before adding, “In some cases, when the loss of circulation to the brain is extended, the patient can suffer varying degrees of damage.”
“Damage to the brain?” Nina asked.
“Yes.”
“When the loss of circulation is extended?”
“Yes.”
“Define extended.”
“Brain cells can begin to die after five minutes of oxygen loss.”
“McKenzie was out for four minutes and ten seconds.”
“Yes.”
“Fifty seconds shy of five minutes.”
“Yes, except there was a slight amount of swelling that occurred when oxygenated blood failed to reach his brain cells.”
“But he’s going to be all right?”
Lilly answered by smiling confidently—I think she perfected that smile in med school—and wrapping her arms around Nina. Nina spoke into Lilly’s shoulder.
“Please,” she said. “Tell me he’s going to be all right. Lilly? Promise me.”
“I think he’s going to be fine. I just thought you should know what happened during surgery. You should be aware
