Bo waited while she made the call. Waited uncomfortably. He hated the smell of hospitals, a smell that took him back to the days when Freak was dying and the doctors could do nothing but try to make him comfortable. Bo had never felt so helpless. He and Otter had sat at the bedside, taking turns holding their friend’s hand while the life slipped away little by little until Freak was gone and no one but Bo and Otter seemed to have noted his passing.
“Agent Thorsen?”
He came back mentally. “Yes?”
“Dr. Mason’s in the E.R.”
Bo headed to the elevator and pushed the signal button. When the car arrived and the doors opened, a man stepped out. He was a hard man to miss. The first thing that caught Bo’s attention was the scar tissue. It was thick and agate colored and bubbled up from beneath his shirt collar to spread over his neck and right cheek. His right ear didn’t look natural, and Bo was certain it had been reconstructed. Bo stepped back to let the man pass, then got on the elevator himself.
He caught the doctor between patients, a fisherman with a hook imbedded deep in his thumb and a seven- year-old boy who’d fallen from a garage roof and was being prepped for an X ray.
“I’m interested in the blow to Mr. Jorgenson’s head,” Bo explained.
Dr. Mason, a woman in her late forties and with long dark hair just beginning to streak gray, glanced up from the intake form she was scanning. She didn’t seem pleased at the interruption. “Which one?”
“What do you mean?”
“There were two blows. One to his forehead.” She indicated a place above her right eye. “And one to the back of his head.”
“The blow to his forehead. Was that consistent, do you think, with hitting the limb of an apple tree?”
“We cleaned a bit of barklike material from the skin before we dressed the area, so I would say it probably was consistent with hitting a tree limb.”
“What about the one to the back of his head?”
“I assume when he fell from the tractor he hit his head on something.”
“What about his black eyes?”
“Battle signs, we call them. They often accompany trauma to the back of the head.”
“And his other injuries?”
“Crushed pelvis, hemothorax-”
“What’s that?”
“Bleeding in the lung space. We checked for pulmonary contusion and found nothing. It’s all pretty consistent with the kind of accident that was reported. But I explained all this to a policeman earlier today. A Detective Timmons, I think. And not more than fifteen minutes ago to one of your people. I’d appreciate it if you could all share information with one another.”
“One of my people? Secret Service?”
“A federal agent of some kind.”
“Do you recall his name?”
“I don’t. But he’s an obvious burn victim.”
“Thanks,” Bo said.
The doctor returned her attention to the form in her hands.
Bo didn’t know the agent he’d passed in the elevator and was sure he wasn’t Secret Service. It was possible Dr. Mason had made a mistake about him being an agent at all. Considering Tom Jorgenson’s stature, however, it was very probable that law enforcement agencies at several levels were taking a look at things, and Bo knew only too well how bad the communication among them all could be.
His next stop was the main lobby, where the security officer on duty was posted. Bo found C. J. Burke reading a newspaper.
“Yeah?” Burke looked up from the sports page. He was a thin man with a ratty black mustache that curled around the corners of his lips. Bo guessed him to be thirty. Bo flashed his ID, which didn’t seem to impress Burke in the least. Mostly, the guard appeared unhappy at the interruption.
“I’m interested in the security here at night.”
“You’re looking at the security here at night. Half of it, anyway.”
Bo already knew from the contingency reports that two security officers in the hospital after hours was SOP. “Do you patrol?”
“We rotate. Here two hours, patrol two hours.”
“You lock the front doors at ten-thirty?”
“Yeah. Then the only public access is through the E.R. We move to a desk down there.”
“Your shift ends at eleven-thirty?”
“Graveyard comes on then.”
“Contact your partner and bring him down here. I’d like to talk to you both about security while the First Lady’s here.”
“They already talked to us about that. Plenty.”
“I’d like to go over a couple more items.”
With an obvious effort, C. J. Burke closed the newspaper on his desk and reached to the walkie-talkie lying there. He raised his partner and passed along Bo’s request. In less than three minutes, Randy O’Meara strode briskly out of the elevator and approached them. Bo was relieved to see that at least one of the men took the job seriously. O’Meara was big and broad shouldered, midtwenties. He had brown hair, neatly trimmed. His uniform was pressed, and his shoes were polished.
“This is Agent Thorsen, Randy. More Secret Service,” Burke said.
O’Meara brought out a nice smile and offered Bo a firm handshake. “How do you do?”
“Good, thanks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“He wants to talk about security for the First Lady,” Burke said without enthusiasm.
“Not really,” Bo told him.
“I thought you just said-”
“It’s not the First Lady I’m concerned about here. It’s Tom Jorgenson. I’d like to make a few suggestions.”
“Go ahead,” O’Meara said.
“First, I’d like to suggest you do the rounds tonight without rotating with Burke.”
O’Meara glanced at his partner. “Why?”
“Someone needs to be able to make a consistent assessment of the security of the hospital, particularly the floor where Jorgenson’s room is located. Rotating might cause you to lose that perspective.”
O’Meara shifted on his feet and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “What exactly are you worried about?”
“I’m concerned about Tom Jorgenson’s vulnerability. Some people don’t feel about him the way most of us Minnesotans do.”
“You think somebody might try to hurt him?”
“I’d just like to make sure that security in the hospital is as good as it can be.”
“We’ll do whatever we can,” O’Meara promised.
“I’d also like to suggest varying your rounds. Don’t keep to the same routine.”
“Because that would make it easier to plan something?”
“Exactly.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Bo looked at Burke, who hadn’t bothered to rise from his seat. “Are you okay with this?”
He shrugged. “Randy’s the one whose feet are going to get tired.”
Bo turned again to O’Meara. “Would you mind showing me around?”
“My pleasure. What would you like to see?”
“Let’s start with Tom Jorgenson’s floor.”
• • •
As they walked, O’Meara explained that he worked the night shift because he was taking day classes toward
