who is working with me on this investigation.”
He shook my hand. Flanagan nodded at me. I remembered him now, a drunken boor who had made racist and sexist remarks to me at a squad party. Andy and I had fought about it later when he tried to defend the guy on the grounds that he was a good cop, just a bit rough around the edges.
“I’m sorry about Andy,” said Stimac. “And I’m sorry to intrude. We have to follow procedures.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve arranged for a room here,” he said to Jim. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll take your statement and get your clothes to the lab.”
“I said I wanted to wait until the doctor comes.”
“Fine. Is there anyone you want us to call? Carol?”
“She’s coming over with my clothes as soon as she takes the kids to her mother’s.”
“Good. Fine. Is there anything else you want?”
“A little room, if you don’t mind,” Jim said, the muscles of his jaw tense.
Stimac patted him on the shoulder and sat down a couple of seats away. Flanagan wandered over to the vending machines. He put in a coin and got a candy bar. He unwrapped it and walked to the chairs farthest from us, picked up a copy of the tabloid
Mirror
and proceeded to read it as if it was written in Latin, frowning over it as he chewed his candy, both big feet flat on the ground.
I checked out Stimac. In contrast to the beefy Flanagan, whom no one would mistake for anything but a cop, he didn’t fit any stereotypes. He was in his fifties, probably, slim and balding, with a thin military moustache and a fastidious cast to his face. He looked like a department-store floorwalker from a forties movie, except he wasn’t comedic. His posture was still, but somehow aware. His eyes never lost focus with the boredom of the wait.
“I gave my gun and Andy’s to the officer in charge at the crime scene,” Jim said.
“We got them,” Stimac said.
“I wish I’d seen it coming.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Jim closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. It was my turn to comfort him.
Chapter 8
When the doctor appeared ten minutes later, he had two kinds of news. Andy was alive. The boy was dead. Marcus Kinton, sixteen years old, dead. Dead and black and sixteen years old.
The doctor, a resident who looked to be not much older than T.C., had introduced himself as Dr. Usman—they never let on that they have first names. As if knowing that their friends call them Bill or Ted would make them less credible in patients’ eyes.
He talked in medi-speak: haemopneumo thorax, haemorrhagic shock. They were terrifying words, baffling words.
“Can you try this in English?” I asked. “What has happened to Andy so far, and what will happen in the immediate future?”
He sighed, and gave in.
“Basically, he was shot in the chest. The bullet missed the heart, but hit his left lung and nicked the bronchus, or airway.”
He pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper and drew a clumsy diagram. I studied it as if it were a map to buried treasure.
“One consequence of this kind of injury is that air and blood leak into the pleural space, between the lungs and the chest wall. This puts pressure on the lung, so he was having trouble breathing. He also lost a great deal of blood, leading to some shock. So far, we have simply been pumping stuff in to stabilize him while we assess the damage. Now we’re taking him into surgery to repair it.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Jim asked.
“Physically, I don’t see why not,” said the doctor. “It’s a straightforward procedure, and the surgeon is the best in the country. The only worry we have right now is what effect the loss of blood might have on his brain function. There’s a small chance that it could be impaired.”
He stood up, as if to go. I stood, too.
“Can I see him now?”
“I’m sorry. He’s already on his way up to the operating floor. It’s better if you don’t see him right now, anyway. Just let us do what we do best and try
He shook my hand. Flanagan nodded at me. I remembered him now, a drunken boor who had made racist and sexist remarks to me at a squad party. Andy and I had fought about it later when he tried to defend the guy on the grounds that he was a good cop, just a bit rough around the edges.
“I’m sorry about Andy,” said Stimac. “And I’m sorry to intrude. We have to follow procedures.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve arranged for a room here,” he said to Jim. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll take your statement and get your clothes to the lab.”
“I said I wanted to wait until the doctor comes.”
“Fine. Is there anyone you want us to call? Carol?”
“She’s coming over with my clothes as soon as she takes the kids to her mother’s.”
“Good. Fine. Is there anything else you want?”
“A little room, if you don’t mind,” Jim said, the muscles of his jaw tense.
Stimac patted him on the shoulder and sat down a couple of seats away. Flanagan wandered over to the vending machines. He put in a coin and got a candy bar. He unwrapped it and walked to the chairs farthest from us, picked up a copy of the tabloid
Mirror
and proceeded to read it as if it was written in Latin, frowning over it as he chewed his candy, both big feet flat on the ground.
I checked out Stimac. In contrast to the beefy Flanagan, whom no one would mistake for anything but a cop, he didn’t fit any stereotypes. He was in his fifties, probably, slim and balding, with a thin military moustache and a fastidious cast to his face. He looked like a department-store floorwalker from a forties movie, except he wasn’t comedic. His posture was still, but somehow aware. His eyes never lost focus with the boredom of the wait.
“I gave my gun and Andy’s to the officer in charge at the crime scene,” Jim said.
“We got them,” Stimac said.
“I wish I’d seen it coming.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Jim closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. It was my turn to comfort him.
Chapter 8
When the doctor appeared ten minutes later, he had two kinds of news. Andy was alive. The boy was dead. Marcus Kinton, sixteen years old, dead. Dead and black and sixteen years old.
The doctor, a resident who looked to be not much older than T.C., had introduced himself as Dr. Usman—they never let on that they have first names. As if knowing that their friends call them Bill or Ted would make them less credible in patients’ eyes.
He talked in medi-speak: haemopneumo thorax, haemorrhagic shock. They were terrifying words, baffling words.
“Can you try this in English?” I asked. “What has happened to Andy so far, and what will happen in the immediate future?”
He sighed, and gave in.
“Basically, he was shot in the chest. The bullet missed the heart, but hit his left lung and nicked the bronchus, or airway.”
He pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper and drew a clumsy diagram. I studied it as if it were a map to buried treasure.
“One consequence of this kind of injury is that air and blood leak into the pleural space, between the lungs and the chest wall. This puts pressure on the lung, so he was having trouble breathing. He also lost a great deal of blood, leading to some shock. So far, we have simply been pumping stuff in to stabilize him while we assess the damage. Now we’re taking him into surgery to repair it.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Jim asked.
“Physically, I don’t see why not,” said the doctor. “It’s a straightforward procedure, and the surgeon is the best in the country. The only worry we have right now is what effect the loss of blood might have on his brain function. There’s a small chance that it could be impaired.”
He stood up, as if to go. I stood, too.
“Can I see him now?”
“I’m sorry. He’s already on his way up to the operating floor. It’s better if you don’t see him right now, anyway. Just let us do what we do best and try
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