Suture Self (3 page)

Dr. Alfonso had no sooner padded away than Judith began to feel pain. She tried to crane her head to look at the IV source, but her head wouldn't move, her neck wouldn't swivel.

“Joe, get a nurse,” Judith said, wincing slightly. “I think I'm running out of pain medication.”

“The anesthesia's probably wearing off,” Joe said. “Hang on, I'll find the nurse who was here a few minutes ago.”

The next half hour was taken up with the nurse's attempts to make Judith more comfortable, with Joe pressing fluids upon her, and with Judith thinking that maybe she
would
be better off dead. At last the pain began to ease a bit as a result of the increased morphine dosage. Judith felt more aware, but less content.

“We're going to move you to your room now,” the nurse said smiling. “Once we get you in bed, you'll feel better.”

“No, I won't,” Judith muttered. “I feel like bird poop.”

“You can sleep,” the nurse said. “It'll be quieter there.”

Judith had been vaguely aware of the comings and goings in the recovery area. The surgeons must have been busy that day, since at least a half-dozen patients had been wheeled in or out while she emerged from her anesthetic cocoon. The noise hadn't really bothered her, but she'd be glad for some peace and privacy.

“I saw Bob Randall after his knee surgery,” Joe said as Judith was being trundled down the hall. “He seemed in pretty good spirits. But then he always was a warrior.”

“I…didn't…know…you…were…such…a…fan,” Judith gasped as every buckle and bump in the hallway floor seemed to set her teeth on edge.

“Randall played fourteen years for the Auks,” Joe said, hurrying to keep up. “Those were the years I was married to Herself. Watching Randall pass for a first
down on third and eight was a lot more fun than watching Vivian pass out over an empty fifth.”

“Yes.” It was all Judith could manage to say as they turned a corner on what felt like two wheels. The lingering odor of food and antiseptic seemed to chase her down the hall like a stale wind.

A sort of shrieking reached Judith's ears as the gurney slowed. Judith frowned but couldn't quite manage to lift her head. “What's that?” she asked as the noise grew louder.

The nurse and the orderly didn't reply but kept moving closer to the source.

“Joe?” Judith asked as a series of obscenities assailed her ears.

The gurney was steered through a doorway. The obscenities grew in volume and ferocity. “Joe?” Judith repeated.

They had arrived in a two-bed room on the third floor. The curses emanated from the other side of a pale blue curtain. Joe didn't respond. He didn't have to. Judith recognized the voice.

“Hi, Renie,” he finally said as Judith was flipped and flopped onto an ancient hospital bed with a black iron bedstead. “How're you doing?”

Renie's answer was unprintable.

 

Judith and Renie had requested sharing a room, but the staff had made no promises. Good Cheer wasn't a hotel or a summer camp—it was a hospital.

“May I?” Joe asked in an unusually meek voice as he gave the blue curtain a twitch.

“Why not?” Renie snapped. “You can set fire to the whole damned place as far as I'm concerned.”

Judith moved just enough to see Renie, propped up
on pillows with her right arm in a blue sling and her shoulder sporting a bloody dressing.

“Hi, coz,” Renie said in a more normal tone. “How are you?” She didn't wait for an answer, but let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“What's wrong?” Judith asked in alarm.

“It's the only way to get attention around here,” Renie said, then screamed again.

“Stop that!” Judith exclaimed. “It makes my head throb!”

“I throb everywhere,” Renie shot back. “They dumped me in here almost an hour ago, and I haven't seen anybody since.” She slapped with her left hand at what appeared to be a buzzer button extending from a thick rubber cord. “I've poked this stupid thing so often I think I burned the light out over the damned door. Now I'm getting hoarse from yelling.”

“Where's Bill?” Joe inquired.

“He left,” Renie replied after taking a deep sip of water. “He had to run some errands and then have dinner. He'll be back this evening.”

Judith looked at Joe. “You ought to go, too. It's been a long day.”

Joe seemed torn. “Shouldn't I wait until Dr. Alfonso comes in?”

Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “You've already talked to him. You have to tell Mother I'm okay and let Mike know I survived. Frankly, you look beat. I'll be fine, as long as Screaming Mimi over there shuts up. I might be able to sleep a bit.”

“Well…” Joe's green-eyed gaze roamed around the room. “I suppose I should head home.”

“Of course you should,” Judith said, also taking in her surroundings. The walls were painted a dreary
beige that hadn't been freshened in years. A crucifix hung over each of the beds and the only other furnishings were a pair of visitors' chairs, a commode, and the nightstands. A TV was mounted high on the far wall, flanked by a small statue of Jesus revealing the Sacred Heart and, on the other side, Mary holding the infant Jesus. Two old-fashioned sash windows on Renie's side of the room looked out over one of the city's residential areas. The roofs were gray, the houses were gray, the skies were gray. Even the trees looked gray on this late-January afternoon.

With a reluctant sigh, Joe leaned down to kiss Judith's forehead. “Okay, I'll check in at the B&B to make sure that Carl and Arlene are getting along all right. I'll see you this evening.”

Despite her brave words, Judith kept her dark eyes on Joe until he was out of the room. Indeed, he was practically run over by a disheveled young man carrying a balloon bouquet in one hand and an almost life-sized cutout of a football player in the other.

“For Bob Randall,” Judith remarked, daring to gaze at Renie.

“The ex-quarterback?” Renie snorted. “I swear, the only time I ever watched him play, he always threw an interception or got sacked.” She paused, then made a futile attempt to snap the fingers of her left hand. “That's it! Ramblin' Randall is getting all the attention while we suffer and starve. I timed myself. I screamed for eleven minutes nonstop. Nobody came. I think I'll set fire to the bed.”

“Coz—” Judith began to plead, but was interrupted by a tall, handsome nun in an exceptionally well-tailored modified habit.

“Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Flynn?” the nun said, standing on
the threshold. “Which of you has been requesting help?”

If not embarrassed, Renie at least had the grace to look slightly abashed. “Yes…that would be me.” She offered the nun a toothy smile. “I'm having quite a bit of pain.”

You're being quite a pain,
Judith thought, but kept silent.

The nun glanced at the IV. “I'll see what I can do,” she said in her crisp, no-nonsense voice. “By the way, I'm Sister Jacqueline, the hospital administrator. I should point out that our staff is extremely busy this week. The surgery floor is full, and as usual, we're a bit shorthanded. The economics of medicine aren't what they used to be.” She gave the cousins a tight little smile.

“I understand,” Judith said. “It's a terrible problem that nobody seems able to solve.”

“It's those damned insurance companies,” Renie asserted, lifting her head a few inches from the pillow. “Let's not even talk about the greedy jackasses who run the pharmaceutical industry. What about the patient? I'm lying here in misery and half starved while a bunch of bumbling morons in Washington, D.C., try to figure out whether their pants get pulled up over their fat butts or go down over their empty heads. Or maybe they aren't wearing any pants at all. Furthermore, if anybody had an ounce of—”

Sister Jacqueline cleared her throat rather loudly. “Mrs. Jones. Ranting will do you no good. I suggest that you exercise the virtue of patience instead.”

“I
am
the freaking patient!” Renie cried. “And I'm not a patient patient.”

“I gather not,” Sister Jacqueline said mildly, then
turned to Judith and spoke almost in a whisper. “If someone is discharged tomorrow, we might be able to move you to a different room.”

Judith tried to smile. “It's fine, Sister. Honestly. I'm used to her. She's my cousin.”

The nun drew back as if Judith had poked her. “Really!” She glanced from Judith to Renie and back again. “Then patience must be one of your outstanding virtues.”

Judith looked sheepish. “Well…Many things in life have taught me patience. In fact, my cousin really doesn't—”

A tall, thin middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar tapped diffidently on the open door. “Sister?” he said in an uncertain voice.

The nun stepped away from Judith's bed. “Yes?”

“I'm worried,” the man said, removing his thick glasses and putting them back on in a nervous manner. “My brother isn't getting any rest. There are way too many visitors and deliveries and I don't know what all. I thought since Margie volunteers at the hospital, she'd keep things under control.”

“I haven't seen Mrs. Randall since Mr. Randall was in the recovery room,” Sister Jacqueline replied. “Even though the post-op news was very good, she seemed downcast. Perhaps she went home to rest.”

“I hope not.” The man who appeared to be Bob Randall's brother gave a shake of his head. “There's supposed to be a big snowstorm moving in. She might get stuck at the house.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “Poor Margie. She's always downcast. I guess it's just her nature.”

The nun turned back to Judith, but avoided looking at Renie, who wore a mutinous expression. “Excuse
me, I must get things straightened out. Keep drinking those liquids, both of you. Come along, Mr. Randall. Jim, is it?” She put a firm hand on Jim Randall's elbow and steered him out into the hall. “I agree, too much excitement isn't good for…”

Her voice faded as they moved down the hall. Renie picked up a tiny digital clock from her nightstand. “It's going on five. I haven't eaten since last night. When do they serve around here?”

“I thought you hurt so much,” Judith remarked, plucking listlessly at the white linen sheet. “Good Cheer Hospital” had been stitched in blue on the hem, but the letters had worn away to leave only “Goo . .h.er Ho.p…”

“I do,” Renie said, “but that doesn't mean I can't be hungry.”

Before Judith could respond, Dr. Alfonso reappeared, now dressed in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a black leather jacket. “You're looking a bit brighter, Mrs. Flynn,” he said, though his own voice was weary. “Let's take a peek at that dressing.”

“When do we eat?” Renie asked in a petulant tone.

“After a bit,” the surgeon replied without taking his eyes off the loose bandage. “We'll get the nurse to change that. How's the pain?”

“Awful,” Renie broke in. “Whatever happened to Demerol?”

“It's bearable,” Judith responded bravely. “Though it hurts quite a bit to make even the slightest move.”

“We'll take care of that, too,” Dr. Alfonso said with a tired smile. “Now let's talk about your rehab—”

“How can a person rehab,” Renie demanded, “when his or her arm feels like it fell off? In fact, I think it did. Do you want to check the floor for me?”

“We'll have you try to sit up tomorrow,” the doctor said to Judith. “Maybe later in the day, we'll see if you can take a few steps.”

“That sounds next to impossible right now,” Judith said, though her weak smile tried to convey courage. “I'll do my best.”

“I'll do my worst if somebody doesn't put something besides corn syrup in this IV,” Renie snarled.

With shoulders slumped, Dr. Alfonso started to turn away from Judith. “I'll be by in the morning to—”

His words were cut short by screams and a large thud from nearby. Judith stiffened in the narrow bed and Renie's expression went from grumpy to curious. Dr. Alfonso picked up his step, but was met by a petite Asian nurse in a fresh white uniform and cap.

“Come, please, Doctor,” the nurse urged in an anxious voice. “Something's happened to Mr. Randall.”

“Randall?” Dr. Alfonso echoed, following the nurse out into the hall. “Dr. Garnett's patient?”

Judith's jaw dropped. Surely not another local celebrity had succumbed at Good Cheer Hospital. She pricked up her ears, trying to catch the nurse's fading reply.

“Not Bob Randall,” she said. “It's his brother, Jim. He suddenly collapsed and is unconscious.”

Renie made an airy gesture of dismissal with her left hand. “Maybe he's dead. Can anybody around here tell the difference?”

Judith stared incredulously at her cousin. “That's not funny.”

Renie's face fell as she realized the enormity of what she had just said. “No,” she agreed, a hand to her head. “It's not.”

I
T WAS ALMOST
a quarter of an hour before the cousins learned what had happened to Jim Randall. A simple faint, it seemed, according to the Asian nurse, whose name tag identified her as “Chinn, Heather, R.N.”

“He's so different from his brother, the football player,” Heather Chinn said as she adjusted Renie's IV. “They look alike, sort of, but they don't act like brothers, let alone twins.”

“Twins?” Judith said, comparing the gaunt, pale Jim Randall with the robust, suntanned Bob. “As in identical?”

Heather shrugged and smiled. She had matching dimples in a perfect heart-shaped face. “I don't know about that. Their mannerisms are really at opposite ends, too. Mr. Jim is so shy and doesn't seem to have much self-esteem. Mr. Bob is full of life and confidence. He'll be out of here in no time.”

“What made Mr. Jim pass out?” Judith inquired as the nurse added more painkiller to her IV.

Heather shrugged again. “Stress, maybe. Worrying about his brother. Though I don't think Mr. Jim is very well. He's had several tests to determine what's wrong, but…” She finished with the IV and
grimaced. “I shouldn't gossip like that. It's unprofessional, and I'm merely speculating.”

The pain was beginning to ebb. Judith moved in the bed, her gaze following Heather Chinn as she tried to make Renie more comfortable.

“You'd have more room,” Heather said in a pleasant, reasonable voice, “if you'd put some of these…items in the drawers of your nightstand.” Her slim fingers pointed to the paperback book, two magazines, pack of gum, roll of breath mints, several spring fashion catalogues, and a small grinning doll with an equally small suitcase.

“Don't touch Archie,” Renie warned as Heather started to move the doll. “He stays with me. My husband got him as a good luck charm. Archie loves hospitals.” Renie grasped Archie's tiny hand. “Don't you, Archie? See how cheerful he is? Archie always looks cheerful.”

While Judith was accustomed to Renie and Bill's proclivity for talking to inanimate objects, including their car, Heather Chinn wasn't. The nurse looked askance.

Judith decided to intervene before Heather recommended committing Renie to the mental health wing. “I don't suppose,” Judith said in a manner that only suggested a question, “you had either Joan Fremont or Joaquin Somosa as patients.”

“The actress?” Heather responded, looking at Judith over Renie's tousled head. “No. But the other one—was he some kind of ballplayer, too? I was on duty when he flat-lined.”

Renie jerked around to look at the monitor beside her bed. “Flat-lined? Is that what you call it? All those funny squiggly marks are good, then?”

“Yes.” Heather smiled, revealing her dimples. “You're doing fine, Mrs. Jones. In fact, we've noticed that you're unusually…resilient.”

Loud,
Judith figured was what Nurse Heather meant. And maybe nuts. “Mr. Somosa…flat-lined for no apparent reason?”

“Not at the time,” Heather replied, checking Renie's IV. “I believe there was something in the postmortem that indicated otherwise.”

“Drugs?” Renie put in. “I heard that might have been the case with Joan Fremont.”

“I really can't discuss it,” Heather asserted, the dimples now invisible and the brown eyes on the silent TV set. “Would you like to watch the news? There's a button on each of your beds.”

“No,” Renie said.

“Yes,” Judith replied. “I never get to see the early news at home. I'm always working.”

“I almost never watch the news,” Renie said crossly, “unless it's sports.” She pulled herself up in the bed and addressed Heather Chinn. “Are you saying Somosa did drugs? I don't believe it. For one thing, the Seafarers have a tough stand on drugs. So does major league baseball in general. Not only that, but until he blew out his elbow, Somosa had a 2.4 ERA and averaged ten strikeouts a game. How do you explain that?”

“I can't,” Heather replied with the ghost of a smile. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't follow sports. I only know about Mr. Randall—Mr. Bob—because somebody said he'd played professional football.”

“Hunh,” snorted Renie, and fell back against the pillows.

Heather had refilled the cousins' water carafes, re
placing them on the old wooden bedside stands that matched the room's much-varnished door and window frames. “Remember to keep drinking fluids. Dinner will be along shortly,” she added as she exited the room.

“It better be,” Renie muttered after taking a big sip of fresh water. “Really, coz, I doubt that Somosa did drugs. Or Joan Fremont, either. They didn't call her the First Lady of the local theater for nothing. She was a lady, in every way.”

“Good Cheer is undoubtedly dodging a couple of huge malpractice suits,” Judith said, clicking on the TV. “Can you imagine? Not only the survivors, but maybe Le Repertoire Theatre and the Seafarers' ownership.”

Renie was silent for a moment as KINE-TV's anchorpersons radiated their own type of good cheer by rehashing humankind's latest tragedies. “At least turn down the sound,” she said crossly. “It's Mavis Lean-Brodie doing the news and she's never liked me.”

Years ago, Mavis had been involved in a homicide that had occurred in Judith's dining room. Since then, Judith had encountered her a few times, including a recent run-in during a murder investigation at an apartment house on Heraldsgate Hill. Mavis had featured Judith in a well-intentioned TV interview that had come off as awkward and inaccurate. Still, Judith held no grudge.

“Mavis is okay,” Judith allowed, hitting the mute button as the screen switched to a close-up of the governor in front of the state capitol. “She's just aggressive. It comes with the job description.”

Dinner was brought in by a solemn young orderly. Wordlessly, he set up Judith's tray first. There were
two covered dishes, a plastic container, a plastic cup, packets of salt and pepper, silverware, and a napkin. A whole-wheat roll wrapped in plastic rested on a plate with a butter pat.

The orderly moved to Renie's bed. “What the hell is this crap?” she yelled, removing the metal cover from the larger of the two dishes. “It looks like cat spit!”

The orderly, who sported a mustache, a shaved head, and a gold stud in one ear, didn't respond. Without speaking, he left the room.

“I think,” Judith said warily, “it's mutton.”

Renie's brown eyes widened in horror. “No Grover since our grandfather has ever eaten mutton, and he only did it because he was English. I think I'm going to be sick.”

“It's not very good,” Judith allowed. “In fact, it's tasteless. I tried salting the gravy, but that doesn't help much. There's a green salad, though.” She searched around on the tray. “It's under the other covered dish, but I don't see any dressing.”

“Rice,” Renie said, holding her head. “How can you ruin rice? And why is it sort of beige?”

“Brown rice?” Judith suggested, taking a bite. “No, maybe not.”

“This isn't even wholesome,” Renie complained. “Mutton is fatty. I'm going to call Bill.”

“What for?” Judith asked. “He's not with the Department of Health.”

“No, but he can swing by Art Huey's and pick us up some Chinese. What do you want?”

Judith's attention, however, had been caught by the TV screen. Sister Jacqueline was in living color, speaking in front of Good Cheer Hospital. Judith turned the sound back on.

“…to clear our reputation,” Sister Jacqueline was saying. “The general public doesn't realize that every time a person goes into surgery under a general anesthetic, they risk death. It's simply a fact, which is why hospitals require signed waivers before any procedure. Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.”

Mavis's male coanchor reappeared, looking solemn. “Statistically, the number of otherwise healthy patients who die within a week of a surgical procedure is very small. Good Cheer Hospital's most recent deaths have been local celebrities, thus bringing the long-time institution under scrutiny. It should also be pointed out that Good Cheer is the only local hospital where orthopedic surgeries are performed. As chief of surgery Dr. Peter Garnett said earlier, the statistics are bound to be skewed when each hospital has its own specialties.”

The camera angle expanded to include Mavis. “Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess I'll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.” Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were cutting to a commercial break.

“Face-lift,” Renie said. “She's had two already. Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from the top of her head.”

“The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie's comment and muting the TV again. “I'm surprised there hasn't been more about it in the newspapers.”

“So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the
Times
has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan Fremont's husband who covers city hall.”

“You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill. “Hey, what about your Chinese order?”

Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I'm told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why don't you call Joe?”

Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don't live as close to Art Huey's as you and Bill do.”

“Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey's Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”

“You're going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”

“Who knows? Who cares? I'm paying for it. Yes, this is Mrs. Jones, and I'd like to order the prawn chow yuk, the wonton soup, the…” Renie listed another half-dozen items, then gave some special instructions: “Tell the people at the front desk you're visiting Mrs. Jones. Put the stuff in a plain cardboard box and throw one of those plastic geraniums on top. There's a big tip in it for you if the food arrives hot.”

“
If
the food arrives at all,” Judith remarked as Renie hung up. “Do you think whoever brings it can get past the desk?”

“Yes,” Renie declared, clicking on the old-fashioned gooseneck lamp next to the bed. “Now dump that crap off your tray and settle back. I should have ordered a couple of drinks while I was at it.”

“We can't drink,” Judith said, taking yet another sip from her plastic water glass, “except for stuff like this. We're on pain medication.”

“We are?” Renie harrumphed. “You couldn't prove it by me.”

The food did indeed arrive, along with Joe, Bill, and the delivery boy. Renie had already managed to get out her checkbook, though it was a struggle to write with her left hand.

“Let me,” Bill sighed, tearing up the check. “This looks as if you'd written it with your lips.”

“I should try that,” Renie murmured, struggling to open the cartons. “Here, pass some of this to my roommate.”

Joe and Bill had come to the hospital together. The guests were settled in, Carl and Arlene had things well in hand, and Gertrude was spending the evening inside Hillside Manor playing three-handed pinochle with Judith's stand-ins.

“They're so good to her,” Judith said, referring to the Rankerses. “I try to ignore Arlene's threats to move. I couldn't bear it if they weren't next door.”

Taking a bite of Judith's marinated steak, Joe agreed. “By the way, I've accepted a new case.”

“You have?” Judith was surprised. “But you're already overloaded.”

“I'm okay, I got most of the loose ends tied up before your surgery,” Joe said, sampling a sweet-and-sour prawn. “But this is one I don't feel I can refuse. There was a call from FOPP waiting for me when I got home from the hospital this afternoon.”

Judith's forehead wrinkled. “FOPP? What's that?”

“Friends of Powerless People, advocates for the homeless,” Joe replied, eyeing another of Judith's prawns. “It seems that a couple of street residents have been killed in the last month. Not that it's unusual in itself, but these weren't the typical murders. You know,
a couple of the poor devils get into it, one brains the other with an empty bottle of Old Horsecollar. Or smart-ass kids hassle the homeless until it gets out of hand. According to Steve Moeller at FOPP, the two most recent killings appeared to be deliberate and were committed out of sight. Both stabbings, maybe by the same knife. I'll get more details tomorrow.”

“What about the police?” Judith inquired. “Aren't they trying to find the killers?”

Joe gave a slight shrug. “Sure, but you know how it is. Even when I was still on the job, if Woody and I got a case that was more high-profile, then our homeless homicide got put at the bottom of the pile. That's why FOPP has decided to hire a private investigator.”

Judith frowned. She'd always had a sense of security during the years that Woodrow Wilson Price had been Joe's partner. A solid man of African-American descent with a walrus mustache and deceptively soulful eyes that could wring a confession out of the most hardened criminals, Woody had never let Joe down. And vice versa. But that was then and this was now. “It sounds dangerous. Furthermore, you don't have Woody for a partner anymore.”

Joe shook his head and grinned. “I'll manage. The worst of it is trying to make sense of what the witnesses will say.
If
I can find any witnesses.”

“Take someone with you,” Judith urged. “Bill, for instance. He can tell who's crazy and who isn't.”