Perfect killer

CHAPTER 38

"Dr.-uh, Brad? You okay?"

I shook my head. Freedman got up quickly and helped me sag into his chair. We remained like that as I struggled to calm my breathing. Finally, I regained control, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"Can you pull up the recent EEG and PET?"

"Sure." Freedman leaned over the keyboard and brought the scans on-screen. "Here." I tapped at the monitor. "And here… while higher brain functions are increasing, there's no change in the activity of the lower brain and brain stem. Remember that MRI of the ventral part of the rostral pons?" As my horror grew, I struggled to keep my focus on presenting Camilla like a grand rounds patient. "Uh-huh."

"Okay, now look over here, and there's clear evidence of recovery of higher brain function, especially in areas associated with awareness and consciousness."

"So this patient is coming out of the coma?"

"It appears so."

"Induced by the fever or the bacterial infection?"

I nodded dully at the implications.

"That's good."

"Maybe," I said.

Tyrone started to ask another question, I stopped him with a raised index finger as I grabbed my cell phone and hit Jeff Flowers's speed dial. I turned to Tyrone as the phone rang.

"The scan patterns are a variation on what is known as locked-in syndrome."

"Locked in?"

"Usually from auto accident trauma and strokes, sometimes by pontine lesions, which damage specific portions of the lower brain and brain stem while leaving little or no damage to the upper brain."

Flowers answered.

"Jeff, it's Brad Stone," I said urgently. "We may have a situation."

"Let me get to a place where I can talk," he replied.

As I waited, I pointed at the MRI image on the monitor display. "Look closely at this area and the pattern of hypodensity where the tissue has been destroyed. The pattern of damage leads to quadriplegia and, depending on the extent of damage, easily leads to death without artificial ventilation. This patient's death-ah, case, I mean-did not require ventilation, but all voluntary muscle function was lost as well as higher brain functions- until yesterday."

Flowers's voice came hack on the line. "Sorry, Brad, I was in a staff meeting.

"Thanks for taking the call. Look, Jeff, I think we have a case of locked-in syndrome developing."

"Dear God."

"Yeah. Can you do some tests to make sure."

"Anything you need."

"Thanks. As you may remember, a lot, if not most, people with locked-in syndrome retain some small degree of voluntary control over eye movement or eyelid function. We know Camilla has had neither of those. We need to determine if that's changed. Additionally, we need a functional PET to determine if she's experiencing sensory perceptions-vision, hearing, touch-the whole gamut."

Any specific tests or protocol?"

"You pick it. We need to know whether she is aware and conscious even if she is unable to communicate."

Flowers's breath caught, echoing my own of a few minutes ago. "I never imagined in my worst nightmare it could come to this."

"I know the feeling."

"Okay. I'm on it now. Should I call you back on your cell?"

"Uh-huh. And could you upload the new scans as soon as you can." I explained my ability to retrieve them. "If for some reason you can't get hold of me, you can call Dr. Tyrone Freedman here at Greenwood Hospital." I read the number and extension off the phone. Tyrone also offered his cell number, which I passed along before ringing off.

"This is really deep," Freedman said.

I turned slowly and looked up at Freedman. "People with locked-in syndrome usually retain their ability to see, hear, feel emotions, understand spoken language, analyze complex thoughts-everything cognitively and emotionally, but all the wiring to their muscles that allows them to interact with their environment doesn't work. I'm terrified this patient's consciousness has awakened inside a black void without sight, sound, or other senses, perhaps feeling pain without any ability to express the feeling or do anything to decrease it. Something like being buried alive, but without the compassion of death to look forward to."

"Oh, man." Freedman's voice was dull, flat, and low as the implications played across his face. "I imagine hell would be a lot like that."

He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, his pager went off. He plucked it off his belt.

"Oh, great," he said as he read the text message. "All hands on deck. We've got all our ambulances filled with incoming gunshot wounds, but we don't usually staff up until after it's dark."

He turned and headed for the far end of the narrow, cramped room. "We can use all the help we can get," he said. "If you're up for it, follow me to the scrub room and I'll introduce you to the chief."

I rushed along behind him.

The wail of approaching sirens quickly disappeared beneath the urgent conversations in the scrub room. Freedman introduced me to trauma unit chief Clifford Scarborough, a tall, dark-haired man built like an NFL linebacker.

"I've read some of your stuff," Scarborough said as we soaped up to our elbows. "We're likely to have head wounds."

"I'm up for it."

"Good. It's been a bad day for serious trauma," Scarborough said. "Normally, we stabilize the most serious and chopper them down to University Med Center in Jackson, but the whole damn region's had a rash of incidents. There's not a free helicopter available. You may need to do more than help me get these people ready to ship."

"Whatever I can do."

"Okay then, suit up." He pointed toward a pile of fresh folded scrubs.

I changed, and scrubbed at my hands, forearms, and elbows. I had my gloves on by the time the triage nurse stuck her head in and said she had two she thought were DOA and six more in a hurry to get there. I took a full-face splatter shield from the scrub room nurse and adjusted it to my head as I pushed through the double doors leading to the emergency room.

The corridor beyond was packed with police and paramedics. Along the wall, two young men lay on gurneys: tall, heavily muscled, and way too young to be so completely inert. Blood dripped significantly onto the tiled floor. Uniforms filled the corridor with a blue hover as police and EMTs in latex gloves moved among their charges, working to keep more life from leaking out and on guard for violence and escape.

The doors by the ambulance dock exploded inward with two more gurneys, followed by Jasmine in a white silk blouse blossoming red with fresh blood, which covered her face and arms and matted her hair.