Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

69

The doctor was in his mid-thirties, but he already had the you-can’t-show-me-anything-new attitude that trauma specialists and veteran cops develop to insulate themselves from the tragedies that surround them. He wore his long brown hair in a rubber-banded ponytail like a biker, but sported a pair of eyeglasses that cost him more than a couple bucks. His blue scrubs were a size too big. What Jesse noticed most of all were his matching blue Crocs.

“Dr. Crier,” he said, offering his hand to Jesse and Healy. It was a practiced gesture, neither sincere nor insincere. It was just what he did, a part of the ritual. “Your cop is going to be fine. He’s got some pretty nasty bruises and some scrapes. Has he been a recent victim of gunshot trauma?”

“Uh-huh. About six months ago.”

Crier was pleased with himself. “I knew it. Anyway, he just needs some rest. I gave him something for the pain and wrote him a prescription. Nothing too strong. Just something to take the edge off. He’s going to be pretty sore for about a week, but he can go home tonight.”

“No concussion?” Jesse asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Forget it. What about Mr. Jameson?”

Dr. Crier frowned. “Still unconscious. No skull fractures. Some swelling, but nothing that appears too serious. We hope he comes around in the next several hours. Longer than that and we might have cause to worry.”

“We’ve already got plenty of that,” said Healy.

“Excuse me,” the doctor asked, only half hearing Healy.

“Nothing.”

“Well, I’ve admitted him. He’s already up in ICU. Check on him in the morning. We should have a better idea of his prognosis by then.”

Jesse noticed the doctor shaking his head as he spoke about Jameson.

“What is it, Doc? What aren’t you saying?”

“Mr. Jameson’s had a rough life. He’s been an intravenous drug user. He’s definitely been wounded in battle. He’s had a lot of work done on his legs and there’s pretty extensive burn scarring as well.”

Healy asked, “But how do you know he was in the military?”

“The tattoos. And believe me, I’ve seen battle scars. Those are battle scars.”

Jesse remembered his own words in describing his John Doe to the press. The tattoo, the intravenous drug use.

“Doc, does Jameson have tan lines?”

Both Crier and Healy looked at Jesse like he had suddenly sprouted antlers.

“That’s a bizarre question,” the doctor said.

“Humor me.”

Dr. Crier shrugged. “As a matter of fact, he does. Pretty intense ones.”

Jesse asked, “Can we see him?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“Then he won’t mind, will he?”

Three minutes later, Crier, Healy, and Jesse were standing around Jameson’s bed in the ICU.

Jesse asked for the doctor to show him Jameson’s wounds and the proof of his drug use.

“I’m sorry, Chief Stone, but I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Listen, Doc, I’ve got three unsolved homicides that the man in that bed might have the answers to. Can you guarantee me he’s going to wake up?”

“Guarantee? No.”

“Then show me what I asked for, please. I don’t have time to run around getting court orders.”

The doctor took hold of Jameson’s left arm and gently turned it over to expose ugly track-mark scars. “It’s the same on his other arm,” Crier said, pulling up the sleeve of Jameson’s gown to point out the sharp lines of demarcation between the sun-browned skin of his arm below his triceps and the sickly pale skin above it. There were the tattoos: military and prison tats, just as the motel clerk from Diablito had described them to Jesse. Jameson had to be the man who had spoken to Suit over the phone. Then Crier pulled down the blanket that covered Jameson from his waist. The scars on his legs were just as the doctor had described them. They were painful to look at.

“Thanks, Doc,” Jesse said.

“You surprise me, Chief.”

“How so?”

“You haven’t asked to see the other tattoo. The one on his left side, under his arm,” Crier said. “Pretty creepy. It’s of a cross and a—”

“Two-headed rattlesnake,” Jesse finished his sentence.

Crier’s eyes got big. “How could you know that?”

“Not now, Doc. Where are Jameson’s clothes? I need to see his clothes.”