The Dead Room

Day 2

15

The following morning, at half past eight, Darby sat in her office chair with her feet propped up on the corner of the desk. She stared out of the windows overlooking another grey sky while listening to Dr Aaron Goldstein, a Boston-based neurologist brought in to treat the boy, John/Sean Hallcox. The man spoke in a dry monotone, as though he were reciting from a medical textbook.

‘The bullet entered underneath the boy’s chin,’ Dr Goldstein was saying. ‘Instead of traversing the cranial cavity and leaving through an exit wound, the bullet ricocheted inside the skull, with massive tearing caused by the shock waves. This resulted in –’

‘Doctor, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was in the hospital room when John Hallcox shot himself. I know the bullet didn’t pass through the skull. I want to know his condition.’ She popped a couple of Advils in her mouth and washed them down with cold water fizzing with Alka-Seltzer.

‘We performed a debridement,’ Goldstein said. ‘The procedure involves removing bone and bullet fragments from the brain. We removed a good majority of them, but I’m sorry to say there were some fragments that were so deeply imbedded near sensitive areas that I had to leave them behind. I’m more concerned about what we refer to as secondary effects.’

‘Swelling and bleeding from ruptured blood vessels.’

‘Yes.’ A bright tone in the man’s voice, surprised that she knew such things. ‘With gunshot wounds to the head there’s always a high risk of oedema and, in Mr Hallcox’s case, infection. We’re treating him with strong antibiotics, but these kinds of infections – the ones involving the brain – are extremely difficult to overcome. Fortunately, he hasn’t experienced a seizure, but he’s still in a coma.’

‘Where does he fall on the Glasgow Coma Scale?’

‘I can’t give you an accurate GCS score at the moment. Because of the intubation and severe facial swelling, he can’t talk and I can’t test his eyes’ responses.’

‘Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be able to talk?’

‘To you?’

‘To anyone, Doctor.’

‘There’s always a possibility, but I’m inclined to say no. I doubt he’ll survive – not from the gunshot wound but from the infection. Does he have any family in the area? My understanding is the mother died rather tragically.’

‘She was murdered.’

‘Well, if you find any family members, please let us know. Certain arrangements will need to be made. That’s all I can tell you right now, Miss McCormick.’

‘Would you call me if there’s any change? I’d like… I want to know how he’s doing.’

‘Of course. What’s the best way to reach you?’

They exchanged numbers. Darby thanked the doctor, swung her legs off the desk and dialled directory inquiries to ask for the number of the FBI’s field office in Albany, New York.

She introduced herself to the woman who answered the phone and asked to speak to SAC Dylan Phillips.

‘Let me connect you to his office,’ the woman said.

Phillips wasn’t in his office yet. Darby left a message with the man’s secretary.

Pine had told her he was working on locating the owner of the house, Dr Martin Wexler and his wife, Elaine. Darby didn’t want to wait. She turned to her computer. When she had the information she needed, she started working the phone.

An hour later she had tracked down one of Wexler’s children – his eldest son, David, who lived in Wisconsin. He had the number for his parents’ home in the South of France. The names Amy and John Hallcox didn’t mean anything to him.

Darby called the number. A machine picked up, the voice in French. She left a detailed message along with her office and mobile numbers, and asked them to call regardless of the time.

Darby hung up and sat in the silence of her office, her thoughts drifting to John Hallcox – Sean, she reminded herself. The twelve-year-old was lying in a coma. Her father had lain in a coma for a month. His GCS score had been 1. He never opened his eyes, never made any verbal sounds or physical movements. He was brain dead.

She remembered gripping his hand in her own while the doctor explained to her mother what would happen to Big Red after his life-support machine was turned off. Darby remembered digging her fingernails into his callused palm and drawing blood. She remembered hoping – no, believing – the pain would wake up her father. Then the machine was turned off and they waited for his body to die. Darby propped her elbows on her desk and looked at her hands. They were bigger now, the callused skin on her palms and fingers stained with dried blood. Sean’s blood. She had held him while screaming for help.

A soft knock on the door. She looked up and saw Police Commissioner Christina Chadzynski.

‘May I come in?’

Darby nodded. Chadzynski took one of the chairs across from the desk, crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap. This morning she was dressed in a stylish black suit. It was the only colour she seemed to wear. The woman was thin and trim – she was an avid runner – but no amount of exercise, sleep or makeup could hid the fatigue etched in the skin around her ice-blue eyes.

‘It’s quiet in here,’ Chadzynski said.

‘The entire lab is in Belham processing the house. Did you read my report?’ Darby had filed it late the previous night before crashing on the office sofa.

‘I read it first thing this morning,’ Chadzynski said. ‘It’s all over the news, what happened in Belham, the hospital, all of it.’

‘Did the news mention anything about the FBI trying to take over the investigation?’

‘No, they didn’t.’ She seemed to be drawing out her words, measuring each one carefully before she spoke. ‘Those men you saw in the woods – have you heard anything?’

‘Nothing’s come over the wire about any hospitals treating a white male for a gunshot wound, but Pine and his men are calling around just to be sure. He’s on his way to Vermont to meet with the police to go through Amy Hallcox’s apartment.’

‘You mentioned the woman’s parents were murdered but you didn’t list any details.’

‘Her son didn’t give me any, and I can’t find any homicides involving the name Hallcox.’

‘Do you have any news on the boy’s condition?’

‘I just got off the phone with the neurologist,’ Darby said, and told Chadzynski about her conversation with Dr Goldstein.

‘How did the Hallcox boy get the gun?’ Chadzynski asked. ‘It wasn’t mentioned in your report.’

‘I didn’t find out until this morning. He had a thigh holster. His baggy shorts covered it.’

‘I can’t believe no one noticed it.’

‘He wasn’t a suspect, so there was no reason for anyone to pat him down. When the EMTs brought him to the hospital, the kid refused to let anyone touch him. Threw a fit, the doctor told me. He was in shock, so they gave him some space to calm down. Based upon what the boy told me last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mother gave the revolver to him.’

‘What’s this business about him requesting to speak to your father?’

‘I don’t know.’ Darby rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt this tired. ‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘Maybe a couple of hours. Every time I shut my eyes, all I can see is that kid slamming the muzzle underneath his chin. If that Fed hadn’t come into the room, Sean wouldn’t be in a coma.’

‘The boy was in shock, Darby. The commotion alone –’

‘Sean was talking to me. I’d finally got him to a place where he trusted me – he told me his real name was Sean. He was going to tell me the truth about his grandparents – why they were killed, the names of the people who did it. He was going to tell me everything and then that prick came in waving his badge and saying he was taking over the investigation and moving the kid. He scared the shit out of him.’

‘That might very well be true. But, with all due respect, your professionalism can be called into question.’

Darby leaned back in her chair, waiting for the rest of it. Chadzynski might have a cop’s blue blood running through her veins but she had the heart of a politician. She was quietly assembling people to help plan her campaign to run for governor. The real reason for her visit was damage control.

‘I understand you assaulted him,’ Chadzynski said.

‘Is that what he called it?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘We had a minor confrontation. I mentioned that in my report.’

‘Yes, I know. I also know about your personal history with the FBI. Tell me what happened.’

‘Did you read the part where Special Agent Phillips didn’t stick around the hospital? That he bolted along with my tape recorder?’

‘You’re positive about that accusation?’

‘I checked with everyone who was there. Except Phillips, of course. When I get through with him, he’ll be shitting bones for a week.’

‘Eloquently put, as always. I haven’t spoken to Special Agent Phillips or anyone from the Albany field office. I need to know how to handle this, so tell me exactly what happened.’

Darby’s phone rang. She looked at the caller-ID.

‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, and picked up the phone. ‘Darby McCormick.’

‘This is Dylan Phillips returning your call. How can I help you, Miss McCormick?’

Darby didn’t answer.

The voice on the other end of the line was deep, husky. The Federal agent she met last night had had a slight lisp and a voice that wasn’t as deep. It was lighter, almost effeminate.

‘Miss McCormick?’

‘I’m here. I take it you don’t know who I am.’

‘Should I?’

‘We met last night at St Joseph’s Hospital.’

‘I think you have me confused with someone else. Last night I was at dinner with my daughter and her fiancé.’

‘Are you looking for a fugitive named Amy Hallcox?’

‘I don’t recognize that name. What’s this about?’

‘I don’t know yet, but someone impersonated you last night. I’ll call you back when I have more details.’

‘Please do.’

Darby hung up and turned to her computer. She logged on to the National Crime Information Center.

‘Shit.’

Darby scooped her keys off her desk.

Chadzynski stood. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘NCIC didn’t have a listing for Amy Hallcox. There is no fugitive warrant.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the hospital,’ Darby said, coming out from behind the desk. ‘I need to pull last night’s security tapes.’