“We’ll also be running the Black Widow story, if there’s a positive ID,” he nervously reminded her.
She didn’t care.
“I’m wondering,” Brazil pushed his luck, ‘if you’d have a problem with my slipping in a few details or two that might trick the killer. ”
“What?” Hammer glanced blankly at him.
“You know, if I messed with him a little. Well, Deputy Chief West didn’t think it was a good idea, either,” he conceded.
The enlightened chief caught on to what he was suggesting, and was interested.
“As long as you don’t release sensitive case details.”
She fixed on the triage nurse in her console, and headed there. No introduction was necessary.
“He’s on the way to the OR right now,” the nurse said to the police chief.
“Do you want to wait?”
“Yes,” Hammer decided.
“We have a private room the chaplain uses, if you’d like a little quiet,” the nurse said to this woman who was one of her heroes.
“I’ll just sit where everybody else does,” Hammer said.
“Someone might need that room.”
The nurse certainly hoped not. Nobody had died in the last twenty-four hours, and this had better not change on her shift. Nurses always got the raw end of that deal. Doctors suddenly vanished. They were off to their next bit of drama, leaving the nurses to take out tubes, tie on toe tags, wheel the body to the morgue, and deal with bereft relatives who never believed it and were going to sue. Hammer found two chairs in a corner of the reception area. There were maybe twenty distressed people waiting, most accompanied by someone trying to comfort them, most arguing, others moaning and bleeding into towels, or cradling broken limbs, and holding ice on burns. Almost all were weeping, or limping to the restroom, and drinking water from paper cups, and fighting another wave of nausea.
Hammer looked around, pained by what she saw. This was why she had chosen her profession, or why it had chosen her. The world was falling apart, and she wanted to help. She focused on a young man who reminded her of Randy, her son. The young man was alone, five chairs away. He was burning up with fever, sweating and shivering, and having a difficult time breathing. Hammer looked as his earrings, his chiseled face and wasted body, and she knew what was wrong with him. His eyes were shut as he licked cracked lips. It seemed everyone was sitting as far from him as possible, especially those leaking body fluids. Hammer got up. Brazil never took his eyes off her.
The triage nurse smiled at Hammer’s approach.
“What can I do for you?”
the nurse said.
“Who’s the young man over there?” Hammer pointed.
“He’s got some sort of respiratory infection.” The nurse became clinical.
“I’m not allowed to release names.”
“I can get his name from him myself,” Hammer told her.
“I want a large glass of water with a lot of ice, and a blanket. And when might your folks get around to seeing him? He looks like he could pass out any minute, and if he does, I’m going to know about it.”
Some seconds later. Hammer was returning to the waiting area with water and a soft folded blanket. She sat next to the young man and wrapped him up. He opened his eyes as she held something to his lips.
It was icy cold and wet and felt wonderful. Warmth began to spread over him, and his shivering calmed as his feverish eyes focused on an angel. Harrel Woods had died, and he was relieved as he drank the water of life.
“What’s your name?” the angel’s voice sounded from far away.
Woods wanted to smile, but his lips bled when he tried.
“Do you have a driver’s license with you?” the angel wanted to know.
It blearily occurred to him that even Heaven required a picture ID these days. He weakly zipped open his black leather butt pack, and handed the license to the angel. Hammer wrote down the information, in the event he might need a shelter somewhere, if he ever got out of here, which wasn’t likely. Two nurses were making their way to him with purpose, and Harrel Woods was admitted to the ward for AIDS patients. Hammer returned to her chair, wondering if she might find coffee somewhere. She digressed more about helping people.