not without dicing Seth as if he were destined for a chef salad, the surgeon knew. Her
name was Dr. White. She was a thirty-year-old graduate of Harvard and Johns Hopkins, and had done her residency at the Cleveland Clinic. Dr. White would not have been as
concerned about leaving the bullet were it the typical semi-jacketed, round-nosed variety.
But hollowpoints opened like a flower on impact. The deformed missile in the chief’s
husband had cut a swath, exactly as planned by Remington, and might continue to do
damage after the fact. Without question, it put him at considerable risk for infection. Dr.
White made an incision so the wound could drain, and it was packed and dressed.
The sun was rising by the time Dr. White met Chief Hammer in recovery, where Seth
was groggy, lying on his side, tethered by IV lines, a curtain drawn to give him the
privacy afforded VIPs, as set by the medical center’s unwritten policy.
“He should be fine,” Dr. White was saying to Hammer.
“Thank God,” Hammer said with relief.
“I want to keep him overnight in isolation, and continue the IV antibiotics. If he spikes a fever during the first twenty-four hours, we’ll keep him longer.”
“And that could happen.” Hammer’s fears returned.
Dr. White could not believe she was standing here and the police chief was looking to
her for answers. Dr. White had read every article written about this incredible woman.
Hammer was what Dr. White wanted to be when Dr. White was older and powerful.
Caring, strong, goodlooking, kick-ass in pearls. Nobody pushed Hammer around. It
wasn’t possible that Hammer put up with the same shit Dr. White did, from the old boy
surgeons. Most were graduates of Duke, Davidson, Princeton, and UVA, and wore their
school bow ties to the symphony and cocktail parties. They didn’t think twice when one
of their own took a day off to boat on Lake Norman or play golf. But should Dr. White
need a few hours to go to her gynecologist, to visit her sick mother, or give in to the flu, it
was another example of why women didn’t belong in medicine.
“Of course, we’re not expecting any problem,” Dr. White was reassuring Hammer.
“But there is extensive tissue damage.” She paused, searching for a diplomatic way to explain.
“Ordinarily, a bullet of that power and velocity would have exited, when fired at such
close range. But in this case, there was too much mass for the bullet to pass through.”
The only image that came to Hammer’s mind was tests the firearms examiners conducted
by shooting into massive shimmering blocks of ballistic jelly, manufactured by Knox.
Brazil was still taking notes.
Nobody cared. He was such a respectful, helpful presence, he could have continued following Hammer for years and it would not have been a problem. It was entirely
possible she would not have been fully cognizant of it. If her imminent termination were
not an inevitability, she might have assigned him to her office as an assistant.
Hammer spent little time with her husband. He was checked out on morphine, and would
have nothing to say to her were this not the case. She held his hand for a moment, spoke
quiet words of encouragement, felt terrible about all of it, and was so angry with him she
could have shot him herself. She and Brazil headed out of the hospital as the region
headed to work. He hung back to allow the Observer photographer to get dramatic shots
of her walking out the ER entrance, head down, grimly following the sidewalk as a
Medvac helicopter landed on a nearby roof. Another ambulance roared in, and
paramedics rushed to get another patient out as Hammer made her way past.
That photograph of her by the ambulance, a helicopter landing in the background, her
eyes cast down and face bravely tragic, was sensational. The next morning, it was staring
out from racks, boxes, and stacks of papers throughout the greater Charlotte-
Mecklenburg area. Brazil’s story was the most stunning profile of courage Packer had
ever seen. The entire metro desk was in awe. How the hell did he get all this? Hammer