The PI Who Knew Too Much-02
Previously, on
The PI Who Knew Too Much—
"WHAT IS IT, Mr. Spector? You're frightening me." She reached for a box of tissues on the desk with her left hand and put her right hand in the open drawer.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is dead, Mrs. Bezier." She brought a tissue to her face and took a small pistol out of the drawer. It looked like a .35.
"So are you, Mr. Spector." She pulled the trigger twice. A truck hit my chest and drove out all the air. I thought I heard another, louder shot just as somebody cut my strings and turned out the lights.
--§§--
EVERYTHING HURT. I was in bed, but I didn't know where. Or why. When I tried to open my eyes, nothing happened. Tried again, same result. They finally oozed open on the third try. I started to look around, but it hurt my neck so bad I grunted. The sound brought a woman in a white uniform bustling to my bedside. She looked to be in her early thirties, puffy cheeks, some encouraging laugh lines around her eyes. A nurse's cap was perched on her curly brown hair.
"We're glad to see you're awake, Mr. Spector. How are you feeling?" Something was stuck down my throat, so I couldn't tell her I felt like I'd gone too many rounds with Joe Louis. She looked contrite and put a hand to her face.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I know better than that. You can't talk with that respirator tube down your throat. It's breathing for you. We wanted to make sure you didn't stop while you were unconscious. We'll get that out as soon as Doctor says we can. I'll tell him you're awake as soon as I take your vitals. Please let me know if I cause you any pain. I'll be as careful as I can. I'll start with your blood pressure."
The longer she went on the faster she talked, like a car rolling down a steep hill with no brakes. It was hard to keep up with her, my brain didn't seem to be working right. She was trying to tell me all at once what was going on, but I didn't even know what had happened. Her uniform and nurse's cap made me think that I was probably in a hospital, but why? I didn't remember being run over by a truck or tossed out a window.
I managed to avoid wincing while she took my blood pressure and pulse. She wrote her findings on my chart. "I'll get Doctor now." She didn't say "the doctor," she said "Doctor." With a capital D and no "the." I thought that was a bit odd, then thought it was a bit odd that I thought that. Then I thought that confirmed my mind was definitely not hitting on all cylinders.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Apparently "Doctor" wasn't far off because she was back with him before I could even relax. I wasn't reassured. He looked like he was about 16 years old, was shorter than the nurse, sported a bad complexion, a try at a mustache, and thick glasses. At least he did have a stethoscope draped around his neck.
"You're looking pretty good, Mr. Spector. Pretty lucky, too, I might add. You were shot twice in the chest, but there's no damage to your heart. I think you'll live."
I was shot? Twice? Who shot me? I remembered following Mrs. Bezier down the hall, then I woke up here...Mrs. Bezier? No, that couldn't be right. She acted like she wanted to do something to me, alright, but it didn't seem to involve a gun. I tried to remember more, but there was too much fuzz in my brain.
"One shot went through your left lung and the other nicked your left collar bone, but those were fairly straightforward to fix. You'll want to be careful when you cough or sneeze for the next few days, though. This evening we'll see about getting that breathing tube out. Now let's have a look at your chest."
He and the nurse changed the dressing. They weren't keen on the idea of me watching, but I insisted. Good thing the young cop who drove Wilkes wasn't there, the dressing was pretty bloody. After she swabbed off the area I could see the stitches where they went in to fix my lung. He looked closely, nodded, and said it looked like it was healing well.
He turned to the nurse. "Ethel, when we finish here get an extra pillow and show him how to hug it before he coughs or sneezes." They put a fresh dressing on, then he went to the foot of the bed and picked up my chart. After writing a bit, he put it back and turned to leave. Just before he went out the door, he turned and spoke over his shoulder. "And give him something to help him sleep."
The nurse—she didn't look anything like an Ethel—got a pillow and showed me how to clutch it to my chest. She said it would keep a cough from hurting too bad or tearing the stitches. I agreed that not tearing the stitches was a good idea. She went out, then came back with a handful of pills and a paper cup of water. After I took the pills, she closed the blinds and said I should rest. I think I was asleep before she was out the door.
I slept most of the afternoon, and woke up just in time for a delicious supper of some sort of soup, two slices of pear, and a cup of weak tea. Be still my beating heart. Around 7:00 the young doc came back in, did something that told him I could breathe without help, and took the tube out of my throat. It didn't exactly hurt, but it felt really strange. I wouldn't want a repeat performance.
He said he'd look in on me in the morning, told me everything looked fine, and was gone in a swirl of lab coat. A different nurse (I never learned her name) showed up an hour or so later, gave me my night pills, turned down the lights, and wished me good night. The pills must have been pretty good stuff. I sort of woke up when they took my temperature and blood pressure, but other than that I slept through the night.
Next morning, Ethel the Nurse—her name tag said Ethel, so I had to believe it really was her name—came in all bright and cheerful. She said she'd change my dressing a bit later, that "Doctor" wouldn't be by until evening because I was doing so well, and gave me my morning pills. She smiled when I told her they tasted better than my yummy breakfast of lukewarm Pablum, a piece of dry toast, an orange slice, and another cup of weak tea.
She started to leave the room, then turned with an embarrassed look. "A policeman and a detective named Wilkes came by not long after you got out of surgery. I told them you were in Recovery and wouldn't be ready for any visitors for at least 24 hours. The detective asked us to call him as soon as you were awake."
"Asked or told?"
"Well, I guess it was more like he told us. Doctor told us not to call yesterday, but the charge nurse called him this morning and he said he'd be here in about half an hour." She looked worried that I might think she was criticizing a cop, so she hastily added "But he told us in a nice way."
"Oh, don't worry about hurting Wilkes' feelings. Beneath that gruff exterior there's a gruff interior." She wasn't sure whether I was kidding, so she just said "Oh."
Wilkes showed up about 45 minutes later in his usual rumpled sport coat and slacks. According to his tie, he probably had scrambled eggs for breakfast. He dragged a chair over next to the bed so he could talk quietly. "How you doin', Spector? Lucky for you she used that popgun instead of a real one."
My face must have let him know I didn't like that, because before I could say anything he waved both his hands in surrender. "No, no, take it easy, I was just pulling your chain. I saw the report about your lung and collar bone. You're lucky she didn't hit you dead center."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I just waited to see what else he had to say.
