Читать книгу Running on Empty - Michelle Celmer - Страница 9

Mitch pulled on the hospital scrubs the nurse had given him and shoved his soiled clothes into a plastic bag. In the span of about four hours he’d been bled on, spit on and puked on. It was all a part of the job, although he didn’t typically encounter such a variety of bodily functions in one night. And he still had no identity on Jane Doe or the slightest clue who attacked her. No evidence had been found at the crime scene and no one shopping or working in the store had seen or heard a thing. As Greene had predicted, the security tape quality was very poor so they doubted a positive ID would be possible. It didn’t look like the victim was going to be much help, either.

He strapped on his holster and shrugged into his jacket.

With a weary sigh, he pushed open the bathroom door and walked back to Jane Doe’s cubicle. The doctor in charge of her care stood beside the bed checking her pulse. She was asleep now, probably all worn out from that Exorcist routine she’d pulled earlier.

The doctor checked her IV then motioned for Mitch to follow him, sliding the curtain closed on his way out.

“So,” Mitch asked. “How is she?”

“Mild concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight, just in case.”

“And the amnesia?”

“Temporary, I’m sure. The blow to the head wasn’t that severe. Her memory loss was probably brought on by the psychological trauma. It could last days or weeks. Typically something will trigger a memory, a familiar name or face. I don’t think she’ll suffer any permanent damage.”

“Could she be faking it?”

“Of course it’s possible. There is something I’d like to show you.” He led Mitch past the nurses’ station to a wall of X rays. “Due to the nature of her injuries, we checked for possible skull fractures and broken bones in the arms and hands.”

Mitch gazed up at the films spanning half the wall. “What am I looking for?”

“See these?” He indicated several areas in the X ray. “They’re healed fractures. I counted seven altogether. Two in the skull, four fingers, her right arm. She also has an appendectomy scar, so I had films taken of her torso, as well.”

“She had her appendix removed?”

He led him down to another set of films. “That, and I found four healed rib fractures. I didn’t X-ray the legs, so there could be more.”

“Christ.” Gazing up at the films, he shook his head, disgust roiling his stomach. It looked as if someone had used her as a punching bag. “Can you tell when they happened?”

“I would guess that they all occurred after the bones were fully developed.”

“Could it be from some kind of accident?”

“Unlikely. You can see in the fingers here that the bone was never set properly. For most of these injuries, I’d guess she was never seen by a doctor. It looks to me like a classic case of domestic abuse.”

Mitch scrubbed a hand across his rough jaw. He’d seen the aftermath of domestic abuse as a patrolman and a detective, and it turned his stomach every time. Only now, as he pictured Jane Doe looking so fragile, IV lines crisscrossing the head of the bed, her silvery eyes wide and trusting, the sensation multiplied.

However, as innocent as those eyes appeared, the cop in him had to consider the possibility that she didn’t really have amnesia. That she was hiding from someone. “If she was treated here for her injuries, could that be traced?”

The doctor nodded. “I thought of that, too. I’ve got someone working on it. But if it is abuse, odds are the abuser wouldn’t bring her to the same hospital every time. It would begin to look suspicious.”

“Look into it anyway. We may need the information to identify her.” In his jacket pocket his phone began to ring. He thanked the doctor for his help and headed for the emergency room doors, checking the digital display. It was someone from the precinct.

“Thompson,” Mitch answered.

“It’s Greene. So far we’ve got nothing useable from security, but it’ll take some time to go over all the tapes. We never found a purse or car and there were a couple thousand sets of prints in the general area. Basically, we got nada.”

“Keep checking the security tapes,” Mitch said. “Maybe we’ll get a break.”

“Any luck getting an ID on Jane Doe?”

“Not yet. She’s got some kind of temporary amnesia.” He leaned against the brick wall outside the emergency room door, his body sagging with fatigue. Through gritty, tired eyes, he could see the faintest glow of dawn shimmering on the horizon. He looked at his watch. It was now officially twenty-three hours since he’d dragged himself out of bed. “I’m going to hang out here until she wakes up and see if any of her memory has come back. When the hospital releases her I’ll bring her by the precinct for prints. Maybe she’s in the database.”

“And if she’s not? What will you do then?”

“I’m supposed to be off this weekend. If nothing pans out by then, she’ll officially be someone else’s problem.

Detective Thompson looked like a different man when he slept. The sharp planes of his face softened and he lost that look of quiet intensity that both soothed and unsettled her. He dozed in the chair by her window, his head propped in one big hand, long thick lashes fanning out across his cheeks.

Jane lay watching him, memorizing his features, for fear that the next time she closed her eyes he would vanish from her memory. Vaguely she recalled being moved to a private room. She still felt a little groggy and slightly disoriented and her head ached something fierce. All things considered though, she didn’t seem to have been too badly damaged. Not physically, anyway. It would be awfully nice to know her own name, to know where she lived. She didn’t like being trapped here in the hospital, playing the role of the victim. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she wasn’t accustomed to feeling this way, and at the same time, it was hauntingly familiar.

This is temporary, she reminded herself. The doctor said her memory would return soon and she would be good as new.

From the chair across the room, Detective Thompson stirred. His eyes opened, focused on her, and he sat up. “You’re awake.”

“More or less. I’m feeling a little woozy.” She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. The detective was cute in the morning, in a rough, disheveled sort of way. Thick beard stubble shadowed his jaw and his voice had a husky quality that sent shivers down her spine. And the way he looked at her was so measured and deliberate. Like he could read her thoughts. Which at this point wouldn’t get him far. There wasn’t much left up there to think about. “You were here all night?”

He looked up, squinting against the sunlight pouring in the window, then down at his watch. “Looks that way. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He yawned and stretched, the green hospital scrubs he wore pulling taut across his chest and biceps. They didn’t burst at the seams from hulking muscle mass. He was more the slim and athletic type. She couldn’t say with any certainty if he was the type of man she was normally attracted to, but from where she sat now, she wouldn’t kick him out of bed for getting crumbs on the sheets.

It occurred to her suddenly that he was dressed like a doctor—save for the holster and gun strapped at his side—and she wondered what happened to the clothes he’d been wearing. Then she recalled, with a stark clarity that made her cringe, what she’d done. “Sorry about your clothes,” she said. “It wasn’t one of my finer moments.”

One eyebrow quirked up. “No?”

“At least, I don’t think it was.” She paused, chewing her lower lip.

“You still don’t remember who you are?”

She shook her head, noting that the action didn’t induce the same paralyzing pain as before. It had since reduced to a persistent, dull ache. The nausea had ebbed, as well and she actually felt hungry. “I think I may have also, um, spit water at you.”

“You bled on me, too. But I won’t hold it against you.” A grin teased the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t even a real smile and her stomach still did a half-gainer straight down to her toes. Was he trying to look adorable, or did it just come naturally?

“What else do you remember?” he asked.

“I remember waking up in the hospital.”

“That’s it?”

“Everything before that is gone. It’s the weirdest feeling, like opening a book and finding blank pages. I know something is supposed to be there, but it’s as if all the words are written in invisible ink.” She sat up, pulling the light blanket up to her neck, feeling self-conscious in the flimsy hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?”

“I think there’s a bag of stuff in the drawer next to the bed. You didn’t have a purse or any identification when I found you.”

She slid the drawer open and found a plastic bag marked “personal belongings.” “I don’t suppose you know when they’re letting me out of here.”

“Today, I think. Why? You’ve got plans?”

She swore she detected a note of suspicion in his voice. “We have to try and find out who I am, don’t we?”

“We?”

“Yeah, we. I assume you’re the one investigating my attack. I’m not going to sit around doing nothing. I want to help.”

“Ms.—”

“Don’t tell me that put in the same situation you would want to sit around twiddling your thumbs, waiting for your memory to magically reappear.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but—”

“The doctor told me that seeing something familiar could trigger a memory. It only makes sense that I get out and try to find something familiar. If I have to, I’ll do it alone.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Detective Thompson said. “You have no money, no identification, no transportation. And we have no idea who attacked you, or why.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

“I’m not ready to make any assumptions at this point.” He sighed, leaning forward and raking a hand through his tousled hair. Hair the same warm brown as his eyes and just long enough to cover the tops of his ears and brush the collar of his jacket. And soft looking. She imagined what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.

Oh, yeah, like that would ever happen. He was probably married. Or at least attached. For that matter, maybe she was, too.

“So when do we start?” she asked.

“We don’t do anything. First off, I don’t even know if I’ll be the one investigating. And second, I don’t make it a habit of dragging victims along with me while I work a case.”

“My case. Also, there’s the slight problem of me not knowing where I live. Where do you plan to put me?”

“A halfway house. You should be safe there until we figure out who you are and who did this. As long as you stay put,” he added.

No way. No way was he dumping her off at some crummy halfway house. If he expected her to agree to that, he was in for a big surprise. “But the sooner I get my memory back, the sooner you solve the case, right?”

“You can call the precinct if you remember anything.”

Was he joking? Did he honestly expect her to sit around doing nothing?

Fat chance.

She dug through the clothes bag, wondering how something that belonged to her could look so completely foreign. “They’re all cut up,” she said, pulling out a mutilated pair of jeans and T-shirt. The only thing left intact was a dark blue jacket.

“They cut your clothes off in the E.R. It’s standard procedure.”

She looked up at him, aghast. “What am I supposed to do, walk out of here naked?”

“I’m sure the hospital will give you some clothes, and the halfway house will have things for you.” Detective Thompson stood, pulling his jacket on. “I’m going to try to find the doctor to see when they’re letting you out of here, then I’m going to make a few phone calls and set things up.”

She was pretty sure, from the determined set of his jaw, that arguing would get her nowhere, so she nodded. She’d think of something, some way to make him see things her way. And if that didn’t work, she’d have to take matters into her own hands. She had rights. He couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

She stuffed the jeans and shirt in the bag and looked the jacket over. Searching the pockets, she found wadded tissues in one and a faded receipt in the other. There was no store name, just a few random numbers. Then she turned it over to check the other side and gasped at the note scrawled there.

Detective Thompson stopped halfway to the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you put this in my jacket?” she asked, holding the paper up.

“No. Is it familiar?”

“Sort of,” she said, holding it out to him. On the back of the receipt written very lightly in pencil was a name: Detective Mitch Tompson.