Jon Talton: The Pain Nurse

He said, “I’m okay. The docs seem pleased. The tumor was not malignant. They think they got it all. I need to get into rehab.” He knew he was lucky or blessed to be alive, that he could have been killed or put into a wheelchair permanently. Yet he felt exhausted. He was working hard to keep it from showing.

Mueller half nodded. Will’s mind went back to the homicide, an easy leap from thinking about pain, a dead leg, and Judge Judy.

“Dodds needs to follow the MO,” Will said. “This woman was killed…”

“I know. On the surface it appeared similar to the Mount Adams Slasher. Dodds told me he saw you. You know, big guy, I had my appendix taken out last year, and for the first day I hardly knew where I was. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you were probably kind of out of it that night…”

Will put the coffee on a table and shifted in the wheelchair. The maneuver required him to push down with his arms and swivel his hips. Instantly his back flared in agony. He whispered, barely in control, “I know what I saw. If Dodds…”

“I don’t want to hear about you and Dodds. You’re like an old married couple fighting. He feels like you deserted him when you left homicide. Anyway, that detail’s got its hands full right now. Three nights ago a P &G executive was shot and killed on a street in Over-the-Rhine. You know Procter rules this town. Mayor’s going nuts. Dodds’ partner, Linda Hall, she’s off on maternity leave. So he’s working solo. This doctor was probably just a victim of a random crime. I see the street people just wandering through the halls. Gangbangers. Dodds will clear it.” He looked around. “Should you even be out here?”

“Who knows?” Will said, forcing a conversational voice. “Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”

“An interesting statement from an Internal Investigations cop.” Mueller didn’t smile. “I talked to your doctors.” He paused as a loud procession of family members went by, bearing stuffed animals, headed to the children’s wing. He nervously scratched the back of his right hand. As a patrolman, Mueller had been nicknamed Scaly, because of some kind of skin ailment that made him itch constantly. Officers complained that the seats and steering wheels of patrol cars inhabited by Mueller on a previous shift always had a dusting of flaked skin. At some point, he had gone to a doctor, but the name had stuck: Scaly Mueller. Now he only scratched when he was in uncomfortable situations.

“I talked to your doctors,” he repeated.

“They say I will walk again.”

Mueller lowered his eyes and sucked in his lips. “Come on, Will,” he said finally, “you’re in a wheelchair. I know that’s hard to accept. I can’t even imagine… Best case, you’ll always use a cane. And that’s okay. My gosh, things could have been so much worse. But you face a tough rehab and you’ll never be able to be…”

“You talked about a desk job,” Will quickly interposed. “Why not? We have wounded officers who are technically disabled, but the department finds a place for them. I can still do internal affairs, white-collar crime. I’m good at what I do.”

“You weren’t wounded,” he said. “Those guys, they have a story to tell, the public loves them and we benefit from their continued service. You know the way of the world. Why are you so fired up to keep mucking out this sewer anyway? Had a deal down in Walnut Hills last night. You see the paper? Dispatch lost contact with two uniforms on a domestic. One of them ends up shot dead. Young guy, twenty-three, one kid. Jeez. Now the hospital killing is yesterday’s news. There’s going to be hell to pay at communications. Chief is already all over my ass for a report. Why would you miss that? Hey, today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Will said nothing. His life now was lived in front of his face, in the next moment. Get his meds. Follow the rehab group down to the gym. Keep from shitting on himself. The painful process of pulling on socks. Trying to find the humor in the way that the human foot was such a stubborn hook that he fought to get his underwear off it. He didn’t want to think beyond that, yet this killing wouldn’t let him alone. He sipped and put the coffee down again. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t touched caffeine since before surgery. He concealed the shaking by wheeling himself.

“Hey,” Mueller said, following. “Want to go up to the solarium? That would be nice. See downtown probably, all the leaves are off the trees.”

They crowded into an elevator with people in green and purple scrub clothes. They looked comfortable. They could stand. Will was now looking at the world from most people’s belly buttons, something new to a man who stood- stood! -six feet, two inches. They rode up two floors and the car emptied out. But when Mueller started to step out, Will stopped him.

“Let’s go to the basement.”

Mueller looked at him oddly and they rode down in silence.

Will led the way when the doors opened.

“What are we doing down here?”

Will ignored the question, hearing Mueller’s shoes click behind him. The hallway was dim and deserted. Only one overhead lighting fixture was illuminated. Taking his bearings, he tried to remember how far the doctor’s office was from the elevator. Every few feet, dark corridors intersected the hallway. The beds and equipment parked against the wall looked ancient.

“It was down here,” Will said.

“What are you doing?”

“Remembering.”

The office was easy to find, about a hundred feet from the elevators and near two fire doors that could be shut, closing off the main corridor. The police seal was still on the door. The fluorescent lights were at least twenty feet away.

“He liked to strike in the dark,” Will said. “He would unscrew porch lights so women couldn’t see who was on the front step. He was thinking tactically.”

“Are you nuts? The Mount Adams Slasher? Craig Factor was convicted righteously.”

“Factor didn’t do it.”

“You and Dodds had him dead to rights. That was a totally clean case.”

Now Mueller was really itching, left hand scratching the back of his right. Will studied the floor, wondering if any bloody footprints had been left. The Slasher had an amazing ability to avoid leaving shoeprints on a bloody crime scene.

“Dodds and the DA pushed the evidence. You know that.”

“You can’t argue with DNA.”

A sudden rattle came from the hallway, as if a stretcher were being moved. Will strained to see, but nothing emerged into his line of sight and soon it was quiet again. He said, “Sure you can.”

Mueller came around to face him, bent to his knees so their faces were on the same level. His cheeks were filling with blood.

“The Mount Adams Slasher terrorized this city for three months. Three women living alone were killed, including a cop’s wife…”

“Ex-wife.”

“There hasn’t been a single case since you and Dodds arrested Factor.”

Will pointed to the door, wincing as the pain coursed from his back to his upper arm. “Until last week.”

Mueller laughed uncomfortably. “Come on, Borders. You want to go back and reopen the Cincinnati Strangler case, too?”

The Cincinnati Strangler had been in the mid-1960s. Homicide detectives still studied the case. Will wondered if Mueller was making fun of him. Mueller, who stood there, effortlessly shifting from one leg to the other in his impatience. Will was trapped in the wheelchair. He stared at his legs, useless in the sweatpants, feeling both heavy and light. He couldn’t even stand. Not even for a moment.

“I’m not talking about ancient history, Steve. This is an open homicide. It happened right here. We owe it to that doctor and her family to pursue the truth.”