Chris Mooney - The Missing

Leland clasped his hands behind his head.

'Not only did I tell you – repeatedly – that I was innocent, the grand jury cleared me,' Darby said. 'I wasn't responsible for Steve Nelson being let go and raping another woman. And I wasn't responsible for the media coverage either.'

'I'm aware of that.'

'So why are we having this conversation again?'

'Because putting you on this case could bring us more media attention. You're already on TV. I'm worried that the media is going to resurrect the Nelson case and drag it back into the spotlight.'

This case is going to have media attention whether I'm on it or not.'

Leland didn't say anything, leaving Darby with the sense – and not for the first time – that he had privately come to some sort of conclusion about her. Leland Pratt was the kind of man who preferred observing people when they weren't paying attention, recording their words and gestures and cataloguing them in that locked-up place where he held his true judgments of people. Darby, for better or for worse, often caught herself working twice as hard to impress him. She hoped she could impress him now.

'I can run this thing, Leland. But if you still have some lingering doubts, if you don't trust me, then put it on the table and talk about it. Stop denying me access to cases because you're afraid I'm going to embarrass the lab. It's not fair.'

Leland stared at the framed certificates and diplomas hanging on the wall behind her. Finally, after a long moment, he turned his attention back to her.

'I want to be updated at every turn. If I'm not in my office, leave a message or call me on my cell phone.'

'Not a problem,' Darby said. 'Anything else?'

'If Banville won't pick up the tab for the footwear specialist, let me know and I'll see what I can do.'

Darby stepped into the office she shared with Coop. He was on the phone, flipping through a comic book. He had changed into jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan 'Beer Is Proof That God Loves Us and Wants Us to Be Happy.'

'I don't remember Wonder Woman having breast implants,' Darby said after Coop hung up.

This is the new improved Wonder Woman.'

'Great. Now she looks like a stripper.

'I see you're not wearing your happy face. Would you like to play with the Play-Doh? I'm telling you, it's great for stress.'

'Our boss has some serious doubts about my abilities.'

'Let me guess: the Nelson case.'

'Bingo.' Darby gave him the condensed version of her conversation with Leland.

'Why are you grinning?' Darby asked.

'You remember that girl Angela I dated a few months back?'

The lingerie model from The Improper Bostonian?

'No, that was Brittney. Angela was the British girl, the one with the diamond belly button ring.'

'It's amazing how you can keep them all straight.'

'I know, I should belong to Mensa. Anyway, Angela and I were out for drinks one night, and I was telling her about work and mentioned Leland's name. Seems the word prat over in the U.K. means idiot or fool. Try to keep that in mind as we move forward.'

There was one stop Darby wanted to make before heading home.

Scrubbed clean, her hair still damp from the gym shower, Darby stepped into the main lobby of Mass General, Boston's largest hospital. She didn't need to stop by the information desk; she knew her way to the intensive care unit. She had been there once, to say good-bye to her father.

The sign posted outside ICU's double doors read TURN OFF ALL CELL PHONES AND ELECTRONIC DEVICES BEFORE ENTERING. Darby shut off her phone, showed her ID to the male nurse sipping coffee behind the reception desk and asked about the condition of a woman brought in last night from Belham. He didn't know – he had just come on shift – and pointed to the patrolman sitting in a chair outside a room at the end of a long corridor.

There is no privacy in ICU. Glass windows look into each room. Family members, faces shocked and scared, wait to take turns holding a loved one's hand or, in most cases, to say good-bye.

Memories of her father crowded Darby's thoughts, growing stronger when she passed the empty room where her father had died.

The old patrolman glanced up from his golfing magazine and examined her ID card. A web of broken blood vessels lined his nose.

'You missed all the excitement,' he said, stretching. 'Porch Lady attacked a nurse.'

'What happened?'

'She stabbed a nurse with a pen. Doc's in there right now. I suggest breathing through your mouth.'

The doctor was leaning over Jane Doe, listening to her heartbeat. Under the bright fluorescent light, Jane Doe appeared even more emaciated. She was on both an IV and a nasogastric tube. Her arms and legs were secured with restraints, and almost every inch of her gray-colored skin was covered with bandages or wrapped in gauze.

Darby moved closer to the bed and saw bright drops of blood on the sheets. The sick wheezing she had heard early this morning in the ambulance now seemed labored, painful.

Jane Doe's eyes fluttered beneath the paper-thin eyelids. What are you dreaming about?

'You're with the crime lab,' the doctor said in a surprisingly soft voice. It didn't go along with her hard, plain face.

Darby introduced herself. The doctor's name was Tina Hathcock.

'I hope you didn't come here for the rape kit,' Hathcock said. 'Someone from the lab already picked it up.'

'No, I just stopped by to see how she's doing.'

'Aren't you the one who helped her out from underneath the stairs?'

'Yes, that's me.'

'I thought so. I recognized your face. You're all over the news.'

Wonderful, Darby thought. 'I heard she attacked a nurse.'

'About two hours ago,' the doctor said. 'The nurse was checking the IV line and was stabbed repeatedly with a pen. She's in surgery right now. Hopefully, they'll save her eye.'

'Where did she get the pen?'

'We think she got it from the clipboard we post at the end of the bed. I understand she bit a police officer.'

Darby nodded. 'He reached inside to help her. She thought she was going to be attacked.'

'Confusion and delirium are symptoms of sepsis – a blood infection caused by toxin-producing bacteria. In this case, it's Staphylococcus aureus. Several of the cuts and sores on her arm are infected with staph. We are treating her with a broad-spectrum IV antibiotic therapy, but staph has become particularly resistant to antibiotics over the past few years. Given her already weakened condition, and her compromised immune system, the prognosis doesn't look good.'

'When she was conscious, did she say anything?'

'No. She ripped out her IV lines and then tried to escape. We had to sedate her again, which has been tricky, given her irregular heartbeat. I don't want to keep her sedated any more than I have to, but we can't afford another psychotic episode. Do you have any idea who she is?'

'We're still trying to find out.'

The doctor turned her attention to the bed. 'As you can see, she's emaciated. At this stage, what happens is vital organs shift into lower gear – the heart rate declines and becomes irregular. Most of her hair has fallen out from lack of protein. The grayish color on her skin is due to severe vitamin deficiencies. You see that fine, almost downy covering on her skin? Almost looks like body hair? That's lanugo. We generally see it during the late stages of anorexia. It's the body's way of reacting to loss of muscle and fat tissue – sort of a last-ditch effort to keep the body warm.'

Darby stared down at the sickly, waiflike creature wheezing in the bed. She thought of the picture of Terry Mastrangelo and tried to see her the same way her abductor did – as an object, a means to an end. How long had she been missing? And what had she endured?