Stuart Woods: Palindrome

The woman's face showed something like a smile. "Not bad work for somebody with no forehand," she said.

Estes's mouth dropped open. He knew in a rush who this was. He waved at a nurse. "Give her one milligram of morphine intravenously."

"Wait!" his patient said.

Estes bent over her. "What is it?"

"I want to see Al Schaefer. Nobody else. No name here."

"Did you say Al Schaefer? Are you sure you don't want Walt Hopkins?" Schaefer was a hotshot trial lawyer who specialized in big criminal cases. Hopkins, he knew, was her lawyer.

"Schaefer," she said. "Nobody else."

"All right," Estes said. "Are you sure you don't want anyone else?"

"Nobody else."

Estes nodded at the nurse, who stood by with a syringe. She inserted it into the IV tube.

"You sleep, now, darling'," Estes whispered to her. "I'll see you tomorrow." His patient immediately relaxed. Estes straightened.

"Get some ice on her face and that breast, tape the ribs, then I want her in intensive care. Note on her chart that she's to have nothing by mouth. I want her to have a cranial CAT scan first thing in the morning; I'll schedule her for surgery when I've seen that."

"What's her name?" the nurse asked.

"Admit her as… P. I. Clarke," he said, reciting the first name that popped into his mind. He'd had dinner at the New York bar the weekend before. "Tell admissions not to badger her for insurance information or anything else. All h er charges to my account, for the time being."

"Whatever you say, Doctor," the nurse said, scribbling on her clipboard.

The other nurse applied ice packs, then the patient was wheeled out of the examination room toward the elevators.

"Let's look at her X rays again," Estes said to Miller. Miller switched on the light box. "She's got a very hard head," Estes said, peering at the film. "It's a miracle she hasn't got brain damage or, at the very least, a skull fracture, getting hit that hard."

"I wouldn't have thought a Ce Fort three was possible from a blow with a fist," Miller said.

"Neither would I. Neither would anybody," Estes replied, staring at the X rays. "But it was no ordinary fist."

Schaefer presented himself at the main reception desk of Piedmont Hospital and was directed to the room. He walked to the elevator bank, pressed the button, and waited, standing ramrod straight. He was only five feet seven inches tall in his shoes, and he made every inch count.

A large man in an ill-fitting suit stood outside room 808, looking bored. Schaefer presented himself, and the man cracked the door and said something to someone inside. "The doctor wants you to wait a minute," the man said to Schaefer. Schaefer, who was incapable of standing still, paced until a man came out of the room. Schaefer immediately placed him as one of several hundred Atlantans whom he thought of as the city's establishment-and with whom he had few dealings, unless their sons or daughters got into trouble.

"I'm Dr. Harry Estes," the man said. "May we sit for a moment?" He herded Schaefer toward a bench. Schaefer arranged himself and made a point of not showing deference.

"I have to be somewhere at six," he said.

"I understand," the doctor replied. "It was good of you to make a house call, as it were."

"Tell me, Doctor," Schaefer said, "is your patient's name really P. I. Clarke?"

The doctor smiled slightly. "I'm afraid that was a moment's whimsy on my part. She did not want to give the hospital staff her name."

"What is her name?" Schaefer asked. "That seems like a good place to start."

"Yes, of course," the doctor mumbled, rearranging his white hospital coat. "Her name is Elizabeth Barwick. In the wee hours of this morning she walked into the emergency room downstairs. She had been badly beaten and, apparently, raped. She declined to say who had beaten her, only that it had been done with fists. During the course of the emergency she asked for me."

"Had she been a patient of yours?"

"No. I knew her socially. She and I were members of a group who used to play tennis at a mutual friend's house. I am a plastic and reconstructive surgeon. I think she knew she would need the services of someone like me at an early stage."

"What was the extent of her injuries?"

"She had received extraordinary trauma to the face and head; she had two broken ribs; there was extensive bruising of the breasts and upper body; the vaginal area showed bruising and superficial bleeding. The emergency physician took what turned out to be a semen sample from her pubic hair."

"Excellent. What treatment has she been given?"

"Very little. She was X-rayed; her ribs were taped, and ice packs were applied to her face and left breast; I sutured four lacerations of the cheeks, eyelids, and forehead; she was sedated. She was X-rayed last night, and this morning she had a CAT scan."

"Was there any neurological damage?"

"Remarkably, none."

"What treatment do you plan?"

"I have her scheduled for reconstructive surgery the day after tomorrow. I want the swelling to recede a bit first."

"What is her state of mind?"

"She is lucid and calm. She has been since she was admitted. I want her to see a psychiatrist, but she insists on waiting until after the surgery. I rather doubt she's going to have much to say to him. She's very contained."

"Do you know why she asked for me?"

"No," the doctor replied, and something in his tone implied that he didn't understand it, either.

"Has she been photographed?"

"No."

"I'd like it done immediately. It will be embarrassing for her, but legally speaking, it's the single most important thing you can do for her right now. It should have been done before the ice was applied. You might make a note, Doctor, to photograph any patient with trauma inflicted by another person. The pictures will always be important later."

The doctor stood. "I'll see to it. You're right, I should have done it earlier." He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Ironically, she's a photographer, a rather good one."

Schaefer stood, too. "I'd appreciate it if you'd also give me a written description of her injuries and the treatment required and don't leave out the psychiatrist."

"I'll go and dictate that right now and messenger it to you."

"Who, besides you and me, knows she's here?"

"Only a man named Raymond Ferguson. He published a book of sports photographs of her. She asked me to call him, but he hasn't seen her yet."

Schaefer was surprised. "No family?"

"Her parents are both dead. I'm not aware of any other relatives."

"Is she married, Doctor?" Estes sighed. "Yes. To a man named Baker Ramsey."

Schaefer's eyebrows went up. "The running back for the Bobcats?"

"That's the one."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of him?"

"I once thought he was a fairly decent fellow. Recently, I've thought he was a jerk. Now, I think he's a monster."

The room was lit only by sunlight reflected onto the ceiling by drawn venetian blinds. It was more nicely furnished than most hospital rooms, but it was bare of anything connected with the occupant. There were no flowers, no clothes in the open closet, no books at bedside. There was only the long shape of a woman under the sheets. Most of her face was covered by dressings, and Schaefer was grateful for that. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Her eyes peeped out through slits.

"Ms. Barwick, I'm Albert Schaefer."

She spoke like a ventriloquist, her lips barely moving, but her voice was surprisingly strong. "Thanks for coming. Call me Liz."

"I'm Al. I was wondering why you asked for me."

"My own lawyer is Walter Hopkins. If I had asked Walt to handle this, he'd have written a strong letter, then he'd have written another strong letter, and in a couple of years we'd have a resolution. I want this matter resolved now."