Jed Rubenfeld - The Death Instinct

'I'm sorry?' said Littlemore. 'Big Bill Flynn?'

'His days as Chief are numbered now that the Republicans are in,' said Enright. 'He's starting a literary magazine. Intends to call it Flynn's. I'm to be his first writer. I'll have several detective stories for him. Set in New York.'

Littlemore had no reply for a moment. Then he said, 'Don't put that in one of your stories, sir.'

'Don't put what?' said Enright.

'That the Police Commissioner of New York City is going to write detective stories for the fat-headed Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who's starting a literary magazine and naming it after himself after botching the biggest investigation the country's ever seen. Nobody would believe it.'

The Washington Square Hospital was a small, comfortable private facility with only two floors, connected by a wide central marble staircase. Littlemore was taking those stairs two at a time when he came upon Colette on the landing, looking out a large window. She saw him in the reflection and turned to him; the diamond choker, still on her neck, sparkled brilliantly.

'Glad to see you're okay, Miss,' said Littlemore before taking in her expression. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' she answered. 'Everything's fine. He's going to be fine.'

'Who?'

At that moment a surgeon came slowly down the steps, cleaning his hands with a long wet cloth. His sleeves were bloodied. 'Miss Rousseau?' he asked. 'I'm very sorry, but-'

'I don't want to hear it,' Colette shouted, running upstairs. 'He's going to be fine.'

The surgeon shook his head and continued down the stairwell, leaving Littlemore by himself on the landing, trying not to believe the inferences he'd already drawn. Colette's footsteps trailed off down the corridor upstairs.

'Wait a second,' Littlemore called out half a minute later, unsure whether he was addressing Colette or the surgeon, then broke into a run downstairs. 'Wait just a darn second.'

The surgeon stopped midway down the hall: 'Are you a friend of Dr Younger's?' he asked.

'Sure, I'm a friend,' said Littlemore. 'What's wrong with him?'

'He was shot.'

Littlemore saw in his mind's eye Younger stepping between Colette and Samuels's gunfire. 'In the back,' he said.

'Twice,' agreed the surgeon. 'There's nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry. Does he have family?'

'What do you mean, nothing you can do? Operate on him.'

'I have,' said the surgeon, wiping his forehead. 'The bullets struck his ribs and lodged in the thoracic cavity. I don't dare try to extract them, because I don't know where they are. I'll tear his heart and lungs to pieces before I find them.'

'Can't you X-ray him or something?'

'X-rays are useless,' said the surgeon. 'The bullets haven't come to rest. Every breath he takes moves them. By the time we have images, the bullets will be somewhere else. They won't stabilize for at least seventy-two hours.'

'That doesn't sound so bad,' Littlemore said, refusing to accept the grim fatality with which the surgeon spoke. 'Roosevelt kept a bullet in his chest for almost ten years.'

'The situation is like Roosevelt's,' the surgeon reflected, 'except for the infection. Dr Younger's neutrophils are at about eighty percent. He has fever. Roosevelt's wound healed with no infection at all. That was the remarkable thing about it.'

'What are you saying, Doc? Help me out here.'

'I'm saying your friend must recover from his infection,' replied the surgeon. 'We are powerless against this sort of thing. All our instruments, all our science, all our medicines — powerless. He should live through the night. We'll test his blood again tomorrow morning. If the neutrophils decrease, all may yet be well.'

Littlemore tapped at the door and entered a silent hospital room. Colette was standing by the bedside, dousing Younger's forehead with a cold compress. Younger was lying on his stomach, eyes closed, cheek lying directly on the bed, with no pillow. His breathing was shallow, his face unnaturally livid, his entire body shivering.

'How's he doing?' asked Littlemore.

'Well,' said Colette. 'Very well. He's sleeping.'

Neither spoke for a while.

'What are neutrophils, Miss? The doctor was telling me-'

'Doctors are fools,' declared Colette.

Silence again.

'Neutrophils,' said Colette, 'are white blood cells, the most common kind. When there is an infection in the body, the neutrophils increase in number to fight it. Normally, they make up about sixty-five percent of the white cells.'

'How bad is eighty percent?'

'It's not bad; it's good,' said Colette. 'It means he's fighting his infection. His neutrophils will be in the seventies tomorrow, the high seventies. You'll see. Then they will come down more and more each day until they're normal. Did Mr Brighton live?'

'No. Neither did Samuels.' Littlemore looked at Younger's shivering body. 'Did they say anything about the kind of bullets, Miss?'

'Why?'

'It can make a big difference. The worst thing is if the bullets were hollow-points. Those mushroom on contact. They're real bad. Can't even use them in warfare. It's illegal. The bullet that hit Teddy Roosevelt wasn't a hollow-point, so it didn't mushroom when it him. When we policemen heard that, we knew he'd be okay.'

Colette remained quiet a long time. 'That's the word the doctors used,' she said at last. 'They said the bullets mushroomed.'

Before dawn, string-tied stacks of newspapers hit the streets, announcing in bold headlines a reconciliation between the United States and Mexico.

The American army at the border was standing down. Confidential Mexican agent Roberto Pesqueira declared in Washington unequivocally that American investments in his country would not be nationalized. United States law enforcement officers were said to have discovered and foiled a nefarious but unspecified plot to unseat General Obregon.

Younger's blood was drawn first thing that morning. He was still unconscious, but his fever had stabilized, although his body seemed wracked, weakened. Colette was there; Littlemore had gone home to his family.

A half-hour later, the surgeon from the night before came in. 'Eighty-six percent,' he said.

'It's a mistake,' answered Colette. 'No mistake. I'm sorry.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Colette. 'The count will improve by this evening. He's doing better. Much better. I can tell.'

Littlemore and Betty came back to the hospital at sunset. They had been there, one or the other, on and off, throughout the day. Littlemore's face was deeply drawn. They ran into Colette at the front door. 'I'm buying cigarettes,' explained Colette, smiling. 'He asked for them.'

'He's awake?' said Betty.

'Wide-awake,' said Colette. 'He's so much better.'

'I'll get him the smokes, Miss,' replied Littlemore, a tremendous weight lifting from him. 'You go back upstairs.'

'No, it's fine. He said he was hoping to talk to you.'

'To me?' asked Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'Doc doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anybody. His neutrophils went down?'

'They're very strong,' said Colette. 'Ninety-five percent.'

'Ninety-five?' repeated Littlemore dumbly. 'But I thought-'

'It shows how hard he's fighting the infection. It's a good sign. But I think — I think — I think maybe you should hurry, Jimmy.' Colette turned and hid her face from them, but she didn't cry. 'Is there a tobacco nearby?'

'I know a place,' said Betty, understanding the French girl's meaning. 'I'll show you.'

A nurse was preparing a syringe when Littlemore entered the room. 'This will make you much more comfortable,' she said to Younger.

Younger was still lying on his stomach. His face, resting on one cheek, was turned toward the door; he saw Littlemore. His back, exposed from the waist up, had thick plasters in two places. His shining forehead was as pale as his white sheets, and he shook badly. 'No,' he said. His voice was strong, but he made no movement. 'No shot.'