Debra Webb - Dying To Play

He closed the chart and laid it aside, the gesture somehow ominous. “It’s an abnormal growth of cells in the female reproductive system which sometimes spreads to other organs. Some of the symptoms you related to me, the pain, the nausea, were suggestive of the disease.”

Elaine tried to read him for a clue as to the severity of the problem, but his expression was closed now. “So, just how bad is it?” Another slow, hesitant response, so out of character for her. She shrugged in an effort to shake off the adrenaline pumping through her veins, making her heart pound. It wasn’t as if he’d said cancer. Or had he? “And what do we do about it?”

He reclined in his chair and considered her questions for a time before answering. “Based on my preliminary findings and the severity of the symptoms, I’d say it’s advanced. Stage three or four. Of course, there are more detailed tests needed.” He flared his hands. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist. Once he confirms my diagnosis, he’ll likely suggest surgery and hormone therapy.”

“Surgery?” Elaine could feel her muscles tensing. She felt nauseous, even more so than usual. She should have eaten this morning. She would pay for that oversight. More Maalox or Tums, whichever she had in the car, would be in order.

“We won’t know how extensive the surgery will need to be until you see the specialist,” he said, obviously being vague. “He’ll give you more details about what you can expect and how the disease will affect your future.”

An epiphany abruptly struck Elaine with a stunning effect. “Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?”

The question seemed to echo in the room. Children. She hadn’t really given much thought to the possibility before. She would have one or two eventually, she’d assumed. Eventually being the operative word. Right now her whole life was focused on her career. She didn’t even have a boyfriend. She blocked that seed of self-pity before it took root. She definitely wasn’t going there at the moment. The fact was she’d put her entire personal life on hold eight years ago, and now the future was bearing down on her with what felt entirely too much like an ultimatum. She came from a big Catholic family. She wanted children. Someday.

Dr. Bramm sighed. He looked directly at her, his eyes giving her the answer before he spoke. “I can’t give you any absolutes. I can only say…it’s doubtful that you’ll be able to conceive at this point. Very doubtful,” he stressed. “If we’d only discovered it sooner.” He shook his head solemnly. “But we’ll do everything we can to increase the probability if that’s what you want. You’re still single?”

“Yes.” Elaine felt as if someone else had answered the question. This couldn’t be happening. She came from good stock. Both her parents were healthy and fit. Her older sister had four children already. And her three brothers had a whole gaggle of kids, all of which she doted on incessantly. Would loving her siblings’ children have to be enough for her?

The doctor went on to praise the credentials of the specialist he’d recommended, but another realization had hit Elaine with the force of a bullet between the eyes, stealing her attention. This was her fault. She’d put her education and career before all else since she was eighteen years old. She hadn’t taken the time to do the little things that she was supposed to do to take care of herself. Though she was thin by anyone’s standards, she ate too much junk food, didn’t really have time for anything else. She tried to make up for it by running every night with Sally, her big old golden retriever, until she exhausted herself. She didn’t smoke, but she did indulge in a little too much wine most nights before bed to help her sleep.

No one would argue, however, that she didn’t have the perfect excuse for her negligence. Her job was incredibly stressful.

Who was she kidding? Her job was murder.

Literally.

And now the prospects of having children, of sharing her future with anyone, were dim at best.

Maybe even dead. Who would want her now?

She had no one to blame but herself.

Suddenly her cell phone sounded, shattering the tense silence. Elaine fished for it in her bag and glanced at the number on the caller ID—Henshaw.

“I’m sorry, Doc,” she offered apologetically. “I have to take this.”

“Of course.” He stood. “I’ll have the nurse make you an appointment with the specialist,” he added on his way out.

Elaine nodded as she flipped open her phone, or at least she thought she nodded. It was hard to tell at times like this. She rocketed into cop mode, and all else zoomed into insignificance.

“Jentzen. What’s up?”

Henshaw’s rusty voice sounded on the other end of the line, “Need you down at the Commerce Bank on Peachtree. Got another one of those multiple one-eight-ohs just like last week. Three dead, one injured.”

She was up and out of the doctor’s private office before her partner completed his last statement. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Elaine hurried from the clinic with the promise that she would call back for the time and location of the appointment with the specialist.

Right now duty called. And, as she’d said before, her job was murder.

The trip from the clinic on the east side to the scene of the crime on Peachtree Boulevard took nearly half an hour in the early-morning rush hour traffic. Elaine cursed under her breath every mile of the way. No amount of road construction ever seemed to alleviate the overcrowded expressways and streets in Atlanta. It amazed her that the city planners couldn’t think far enough ahead to do better than this.

Images of empty cradles and groomless weddings kept vying for her attention, but she savagely tamped down each new intrusion before it could form fully in her head. There was no time to dwell on this newest development in her life. There was never enough time.

If she’d ever once contemplated slacking off on her career at some point in the future, that wasn’t going to happen now. The job was likely all she’d have, considering what fate held in store for her. She clenched her teeth and blinked back the welling emotion. She didn’t need this right now.

Her faithful old Jeep screeched to a halt at the entrance of the parking lot located next to the downtown Commerce Bank. Uniformed cops were checking every vehicle that came in or out. She couldn’t recall the two rookies’ names but they recognized her and waved her through without question. Elaine flashed her badge just the same.

The usual crowd of spectators and newshounds had gathered on the sidewalk near the street. Some were likely employees from the various other businesses along this block, others were probably early-morning shoppers.

Several patrol cars, lights flashing, were parked strategically around the bank. Elaine climbed out of her Jeep and approached the large two-story building’s entrance. The setup was just like any one of the dozens of other banks in the Atlanta metropolitan area. What made this one the target this morning? That was the million-dollar question.

“Detective Jentzen!”

Elaine slowed as a familiar voice called out from the crowd of onlookers.

“Detective Jentzen! Can you tell us what’s happening inside?”

Turning toward the voice, Elaine manufactured a smile for the Chronicle reporter to cover her impatience. Three more reporters pushed forward in hopes of getting an answer to their questions or at least a usable sound bite. A television crew was already setting up just outside the crime scene perimeter. The circus was in full form, and she wasn’t even in the ring yet.

“I have no comments at this time,” she said calmly. “I haven’t even been inside. I’m sure we’ll have a statement for you by noon.” Ignoring the barrage of demands that followed her response, she resumed her journey toward the bank’s entrance.