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Authors: Eileen Dreyer

Head Games

BOOK: Head Games
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To Rick, who believed through four long years of college tuition without help. There's nothing big enough I can ever give you back.
My thanks to the usual suspects. Dr. Mary Case and Mary Fran Ernst, St. Louis County Medical Examiner's Office; Michelle Podolak and Lieutenant John Podolak, St. Louis Police. Also for this book, for their specific information, Forensic Anthropologist Gwen Haugen, Armed Forces Bureau of Identification; Retired Special Agent Dave Cunningham, FBI. And the lovely Thea Devine, who performed a mitzvah for her friend the shiksa. All mistakes are mine.
To the Divas for sane heads, especially Karyn Witmer-Gow, who always saw. To Jen Enderlin of St. Martin's Press for editing extraordinaire, and Andrea Cirillo for support and sense. To the real Marianne Senkosky Fournie and her staff at St. Mary's Medical Center ED for their hospitality and sense of humor. (Her staff voted on what would happen to Marianne. She let them.) And to my sister Peg, who really liked Kenny all along.
No man becomes depraved in a single day.
—JUVENAL
There is comfort in ritual.
There is order.
There is the security of knowing that our most precious needs can be protected by enclosing them within the high, strong walls of familiarity and precision.
Kenny understood this. He recognized the need for ritual, the joy of it. He cherished the keen anticipation of each deliberate act. Kenny practiced his rituals as carefully as a priest performs high mass.
One of the keystones of Kenny's ritual was the ten o'clock news. Kenny watched the news the way other people read obituaries. Once he knew his name wasn't going to be mentioned, he could get on with planning the next day's work.
But not just the ten o'clock news. The ten o'clock news on Channel 7. Kenny preferred to get his news from Channel 7, because it tended to carry the most lurid stories. Kenny liked to hear the breathless outrage in anchorwoman Donna Kirkland's soft voice when she said words like
startling
and
gruesome
, almost as if she derived sexual pleasure from them. He liked the way her plump little lips wrapped around the vowels and her eyes widened at the words. But that wasn't something he figured he should dwell on when he had his new friend with him, as he did tonight.
Flower. Her name was Flower. It was such a wonderful name, Kenny thought, turning to her. She was such a wonderful person, comforting and quiet.
“Ten o'clock is the only time to watch news,” he told her as he settled himself back down on the nubby brown-plaid couch and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “By now, anything that's going to happen has happened. No big surprises, ya know?”
Flower agreed with him. She always did.
“Today,” Donna Kirkland intoned with barely suppressed delight on TV, “a grisly discovery in Forest Park …”
Grisly
. Another word she seemed to get off on. Kenny found himself getting hard. Reaching over to retrieve his beer from the end table, he took a long swig. Beer went well with the news. Beer went well with everything, but Kenny especially liked it with the news.
So he smiled. He had his beer, Flower was here with him, and there was murder on television. And to make it all perfect, Donnatheanchor—Kenny always thought of her as that: Donnatheanchor, as if it were her entire name—was excited by it.
“ … two park rangers found the partially clothed body of a woman in the woods while clearing brush.”
On the TV the camera panned over the obligatory stand of dead trees silhouetted against a gray sky. Caught clustered in a fold of land like cattle sheltering against the wind stood about a half dozen uniformed officers bent almost double, an ambulance cart, and a couple of fat guys in down vests and baseball caps.
“Now they'll get the official report from the homicide officer,” Kenny said with some disgust. “You'd think they'd change the format just a little.”
“Jamie?” Donnatheanchor called out to the reporter. “Have there been any official statements?”
A slick twenty-something guy showed up, standing in front of the downtown police station. “Well, Donna,” he said, frowning, “identification has not been made. We spoke with a representative of the Medical Examiner's office a few minutes ago.”
“
Not
homicide?” Kenny objected.
The TV now showed the inside of some generic government office. A woman stood quietly listening to a question being asked off camera. Kenny saw her and forgot all about the homicide officer he'd expected. He forgot the story entirely.
His heart suddenly raced. He felt the surprise right there in his throat.
Squinting, he leaned closer. He opened his mouth to say something and then didn't remember to say it. He thought maybe he'd stopped breathing.
“My God,” he whispered, stunned.
She was petite, small-boned, and trim. Short, neat auburn hair. Bright brown eyes with laugh lines and lots of experience stamped on almost pretty features, small hands tucked in the pockets of a serviceable gray suit jacket.
Older, much older, it seemed to Kenny. But then, so was he.
“My God,” he breathed again, shaking his head. “It's
her
. Why didn't I know?”
“The Medical Examiner believes the victim to have been at the site for about four days,” she was saying with appropriate solemnity. “We won't know the cause of death until the autopsy has been performed in the morning.”
Kenny always remembered her smiling. But he remembered this look even better. Her sad look. Kenny remembered her looking at him this way, like she wanted to say something or do something that could make it all different.
Maybe that was why he suddenly recognized her. He'd finally seen her sad look. The look he'd always thought was all his.
Forgetting his beer, forgetting his friend Flower, he focused on the TV, so excited he could hardly think.
“Molly Burke is a death investigator for the city of St. Louis,” Jamie the reporter said as he appeared again on the screen.
“Molly …” Kenny's laugh was sudden. “Oh my god, Molly. Yes, of course!”
He turned to Flower, truly thrilled. “You don't understand,” he said. “I knew her. I
know
her. I wondered for so long what's become of her, and now to realize that she's been right here, that I've
seen
her! I wasn't sure … I mean, you hope, ya know … but … well, I've just got to let her know I'm back.”
Kenny turned to the TV, but he was too late. Donnatheanchor had moved on to recap the top news story, which charted the various government agencies that were temporarily shut down in the wake of the latest congressional budget deadlock. Molly was gone and wouldn't come back. But Kenny knew where she was, and he knew just what to do about it.
For a few moments, he just sat there alongside Flower and considered his good luck. Kenny had never been the kind of person who had good luck. And even on the rare occasions he did get it, usually he didn't know what to do with it.
Well, he knew this time. He knew because for more than twenty years he'd been anticipating what he'd do if this very moment ever came. He'd been practicing hard in his head so that it would be perfect.
Twenty long years. And now he would finally get to act out his most precious dreams. Tilting the long-neck Busch up to finish it, he set the bottle down and stood up.
“Time for lights out,” he said to Flower. “I'm going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
His friend Flower smiled back. But then, she always smiled. So Kenny smiled as well, because tonight he was happy, too. Then, with the exquisite care he showed all his friends, he lifted her head off her shoulders and put it back in the refrigerator where it belonged. Then, turning off the lights, he went to bed.
Molly Burke was going to die because of a clown.
And not just any clown. An alien clown. With AIDS.
She really had to quit. It was all she could think as she lay splayed out on the floor of trauma room one with a screaming, two-hundred-pound psychotic sitting on her chest.
“Clowns!” the woman howled from above her, spittle flying across Molly's face like a lawn sprinkler. She was leaning so close Molly couldn't possibly miss the glitter of fresh blood on the butcher knife her new patient wielded in her face. “Big clowns!”
If it hadn't been her own blood Molly was looking at on that monstrous knife, this whole thing would have been really funny. It would be later, she decided, when she told it over drinks at the local watering hole. She'd make sure it sounded funny.
Then she'd come back into work and quit.
If she lasted that long.
She was just getting too old for trauma. Her reflexes had failed her. And without her reflexes, a trauma center was the last place Molly should be working. Especially when she couldn't spot a perfect ten on the crazy meter until it was too late.
“Big clowns with red noses.”
Triage had announced a new patient to room six. Shortness of breath and chest pain. Twenty-nine-year-old female. Well, the twenty-nine-year old female had been short of breath, all right. She'd been short of breath because she'd been holding it. Against contamination from those AIDS-infected
clowns—to whom Molly evidently bore a striking resemblance. By the time Molly had caught on to the urgency of the problem, she'd been flat on her back on the floor being held down by a betrayed paranoid schizophrenic in full cry.
With a knife.
“They want the Water Child,” the woman intoned in a high, eerie voice as she rocked back and forth on Molly's much-abused sternum. “They want to kidnap him and give him AIDS. They told me.”
“The Water Child?” Molly managed on a gasp and a wriggle. Maybe if she could just dislodge that massive knee from her neck …
“Yes-s-s-s-s,” the woman hissed, sounding distressingly like Gollum. “Didn't you see them? They're waiting for him.”
“I didn't … see anybody. Maybe if I could look.”
She was beginning to lose brain cells here. She had to get to the panic button on the wall so she could sound the alarm for the cavalry. She had to figure out what the Water Child was so she could climb inside the delusion and herd this crazy woman into a safety net.
She had to get her butt off this terrazzo floor before her pelvis shattered like an eggshell.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me help you.”
The patient stared at her. “All right.”
And then, as precisely as a debutant, she simply rose to her feet. Molly sucked in her first breath in about ten minutes and scrambled up after her.
“Thank you,” she rasped. “Now I can help you look.”
That was when she saw the blood on the floor. Clots of it. Right beneath the patient, who Molly now realized was wearing a grimy, fulllength oversize raincoat and galoshes, the kind of schizophrenic uniform that made Molly really nervous. Even without the knife.
And then Molly heard the mewling, like a kitten. From one of the big, saggy pockets.
Great, she thought. Knives and animals. All they needed was a few candles and they'd have a scene from
Rosemary's Baby
.
“Now then,” Molly said in a calm, supportive voice. “Clowns, right? We're looking for clowns? How 'bout if I check the hallway?”
“No. Help me offer up the Water Child. He's the protection … his gift will end the AIDS … .”
His gift. His gift.
And Molly, shaky and sweaty with adrenaline, couldn't think straight enough to decipher the code.
“What's your name?” she asked gently, taking another small step toward the wall and that big red panic button.
The woman stiffened. “Why, Water Mother, of course.”
“Of course …”
Water Mother.
Molly stumbled to a halt. She looked down at the blood. She heard that curious mewling sound again. She finally put the pieces together.
“Holy shit …”
The clowns might have been a delusion. The Water Child wasn't. The Water Child that crazy bitch was about to sacrifice with her big, bloody knife. And she was already reaching into the pocket of that raincoat.
Maggie never hesitated. She slammed into the Water Mother like a Green Bay Packer at the line of scrimmage.
Both of them crashed into the wall. The Water Mother screamed. Molly smashed the knife hand against the wall. She got kicked and just about bitten, but the knife clattered to the floor, splattering more blood. Molly threw a shoulder against the woman's chest. The Water Mother spun backward, and Molly caught the newborn infant just as he fell from his startled mother's hand.
Then, finally, she hit the big red button on the wall.
Molly had worked in trauma for thirty years. She was not given to panic. The last time she'd fallen apart on a work line had been the first day she'd laced up her combat boots and walked into the Evac hospital at Pleiku thirty some years ago.
But there was one thing that brought her close. And she held it in her hands as she ran out the treatment room door, the Water Mother screeching behind her and security pounding up the hall.
Babies in trouble made her panic. And the Water Child, all two pounds of him, was in serious trouble.
“She's got a knife!” Molly yelled to security, who skidded almost to a stop at the sight of Molly carrying a handful of dusky infant past them. “And she's pissed!”
At least Molly wasn't alone in hating the idea of caring for a tiny life.
Most trauma staff hated kids. Hated trying to deal with their tiny bodies, their tiny hearts, their huge emotional payload. Kiddie codes were almost always an exercise in distress and disaster unless they were handled at a real kiddie hospital. And Grace Hospital, no matter its level-one status as the primary gun and knife club in St. Louis, was not a real kiddie hospital.
But nobody, nobody at that hospital hated critical babies the way Molly did. Nobody saw what she saw when she held them, when she fought for them and lost them.
Fortunately for Molly, there was one staff member on tonight who was impervious to the more terrifying elements of a kiddie code. As she scuttled into the pediatric code room, Molly screamed out for the desk to call a code. Then, she went for the big guns.
“Sasha!!!”
Molly threw open the door to find the room already occupied by (believe it or not) a guy taking the temperature on a sniffling toddler. Not tough to throw out, especially when the mother caught sight of what Molly was carrying and jumped straight in the air.
“Sweet Je-sus!” she shrieked, backing away.
“I'm sorry …” Molly nodded to both the skinny, young African American woman and the forgettable white male tech Molly didn't recognize. “This baby is in distress. Could you …”
God bless the mother. She grabbed her kid right out of the tech's hands and hit the back door at warp speed. The tech, nervous and dingy as the Water Mother's coat, jumped back a couple of steps when Molly laid the tiny, flaccid body on the cart.
“You new here?” she demanded, yanking open the drawers of the crash cart.
Flushing a dirty red, he gulped. “They, uh, pulled me from the floor. I'm cross-trained from, uh, housekeeping …”
No wonder she didn't know him. He was one of the interchangeable mass of undertrained serfs that medicine now used to staff their hospitals. He wouldn't even have imprinted on her at all, except for the red rope of keloid scarring at his collarbone. Like seeing a bloated worm crawl up a guy's neck.
Forcing a smile, Molly motioned the tech toward the door. “You might want to catch that mother and find another room for her baby.”
He fled, which left Molly with one near-dead preemie, a personal heart rate of close to two hundred, and a thousand decisions to make.
“Code Blue One, Emergency Department room three,” the pager announced overhead. “Code Blue One, Emergency Department room three.”
Code Blue One. Dead Baby Alert. People would run fast, breathe faster, and pray somebody else would take the responsibility. And Molly, still alone in the room, knew better than to do anything to this fragile, barely formed package without help. So, with sweating, shaking hands, she gathered equipment.
The baby lay in a growing pool of water and blood. The umbilical cord still dangled to the cart, the end of it looking gnawed and raw. Otherwise, the Water Child was perfectly formed: tiny hands and tiny feet and a beautiful little head. And a purple, still body.
Molly could barely look at it.
“You bellowed?” a cool voice greeted her from the door.
Busy yanking out suction catheters and ET tubes and O
2
setups, Molly damn near fainted in relief. “It's a submariner, Sash.”
A “submariner” being a baby who'd been born right into the toilet. A “Water Child.” Sasha Petrovich took a second to evaluate the lifeless form on her bed and nodded. “Okay.”
That was all the reaction they were going to get. Sasha, with her classic blond looks and spotless attire and dust-dry wit, was the perfect pediatric critical nurse. She never saw fit to be flustered by the fragile lives in her care. She never wasted that much energy.
“How long?” she asked, slipping on a gown and gloves.
Molly's hands were shaking so badly she could barely attach the EKG leads to the patches. If she'd tried to put the patches on the baby's chest before connecting the leads, the simple act of pushing in the connectors would crush those gossamer ribs. “I don't know how old. I heard it making noise till about a minute ago.”
Sasha nodded again. “Then let's tube him. Give me a two-point-five, okay? And give me an umbilical cath. Good thing it's warm out today. Fidget might just have a chance … geez, who cut this cord? Lassie? Get me some Betadine. Lots of Betadine.”
Sasha had just gotten the endotracheal tube down when the rest of the team tumbled in the door. Respiratory took over bagging so that Molly
could do one-fingered CPR, and a supervisor stood in paralytic shock over by the crash cart.
“Take a breath,” Sasha advised Molly dryly as she drew blood from the umbilical vein before hooking up the IV line.
“I will,” Molly assured her, her own focus on imagining a viable rhythm on the monitor. “Later.”
This wasn't the time she should be doing this. Not this. She could barely keep her feet in the room. Fortunately, the pediatric resident finally sailed in, coat flapping like a kite in a high breeze, lunch still clutched in one hand. Molly relaxed in minute increments. Bill was almost as sanguine as Sasha about these little crises.
“Who was fishing under the limit in here?” he brayed. “Throw this little carp back till it's bigger.”
“That particular pond is dry, Bill,” Sasha informed him, drawing up meds in tuberculin syringes.
“Where is she, this nurturing body of water that spat out our little fish?”
“With any luck,” Molly answered, “being introduced to the joys of four-point restraint by security. She was in the process of sacrificing the Water Child here before the clowns got it.”
“The clowns did get it,” the resident assured them with a rattling laugh. “Jesus, Molly, what'd you do, wrestle a wookie to the ground to bring this kid in?”
“As a matter of fact, Bill,” she said with a shaky grin, “yes I did. You don't behave, you're next.”
Bill waved his sandwich at her. “Don't toy with me, Molly. I have a weaker heart than our little fish here.”
Their little fish had a stronger heart than Molly had thought. After only another hour and a half of sweat, swearing, and a judicious application of the Pediatric Advanced Life Support treatment algorithms, the team bought the baby a viable rhythm, a quivering attempt at breathing, and a transfer to the real pediatric hospital down the street.
It also left Molly as spent as her bank balance and fully horizontal in the nurses' lounge.
“Ya know,” Sasha said from where she leaned against the doorway,
“you've been a nurse since Nixon was a crook. You'd think you'd be used to this shit by now.”
“It was the surprise,” Molly said without opening her eyes on the couch, where she lay like a slug. “If the Water Mother had just said right off, ‘Hey, I have a one-kilo preemie in my pocket,' I probably wouldn't have hyperventilated. But she was too busy trying to redesign my face with a flensing knife.”
“A face which is going to need some attention,” Sasha said.
BOOK: Head Games
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