? ? ?
Lindsay Ramson wasn’t dead, which was a nice surprise. Hannah had gotten so used to assuming the worst that she’d thought the poor girl would kick off. For a moment, as the doctor spoke, it felt like a heavy gray cloud lifted off her . . . and then settled slowly back down as he continued.
“She’s alive, which is the good news. The bad news is that there are going to be significant issues,” the doctor was saying. “I don’t think there’s much danger of her succumbing to her injuries at this point; she’s proving pretty tough. That makes it all the harder to tell her parents that the injury to her brain is likely catastrophic. She may wake up on her own, or she may never wake up. If she does wake, she’ll almost certainly have severe impairments.”
Hannah swallowed back the metallic, familiar taste of rage. “Such as?”
“The blows to her head could have any of a range of effects, from loss of language skills to motor skills to vision. Seizures would be likely.”
“Or she could recover just fine?”
The doctor—his name was Reed, and he had a good reputation—looked weary. “That’s not very likely, Chief Moses. I wish I could tell you that I thought a miracle would happen, but it’s not often I see someone that severely injured still holding on. We might have already used up our backlog of miracles. I’m pretty sure that cognitive impairment is going to be part of the landscape.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “I know it’s not professional to ask, but . . . any suspects?”
“Not any of the usual suspects, anyway. Crime scene was bloody.”
“It’s not their usual method,” he agreed. “So you’re looking at . . . the human population?”
“For now,” Hannah said, “I’m looking at everybody.”
She dropped by Lindsay’s bedside. Her parents were there, mother and father, with a couple of siblings hanging back and looking shattered and uncomfortable. Mom and Dad were each holding one of the girl’s still, pale hands. The only sound was the steady, slow pulse of the machines. Her head was completely wrapped from the eyes up, but other than that, she looked unmarked. Pretty, in a fragile way that reminded Hannah of Claire Danvers from the Glass House.
One of her brothers broke down suddenly in racking sobs and turned away. Hannah respected the family’s grief, but when the brother who’d wept left the room, she followed him to the chapel down the hall.
“Matt?” She’d already done her homework on Lindsay’s family. She already knew all their names. “I’m very sorry about your sister.”
“Thanks.” His voice sounded rough and uneven, but he took some deep breaths and got it under control. “Why? Lindsay was never any trouble to anybody.”
“That’s what I have to find out. Are you sure there’s nobody Lindsay had problems with? Boyfriends? Maybe someone she broke up with?”
“She was a shy kid,” Matt said. He was a big guy—Morganville right tackle in high school, she remembered, back in the day. In his thirties now, with the muscle softening to bulk. He worked at the father’s used-car place as a salesman. Married, two kids of his own. As the oldest son, he probably still felt responsible for Lindsay even though she was twenty-one and her own person in every legal way. “I know she’s had boyfriends, but it’s not like she talks a lot about them to us. I guess the most recent one was a kid called Trip. I think his name’s James Triplett, Jr. I’d probably want to go by Trip, too, if I was saddled with that.”
“Trip,” Hannah said, and nodded. “I’ll check into him. Were they still together?”
Matt shrugged, a little helplessly. “She doesn’t talk about that stuff to me so much. I know she brought him to Christmas dinner. He seemed like an okay guy, pretty laid-back. My dad didn’t like him, but she’s his little girl. Hell, I’ve got a daughter, and I’m damn sure going to hate every guy who comes near her.”
“Lindsay didn’t have any sisters. What about close girlfriends?”
“Sure, a few. I mean, in high school, some in college, but I don’t know who she’s hanging out with now.” That question, curiously, had made Matt uncomfortable. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I’m hoping she might have said something that could give us a lead.”
He saw the sense of that, but reluctantly, and he finally gave a shrug. “I guess check her cell phone? I don’t know.” He did, though. He knew something and didn’t want to give it up; his body language seemed off. Hannah let him keep the secret for now, because the cell phone was in Lindsay’s effects, and she’d already collected it for processing. She thanked Matt, trying to be gentle as possible, but his gaze was already fixed on the nondenominational stained-glass alcove at the front of the chapel. Lost in his own thoughts, or prayers.
She left him to it.