For Everything a Reason Page 5

  Profit grumbled an expletive under his breath before turning to disappear through the door.

  The doctor too looked as if he hadn’t slept well the previous night. Twin bags, large enough to take away on vacation, hung around the bottom of bloodshot eyes. His face had a hint of stubble and a dishevelled necktie completed his frazzled look.

  “We had a major incident last night,” he began. “Tanker truck jack-knifed out on Highway 97, killed three instantly and brought another six seriously injured here just before dayshift was ready to handover to nights. One of the nurses in emergency made a stupid mistake: she sent Joseph to our geriatrics care floor and a ‘Rueben Jackson’ to intensive care. She got the notes mixed up. Things got really intense for a while last night. I’m so sorry.”

  Marianna nodded, having already endured two similar explanations and apologies. “Okay, I accept that, but what about last night? You said Joseph suffered a second attack?”

  “Not an attack as such.” He led Marianna a few paces away from the closed door.

  “Tell me,” Marianna pushed.

  “Okay, Joseph’s condition is stable now. We’ve given him a small combination of antiplatelet and anticoagulant drugs, to help stop any further blood clots.”

  “Blood clots?” Marianna asked nervously.

  “It’s a precautionary measure. Our CAT scan didn’t reveal any abnormalities with Joseph’s brain. But until we can follow that up with a full MRI scan then we can’t be one-hundred percent sure.”

  “Wait, I thought CAT and MRI scans were the same?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Common misconception. A CAT scan is very similar to your standard X-Ray. Only difference is, we sometimes inject dye into the patient’s veins to enable a clearer picture. Still, it’s only good for picking out the most severe of clots, tumours and haemorrhagic bleeds. Where the MRI, Magnetic Resonance Imaging, scan differs is that it uses magnetic waves to build up a three-dimensional picture of the entire brain tissue. From this, we can detect even the slightest of aberrations.”

  “So when is Joseph scheduled for this MRI scan? Today?”

  “Yes, later this afternoon. Then we’ll have a greater understanding of what we’re dealing with.”

  “Right,” Marianna acknowledged. “But what do we know now?”

  “That your husband’s most likely suffered a stroke.”

  There it was: the word Marianna had been dreading to hear. Stroke.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Ruebins? This is a lot to take in all at once. Maybe we should wait until all our tests have been carried out.”

  “No, please, continue,” Marianna said, taking a deep breath.

  “Okay, I need to explain that there are three different types of strokes. The first is the ischaemic stroke. This is the most common. This type of stroke can occur when a blood clot forms in the brain - a cerebral embolism, or, when a clot is formed somewhere else in the body and is then carried to the brain via the blood supply. The second most common stroke is called a lacunar stroke, which is a blockage in the tiny blood vessels deep within the brain.”

  “So which one has Joseph suffered with?” Marianna asked.

  “The MRI scan may reveal he’s had a lacunar stroke, but I think that’s unlikely. We could be looking at the third type of stroke, though.”

  “Which is?”

  “This is what we call the – haemorrhagic stroke, or bleed. In other words, when a blood vessel bursts, this causes haemorrhaging into the brain. This can come in two different forms. An intracerebral haemorrhage, which is when a blood vessel bursts within the brain, or, a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a bleed between the brain and the skull.”

  Marianna felt herself go faint. All this talk about clots and blood and strokes was making her feel nauseous. She leaned heavily against the hospital wall. “Okay, so what type of stroke has Joseph had? In simple terms, please.”

  “That’s just it, I honestly don’t know. Until we perform the MRI, we’ll just have to make him as comfortable as possible and monitor him at all times.”

  “But what about last night, you said Joseph had suffered another attack, or something.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Marianna’s throat clicked as she tried to force herself to swallow, her mouth suddenly, completely dry. “Go on.”

  “Okay, there is an uncommon fourth type of stroke – a mini-stroke – if you would. This is called a Transient Ischaemic Attack, or TIA for short. This happens when the blood supply to the brain is interrupted for a very brief time. The symptoms are very similar to a full stroke, i.e. weakness on one side of the body, loss of sight and slurred speech. This is temporary and usually passes within no more than twenty-four hours.”

  Marianna’s face flushed with hope. “So that’s good, right?”

  “As far as the stroke is concerned, yes. These next twenty-four hours will be crucial. If Joseph starts to recover during this time we can rule out a full stroke and start looking at a TIA.”

  Marianna sensed the doctor had more to say. “And?”

  “The more worrying thing is the fact that Joseph has had at least two of these ‘incidents’, which suggests that there may be something more malevolent at work here.”

  “What?” she asked, the colour draining from her face.

  “We can’t at this point rule out that this condition is an indicator to something far more serious.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like heart disease – for one.”

  ***

  By the time Marianna entered the room, Jake was busy explaining how Captain Jean Luc Picard had thwarted yet another attack on the Starship Enterprise, thus saving his crew heroically. The old coach had seated himself in a chair and was splitting his time between, watching Jake’s animated face flip from emotion to emotion as he drew his tale to a conclusion, and the dog-eared magazine, which was opened out across his lap.

  “Hey, you,” Marianna said, flashing Joseph a smile.

  “Honey,” Joseph replied.

  Jake stopped abruptly, his father’s almost incomprehensible reply sending an obvious beat of fear through him. Marianna stepped forward to place her hand on Jake’s head. “Maybe you should finish your tale later, when Pop’s feeling less tired?”

  “Okay Mom,” Jake agreed. The young boy hopped off the side of the bed and ran the short distance to Profit. “What’s that?” he asked, now interested in the magazine.

  “This?” Profit said. “This is the August ninety-six edition of Ringside Magazine – the one with your father on the cover. You remember, from when he stopped Jonnie Tucker inside of three rounds.”

  Years ago, Joseph had already been on the brink of international success. Admittedly, the title belt he’d taken from Jonnie Tucker had been one of the less prestigious of them, awarded by the IBO, International Boxing Organisation, which was a governing body based outside of the US; thus bestowing its titleholder with only a small measure of moderate success.

  Still, as a stepping-stone to greater achievements, this had launched Joseph into the top ten ranked fighters in the world, and had surely been the beginning of something special. Until, that is, his untimely accident. Nothing too spectacular, either, just a slight bump while pulling out of the driveway one morning as Joseph was heading towards training. The resultant collision had jarred his neck severe enough for him to miss three months of solid training, during which he’d missed a mandatory defence of his title.

  By the time he’d made a full recovery, his world ranking had slipped, along with any immediate chance of another title fight. The next few years had proven difficult. A young street fighter had exploded onto the scene, rising quickly to the top, unifying all major belts, and totally dominating the heavyweight division. That left the lesser belts to contend for. Most of the top ten fighters had competed for these, pushing Joseph out of contention. Only Joseph’s grim determination had offered him his second shot. Something that in Joseph’s mind, and heart, had simply come too late.

 
Now, as Jake stood on tiptoes in an attempt to peek over the magazine, the old coach chanced a glance over the young boy’s shoulder to see how Joseph was doing. He felt a stab of pain and anger in his chest, and cursed himself for not seeing this potential life-threatening event before it had happened. Then as he looked over at Marianna, anger turned to deepest regret as he saw in her face both pain and fear.

  Profit climbed to his feet, intent on offering her his support, but before he’d taken two steps, the door opened with a mighty bang.

  The doctor stood in the doorway, his face a mask of worry. He took a deep breath and, speaking directly to Joseph, said, “We’ve got a problem. A real emergency!”

  Chapter Eight

  The homicide division took on a sombre, subdued air the moment Carter entered the room. The usual morbid and juvenile banter was replaced with hushed tones and attempts at working that looked over-exaggerated. Carter instantly sensed the change in atmosphere. He concentrated on looking down at his scuffed brown shoes during the short time it took him to reach his desk, open a desk drawer, and place his shield and holster inside. Closing it, he turned towards the single piece of paper in the IN part of his work tray. He reached out to take it.

  My office, as soon as you get in. C.M.

  Carter read it again, the handwriting unmistakable, and then looked over to the closed office door, which bore the name: Captain Mendoza. He crossed over to the door and rapped on it twice. Captain Mendoza’s coarse voice barked for him to come in from the other side.

  “You want to see me?”

  Mendoza looked up from the stack of paperwork spread across his desk. “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah,” Carter agreed. “I feel like it, too.”

  Captain Mendoza gestured towards the single seat that faced his desk. “Sit.”

  Carter did as ordered and silently braced himself for what was about to follow.

  “I phoned your house again last night,” Mendoza stated.

  “I know.”

  “You weren’t in – again.”

  “I know.”

  “Thomas,” Mendoza began, “you can’t do this all alone.”

  Carter met the captain’s eyes and held them steady. “Yes I can.”

  Mendoza shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Can’t argue there.”

  Mendoza shook his head again, but his dark brown eyes held only affection within them. “I don’t mean that asshole Perkins. I mean you can’t get through this grief – Billy’s loss – all by yourself.”

  “I know what you meant. And you’re wrong.”

  “How long have we been friends?” the captain asked.

  “A long time.”

  “Right,” Mendoza said. “And I’m not gonna let some asshole punk allow you to throw your life away.”

  “What life?”

  “This one!” Mendoza said, now infuriated with his friend’s beaten manner. “What about Billy? Would he have wanted you to throw your whole life away, because of what happened?”

  “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  Mendoza stood, his squat body taking up most of the room on his side of the desk. He moved around to sit on the edge, next to Carter. “If you find him, and kill him, you’ll go to prison – you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So quit this bullshit, and return to the real world, will you!”

  Carter just stared down as his feet, his captain and friend’s concern having little effect on him. “What else would you have me do?”

  Mendoza exhaled heavily. He reached up to rub tiredness or frustration from his eyes. “Leave Perkins to the cops in charge. They’ll bring him in, and then the fucker will spend the rest of his life rotting in some stinking prison cell.”

  “How many leads have they got?”

  “Enough to keep them busy. I’m serious, Thomas, let it go, or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with police business.”

  The warning had been weak and lacking in substance. Mendoza would love nothing more than to wake up, to find the newspaper headlines stating that Officer William Carter’s killer had been found floating face-down in the Hudson River; but not at the expense of his lifelong friend. The captain had watched Carter slip deeper towards despair over the last three months, and had been unable to do anything about it.

  “Look,” he began, “give us another forty-eight hours, and if we still haven’t caught the bastard, I’ll help you myself. And then we’ll both spend the rest of our lives eating cold slop and making number-plates.”

  Carter glanced up, his friend’s final comment registering somewhat. “And what would you have me do until then? I ain’t taking any leave – you can’t force me to.”

  Mendoza nodded. Indeed, the last thing the captain wanted was for Carter to have even more time on his hands. No, that would be bad, very bad. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “What?”

  Mendoza reached behind him. He took up a single sheet of paper. “This just came in.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not sure – yet. A patient at St Mary’s Hospital died this morning.”

  “So?”

  “So, the hospital staff suspect foul play.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else out there,” he said, with a gesture at the door, “that can follow this up?”

  “Yeah, Tyler is available.”

  “Then send her.”

  “I am,” Mendoza said. “I’m assigning the pair of you, together.”

  “Like hell, you are,” Carter announced.

  “Either take this graciously or you can take time off – alone. Your choice.”

  Carter clenched his jaw and wavered for a second, his mind trying to figure out which of the two scenarios would be worse: trapped in his apartment with nothing but silence to keep him company, or fathering a wet-nosed female detective on a complete no-brainer? In the end, fear of being alone won. He snatched the crime-report out of Mendoza’s hand and mumbled a curse under his breath.

  Carter left the office and was met once again with a hush of conversation.

  “Tyler!” he yelled.

  A young, shorthaired brunette stood up from her desk. The sea of faces that turned to her relaxed as one, and an almost palpable sense of relief filled the room.

  ***

  Detective Tyler picked up her shield and holster as she rounded her desk. And, as she made the short trip to Carter, she shot a look towards Captain Mendoza’s office and damned the captain for assigning her to this duty – duties that involved keeping Carter out of trouble for at least the next 48 hours.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time the two detectives arrived at St Mary’s, Joseph and Marianna had been informed about some of what had happened. The doctor had revealed some of the worrying details, but not all or the most important one.

  Marianna sat close by her husband as the doctor returned with two strangers in tow, a man and a woman. Mercifully, Eugene had taken Jake back home, on the pretence that Joseph was in need of clean clothes and toiletries.

  As the three entered, Marianna’s back straightened, subconsciously preparing herself for the possibility of conflict.

  “This is Joseph Ruebins and his wife, Marianna,” the doctor announced, tension clear in his voice.

  The male newcomer nodded and said, “Thanks Doc, we’ll be a few minutes.”

  Detective Tyler led the doctor out of the room. She returned and offered her partner a simple nod.

  “Okay, Joseph,” Carter began. “We understand you had something of an eventful night last night?”

  Joseph looked first to Marianna and then back to the detective. “I guess so,” he said, slurring the words.

  “Wait,” Marianna began, “we’ve already said we aren’t discussing legal action right now.”

  A puzzled look crossed Carter’s face. “Sorry?”

  “Over the mess up. Last night,” Marianna said.

  The detective no
dded, now finally understanding. “Yes, Joseph’s physician has already explained the mix-up. But we’re not here for that,” he replied.

  “Oh?” Marianna said, her back straightening even further.

  “Maybe we should introduce ourselves,” Tyler said, stepping forwards. She extended her arm across Joseph’s midriff and said, “I’m Detective Tyler, and this is Detective Carter.” She shook Marianna’s hand, and then after an awkward moment waiting for Joseph to take it, she patted his shoulder instead.

  “Detectives?” Marianna asked.

  “Yeah, we’re from Fourteenth Precinct, downtown,” Carter announced, withdrawing his ID from his breast pocket. “There was an incident last night, in the same room Joseph occupied during the hospital’s screw-up. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Like what?” Joseph slurred.

  “Come again?” Carter asked.

  Marianna took hold of her husband’s arm. “He’s had a stroke and is having trouble communicating clearly.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Carter said. “But he does understand us, right?”

  “Speak to him,” Marianna demanded. “He isn’t a dim-wit.”

  The reprimand caught Carter off guard. “Right, sorry. So – Joseph, last night, did you see anything suspicious?”

  “Like what?”

  Carter looked on blankly.

  “He said: like what?” she explained.

  “Oh,” Carter said. “How did you…?”

  “We’ve been together a long time, Detective, and endured more than one beer fest. The way he’s speaking now, it isn’t a million miles away from when he’s had a drink.”

  Joseph squirmed slightly, embarrassed by his wife’s confession. Marianna read his distress. She patted his arm gently and said, “Don’t worry sweetheart, a hard working man deserves the occasional minor indiscretion.”

  Now understanding that at least he had some sort of three-way communication system, Carter pressed on. “So, once again, Joseph, did you witness anything unusual?”