The Jorge Quintana East Side Memorial Medical Center, or the George Q as it was known to the locals, was a perfect example of sixties architecture. Unlike the old cinder block behemoths that were put up in prior decades, this building was constructed with the esthetics and values of the hippie generation. Wide halls. Brighter colors. Gardens, stubbornly non-xeric, and well maintained showed a garden planner's true talent, as there was always something in bloom. The layout itself was like a giant sun, the center a large atrium frequented by patients, staff, and visitors alike, with the different wings radiating off like sunrays.
The ER was an extended arm, fronted by glass doors and an ambulance bay. The only concessions to the 21st Century were armed security guards and metal detectors constructed over the previous years in response to the crime and poverty that had taken over much of the East Side.
Warrick straight-armed the glass doors to stalk through at top speed, but was brought up short by the metal detectors. Impatiently, he put down his bag and fumbled out his badge and ID card, pulling it out from where he wore it on a chain around his neck under his jacket. The guard gave it a quick once over and nodded him through.
Grissom and Catherine were standing, arms folded, leaning against the nurses' station just past the bustling waiting room. He headed over, put down his bag, and unconsciously echoing their postures, crossed his arms and waited for their update.
Catherine released one arm to raise a hand to Warrick's shoulder. She felt the tension there and gave his arm a quick squeeze of reassurance.
Warrick didn't want reassurance. He just wanted to know what was going on and he wanted to see his friend. He responded with a tight smile.
"Have you seen him yet?"
"Yeah. Umm, we need to talk before you go in." He caught her flashing a look at Grissom. It said bad news that she didn't want to break to him. He felt his gut tighten.
"Yeah? What's this all about?"
"Well first off, he looks like hell. I almost didn't recognize him when we first went in. Looks like he went a few rounds with Mike Tyson. And second of all, he's pretty out of it. I just wanted you to know what you're headed into."
Grissom had remained quiet, but he knew Catherine was having a tough time. While he'd been accused of insensitivity, and ignorance of the familial bonds that had formed around him, he recognized the almost maternal feelings Cath had for Nick.
"Warrick, what Catherine is trying to say is that it seems Nick has experienced some memory loss. The doctor said he has some head trauma, which would most likely explain it. She's right in describing him as 'out of it'. He may not recognize you when you go in."
"What? I mean, I can't believe… did he recognize you?"
"Catherine went in. She tried talking to him but… he's not processing right now. And Greg was right about the wound. There is a sizableone to his arm, and he's lost a lot of blood."
He paused, then went on.
"We asked the staff to leave him as he was when he came in, and only give him initial necessary care. We don't have Nick's memory to work with, so we need Nick to supply us with more clues." Another pause. "Give me the kit. I'll go in and do it."
"No. No way, Gris. No offense, but I know Nick would want me to do it."
Grissom had known from the start that this was the response he would get, but wanted to make the offer regardless. He knew better than to protest, and any additional arguing would only delay the further care that Nick needed.
He gave a slow head nod. "All right. But be careful. You can't rush this, no matter how unpleasant, Rick. For now, this may be all we get."
"Yeah. I know. Where is he?"
"Room Four. Right behind that door." He gestured with his glasses in hand towards a wood door with a milky glass window insert.
Warrick picked up his bag and headed for the door. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then opened the door slowly. The door shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss and a click, shutting out the noises from the waiting area.
Nick was on a white sheet-covered gurney. An IV stuck out of one hand, and a metal tray stood nearby covered in bloody gauze. Catherine was right. He looked like he'd been on a ride through Hell and back. His face was pale under three day's growth of dark beard. Dark circles under his eyes. And that shirt? It definitely was not in the black, blue, olive drab school of clothes that Nick favored. The left sleeve of the shirt had been cut off to reveal a gaping ragged hole in Nick's bicep. The flesh around the wound was fiery red and crimson streaks ran in spidery lines down his arm to his elbow.
An older Hispanic woman in a white doctor's coat walked over and greeted him in a lowered voice. He was once again asked to present his ID. He showed it to her and she appeared to relax a bit and gave him a small smile. Her nametag read N. Espinoza, MD. She was a petite handsome woman with deep smile lines in her tan face and she wore her dark gray-streaked hair in a long braid down her back. Small silver feathers hung from her ears.
He responded in the same muted timbre. "So, um, Dr. Espinoza? Nick is a friend. A good friend. Can you tell me what's going on?"
"Mr. Grissom told me you'd be coming by, Mr. Brown. Best as I can tell from the initial once-over I gave him, he's suffering from blood loss, a systemic infection from the wound, and head trauma. I suspect that's the reason he's got some memory loss. I asked the standard questions we use to establish mental acuity. Name, year, current place, current president, and the like. Best I can get is that he knows he's in Vegas. But he's in and out and we won't know more until I can get him in an MRI.
"When will that be?"
"Well, we have only the one machine, and that was tough getting let me tell you. A lot of years and a lot of politicking," she said with another rueful smile. "But he's number one on the priority list so as soon as you've finished we'll get him over there. I honored Mr. Grissom's request after he explained the circumstances, but I think we need to do this sooner rather than later."
"Yeah, okay. Umm, can I talk to him?"
"Yes. But don't expect too much, okay? It might be best if you told him why you were here. He's a little lost right now and I think he'd feel better with a bit of control. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Yeah. I get you."
He lowered the bag softly to the floor and took a few hesitant steps towards the gurney.
"Hey, Nick."
No response.
He moved closer and placed his hand lightly on his friend's leg. The touch of his hand caused Nick's eyes to flutter open. He moved his head to bring Warrick into view and stared at him. There was no recognition- no smile of greeting. Just brown eyes blinking slowly as if viewing Warrick as an apparition that might not really be there.
"Hey, Nick," he ventured again. The eyes blinked a few times.
"Hey."
The voice was Nick's and it was directed towards Warrick, but it was a rote response as if greeting a stranger. The expected polite response, nothing more.
"Nick, it's Warrick. How you doing, Bro?"
A pause, as if he was thrown a bit by the familiarity. "Okay. Thanks for asking." Another rote response.
"We, um, work together."
He watched as Nick's eyes widened slightly. The eyes fixed on the ID sitting on his chest. He took a few steps closer to Nick's side and held the ID out for him to see it better. Nick's hand reached out to touch the badge.
"You're a cop?"
"Yeah. We work crime scenes together."
A smile formed on Nick's face. A small, tired, half smile- but a smile nonetheless. His whole body seemed to relax as if a tremendous weight had been lifted.
Warrick heard the doctor moving nearby and glanced back at her. She gave him a look that said 'hurry this up'.
He returned back to his friend. Nick's eyes had closed back down, but the small smile lingered on his face.
"Nick?"
The eyes remained shut, but he answered with a short grunt of acknowledgment.
"It looks like you went a few rounds with the Hell's Angels, Bro. Can you tell me anything about what happened?"
Another barely spoken answer. "No."
"Okay. Well, I need to take some pictures. Is it okay if I take some pictures, Nick?"
The eyes fluttered back open, then narrowed with suspicion.
Dr. Espinoza came up from behind Warrick and leaned in to meet eyes with her patient.
"Nick, Warrick needs to take pictures of your wounds so we can find out what happened to you. I'll stay right here and help. Then we'll start working on getting you feeling better. Okay?"
His eyes roamed fitfully between the two then settled on the doctor. Apparently, he had come to trust her and he sighed and nodded.
"Okay, Nick. Close your eyes so the flash doesn't hurt you, okay?"
Another nod and the eyes closed tightly shut.
The doctor leaned over and murmured in Warrick's ear, "When he was first brought in and we turned on the exam light it caused him quite a bit of pain. Also completely expected. Just bear it in mind, okay?"
Warrick was completely thrown by all of this. He was foundering, unable to accept what he was seeing and hearing. His best friend didn't recognize him. He was hurt and had no idea what had happened or who had done these terrible things to him. And worst of all,Warrick was unable to provide any meaningful comfort. The only one Nick was responding to was the doc.
He gathered himself, recognizing that the one thing he could do was his job. Do it well, and do it quickly.
He strode back over to his bag and pulled out the Nikon. Checked the settings on the camera, trying to get himself in the job mindset.
He walked over and placed his friend in the viewfinder. With a deep breath he began snapping pictures, starting at Nick's feet. The same kicks he'd seen his friend wear a hundred times before. Brown splotches covered the laces and formerly white trim. No socks? Snap, snap. Dark jeans, same brown crusty spots on the left leg. Snap. The shirt. The wound on his upper arm. He reached over to take Nick's hand to have him turn his arm over and flinched at the heat emanating from it. His lower forearms had fresher bruises, longer and thinner than those Warrick usually saw made by fists. They were defensive bruises as if Nick's arms had been raised in front of him to fend off blows. And why do they look so new? Snap, snap.
He walked around the gurney and picked up the other hand, noting the fight bite on Nick's knuckles. Snapped a couple pics of that; flipped his arm over to find the same fresh bruising.
Now was the toughest part. The body in his viewfinder could have been any victim. But he needed photos of Nick's face and he closed his eyes as the shutter opened and shut, capturing his friend's visage. He brought the camera in closer to get the scabbed-over wound on his temple.
Warrick looked at the doctor. Then back at his friend. "Nick? We need to get your shirt off, Bro. Can you sit up?"
The doctor moved around to the front and had Nick put his arms around her neck as she helped him sit up on the gurney. Warrick watched as his friend reeled and leaned heavily on the doctor's slim shoulders.
The doctor said something to Nick that Warrick didn't catch but Nick answered her with a brief nod and allowed her to unsnap the shirt and pull it down off his arms. As his left arm was maneuvered back he let out a small moan at the pain it must have cost him.
Warrick's breath caught in his throat. He had made a joke about the Hell's Angels, but he had had no idea the trauma Nick had suffered until now. The man's chest and stomach were nothing but bruises. The same shape and size as those on their Jane Doe. The same Saturn-like rings surrounded them. The only difference was that Nick's had yellowed with time.
The doctor said something else to Nick in the same quiet voice she'd been using. He gave her another small nod, and with his eyes still shut he swung his feet out over the edge of the gurney and gripped the edge with whitening knuckles. He sat there as motionless as he could manage and Warrick snapped off a series of pictures of his front, moving around behind Nick to take in the same bruises riddling his back.
Warrick nodded at the doctor and she reached back over to grab Nick's good shoulder and ease him back onto the bed. She whispered something in Nick's ear and he gave her a small smile. She patted his arm gently and headed over to take Warrick and lead him over to a corner of the small room.
"I'll have a nurse come in and help finish up. I'll make sure you get his clothes, and I'll let you know if there are any other pictures to take, okay?"
Warrick nodded gratefully at her, and prayed silently that he wouldn't be needed back in the room.
"Yeah. I need a swab of the bite on his knuckles. It's three days old, but it might help."
"I can do that, Mr. Brown."
"Please, call me Warrick. And Doc? What's gonna happen next? I mean, after his MRI?"
"Well, he'll need surgery on the arm to clean out the infected and necrotic tissue. We'll check him for internal injuries during the MRI seeing now the extent of bruising on his torso. And he may need a PET scan, depending on the MRI. I suspect a subdural hematoma is pressing on his temporal lobes, which would explain the memory loss. If there's no intracranial bleeding than we'll use steroids and anticoagulants to clear the hematoma. If he doesn't respond then we go in and remove it." She paused and looked at Warrick's face and saw the concern there. "Warrick, he's in good hands. We'll get some blood and fluids in him, along with antibiotics. He's a strong young man. You'll see. I get a good read off this one." She said this last with another smile.
"Yeah, that's Nick. A real charmer, even looking and feeling like hell."
Her smile broadened. "Yeah, he's a big sweetie. He keeps apologizing for being a bother. And what is that accent?"
"Texas."
"Hm. That would explain it. When I asked him his name he said he only knew a nickname, Tejano."
"What's that mean?"
"It's a word that Mexicans living in Texas use to describe themselves and their culture. He certainly doesn't look like a Mexican hermano,"she said with another smile.
Warrick ran a hand through his hair. Just another bizarre clue that didn't fit.
"I've known Nick for ten years. I've never known anyone to use that nickname."
The doctor merely raised her eyebrows, then she let out a small gasp and whirled around to head back to the metal table parked next to the gurney. She grabbed something and returned back to Warrick, her hand extended towards him.
"This was wrapped around his arm wound. I thought you might need it."
Warrick reached a hand out and she placed a long blood crusted piece of fabric in it.
Warrick immediately recognized it as the strip missing from their Jane Doe's skirt.