Rune Alignment
Chapter 50
Bobby sat, slowly, gently moving his right thumb across the back of Gleason's left hand. It was so good to look at her. She's alive, she's alive, he thought, thank you, God, thank you. She slept. He watched the monitor. His left hand pounded, he'd left his pills at home on the nightstand. He sighed and watched Gleason's eyes move under her lids. She's sleeping, just sleeping, he told himself. He had the start of a headache. He closed his eyes.
He startled awake when a young nurse slid back the curtain, stopped short and said, "I am so sorry, I need to check her infusion site."
"Of course, of course," Bobby said, clearing his throat, straightening in the chair. "I must have drifted off."
The nurse examined the site on Gleason's right hand, looked at the bags, the tubes, the junctions, and then looked at Bobby, "Would you like to wipe her face and neck with a cool cloth? It feels good and helps keep her cool."
"Yes, absolutely, please." Bobby gently set Gleason's hand on her abdomen and stood up.
"Oh, here, just one minute." She left and was right back holding the sling. "Here, Dr. Creighton wants you to wear this all day, everyday, except to bed. Let me help you slip this on." The nurse, Julie, unfolded the sling, refolded it, adjusted the straps and helped Bobby slide his arm through and get the strap over his head and around his shoulder. He had to stoop and bend for her to get him situated. "My, you are big," she said without thinking and then blushed a deep red.
Bobby smiled and said, "How am I going to do this myself each morning?"
"Until this lady is well, you're on your own," Julie said with a smile. She turned on the faucet in the small sink and let the water run cold. She reached up, removed a small, pink plastic basin from a cupboard overhead, and filled it with a few inches of cold water. Then she squeezed in a few drops of green liquid from a white bottle. The room filled with the light scent of mint.
"Here you are," she said setting the basin on the table. She took a white square washcloth from the same cupboard and said, handing the cloth to him, "Just get the cloth a little wet, squeeze it out so it doesn't run all over and then wipe her gently. Keep the cloth a little wet so it's cool on her skin. The scent is pleasant and may rouse her."
Bobby dipped the cloth into the basin, squeezed and smiled at Julie. "I'll leave you to it, then." And she pulled the curtain closed behind her.
"Hey . . . h-e-e-y . . .!"
"What, did you find it?" Martin asked. "Is that it? Let me see –."
Jerry handed over the narrative, "Look, it talks about him getting aroused and rubbing himself in front of the interviewers. He was agitated; it's all there, just like you said. This is the guy!"
Martin flipped to the coversheet. "This guy's name is Clive Donahue."
"We should tell Goren. Come on!"
Jerry and Martin literally ran to the elevator. They were like two boys who found the key to the secret door.
"Well, what brings you guys over here? Where's the big guy?" Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers asked as the three detectives entered the morgue.
"Bishop here can't read science, so we're here to find out about yesterday's shooter," Sledge answered. "And Goren is God knows where."
"I see," the ME said, snapping off the latex gloves she wore and walking to two rows of stainless steel, three-foot square, heavy duty doors with lateral pull handles set into the far wall. The group walked with her. Rodgers tossed the gloves into a nearby trash bin and lugged open one of the square doors. A rush of cold air escaped into the room as she reached around and slid out a stainless steel table with Elliott Baughman's body on it. A folded sheet covered his midsection and a smaller cloth covered the top of his head.
"Well," she continued. "Mr. Baughman died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, a twenty-two. He died instantly. All of the damage was to the left hemisphere; I'm guessing he was right handed.
"He put the gun under his chin, but not flush against his skin; there were no powder burns around the wound. The trajectory and resulting damage indicate he probably held the gun six to eight inches below his chin and in front of it and pointed upward at about a seventy-five degree angle, back toward his throat.
"He pulled the trigger, sending the bullet upward through the floor of his mouth, continuing through his upper palate, and severing his sinuses. The bullet entered the mid section of the frontal lobe in the lower forebrain, traveling just above and along the temporal lobe. The slug continued upward at an angle, entering the parietal lobe, essentially bisecting the frontal and temporal lobes. The bullet lodged deep in the parietal lobe at an interesting angle, or it would have taken off the top of his head.
"I found something interesting, too. His brain had excessive gyrencephalization." Rodgers recognized the look of 'what?' and explained, "The cerebral cortex is the outermost layer surface of the brain. The make up of the sulci and gyri on the cerebral cortex determines the degree of cortical folding." Still blank looks.
She looked at the three and said, with a sigh, "His brain was more wrinkled than most people."
"Oh," said Bishop.
"Uh huh," nodded Eames.
"Why the hell didn't you say that in the first place?" asked Sledge.
"Is that important?" asked Bishop.
"I am sure it is. But I don't know what it means," Rodgers answered.
The three detectives looked from one to another.
"The tox screen says he had a combination of drugs in his system," Bishop asked, "and it mentions paranoia? What's the story there?"
"He was loaded with three drugs, cocaine, amphetamines, and marijuana, any one of which can induce psychosis in individuals who have a predisposition for it. In other words, the shooter was probably prone to states of transient paranoia, manic excitement, and compulsive and impulsive behaviors. He most likely was easily agitated. He would imagine unrealistic scenarios that seemed very real to him. He probably occasionally acted on some of his imagined scenarios. That's most likely what this event was.
"Adding any one of those three drugs would significantly increase the severity of his paranoia. All three drugs combined would spiral his neurosis out of control. He spun out and vented his frustration, confusion, anger, and fear by shooting those he thought were out to get him or deny him what he felt he was owed."
"Jesus, you sound like Huang," Sledge uttered.
"Yeah, thanks. George knows what's coming beforehand, and I confirm his diagnosis afterward. I'm yin to his yang," she replied.
They digested all that Rodgers had shared. She continued with a softer voice, "I heard the professor who worked with the department was one of the victims. How is she doing, anyone know?"
Bishop looked at Eames. Sledge just looked down. Eames glanced at Bishop and then Alex said, "I guess she's holding her own, but not good."
"That's too bad. What is to be done with his remains? Any family we should contact?"
"We're going to have to search for next of kin in Wales. So, we're gonna have to get back to you on that, Doc," Sledge answered.
"Well, I'll keep him cold. Is there anything else I can do for you?" Rodgers asked. The three looked at each other. "I guess that's it then. Come by anytime. Always glad for some live company."
They said their goodbyes and left.
Martin and Jerry were waiting for the three detectives when they returned.
"Where's Goren?" Jerry asked. He was practically hopping in his place.
"Not here, so who cares," Sledge replied.
"What do you need Goren for?" Eames asked.
"Oh, you guys are going to love us," said Martin, his excitement obvious. "You tell them, you found it." He said to Jerry.
"No, you tell them, you remembered it."
"For Chissakes, will one of you just say it?" Sledge growled.
Deakins walked up and asked, "What's up?"
"Big news, I guess," Bishop said.
"Ok," Martin said, taking a deep breath. "You know that voice print we did on the caller?" They nodded. "Well, after I wrote the narrative and then reread it, I remembered a case I heard about when I was an intern, back in ninety-five and ninety-six. Same kind of wacko stuff, the guy was picked up for doing himself in parked car, they brought him in on another charge, taped the interview; he was all about finishing his art and wanting to have her – whoever 'her' was. Anyway, they wanted a voiceprint since he was so out of it. And – he had an English accent!" Martin and Jerry looked at the four others expectantly, eyes, mouths and hands wide open.
"Sounds like the guy you guys are looking for, right?" Jerry asked, expectantly.
"So, does this guy have a name?" Deakins asked.
"Uh, yeah," Martin answered, checking the narrative he held, "Clive Donahue."
"Well, see what else you can find on him, find out where he is and bring him in," Deakins ordered.
"Just the people I was looking for," ADA Ron Carver said, approaching with his overcoat across his right arm.
"Counselor, good to see you," Deakins said with his hand out.
They shook hands and Deakins asked, "What brings you here?"
"Well, I was able to expedite the search warrant on the shooter's place. I thought I'd bring it over and let your people get on it," Carver said, removing the folded blue document from his breast pocket.
"Hey, great, thanks," Bishop said, taking it from him. "Let me see who's in charge over at Baughman's apartment house and have them meet us to unlock his apartment."
"Do you have a minute?" Deakins asked Carver.
"Certainly."
"I have a situation I need to run by someone. In my office?"
The two men turned and walked toward Deakins office.
"Thanks fellas, this is a nice piece of work you did. It's appreciated." Sledge said with sincerity to the two audio techs.
"Yeah, thanks a bunch," added Bishop.
Eames smiled at the two young men, "You did good," she said simply.
"Glad we could help," Martin said. Then to Jerry, "Come on, let's go put away the rest of that stuff." And they walked toward the elevator.
"Ok, so . . ." Sledge said, "Why don't Eames and I go search Elliott's apartment when you reach the super or whoever at his place. You stay here and search this Clive Donohue fellow," he said to Bishop. "Even though this information is almost fifteen years old, something may remain. Use your connections at Interpol to see what they have on him back home. I'll get some uniforms and a photographer to meet us over there. Is this all right with you two?" He looked from one woman to the other.
"Yes, fine," Eames said flatly.
"No problem," answered Bishop. And to herself she said, it looks like you guys need some time to talk anyway.
"Good. Let me make that call." He gently took hold of Eames' forearm and guided her to his desk. "We need to talk. Let me get the troop set up and I'll meet you in the crash room. Go and wait for me. I won't be ten minutes."
Eames didn't know what to think, or do, so she headed for the crash room.
Bobby dipped the washcloth into the cold water, lifted it and squeezed. He tested it to see if it was too wet, gave it another squeeze and hefted it in his hand to position it just right. Ever so gently, he touched Gleason's forehead and wiped. She looked so hot, pale but hot. Her face and neck were sweaty. He wiped the other direction, and then moved to her face, below her eyes, along her jaw and cheek. He rewet the cloth, squeezed and did the other half of her face. He rewet the cloth, squeezed and moved the cloth along her neck, under her ear, around to the back. He pulled the cloth forward and down along her collarbone.
He worked so slowly, loving touching her. He began to whisper to her, "I love you. I've loved you from the first moment. Don't die, don't leave me. I love you. Honey, I love you." He rewet the cloth, squeezed and moved the cloth over her chest, down her left arm.
She stirred in her sleep, shifted her legs and turned her head. She took a deep breath and winched, uttering a soft "uhhh" as if the deep breath hurt. Bobby stopped wiping and watched her.
"Honey? Gleason, honey? Wake up sweetheart, wake up." He quickly rewet the cloth, squeezed and wiped her forehead again, "Honey, wake up. Gleason? It's Bobby. Gleason?" He wiped her neck, under her chin.
Gleason, turned her head toward his voice, her eyes fluttered and then opened. She blinked, moved her head back a fraction of an inch as if to focus and whispered, "Bobby."