Chapter Seven

Internist Dr. Peter Henderson was alerted that his long-term patient was in the hospital by the ER docs who had spent several hours diagnosing his injuries and stitching and plastering up a couple of them. Sitting at a desk, Henderson rested his forehead on his hand as he read the ER chart notes. Having been Bill Maxwell's physician for the last ten years, and liking the man, Henderson could hardly believe that Bill was back in a hospital, injured once more. His chart notes already required the use of two separate charts, and most of them had been written in the last three years. Previous to three years ago, Bill mostly came in to treat heartburn, ulcers, and headaches. He'd get yearly blood work which was frustratingly normal for cholesterol and triglycerides (thus keeping Bill convinced his diet of burgers and coffee was healthy), and, have his blood pressure taken which was also well within normal limits. For the last three years though, in the beginning of the sunset of his active agent years, Bill had become a fairly regular visitor to ER departments. Henderson did a quick review of his chart, mentally noting his broken bones, gunshots, concussions, the one skull fracture, and the odd request for sleeping pills due to occasional nightmares, nightmares which Bill refused to discuss, and which he had never had previous to three years ago.

Henderson also doubted many of Bill's explanations for how his bones had been broken. A bad guy crushing his hand in a door broke his right hand. He apparently had suffered several falls—from a ladder, from a stairway, from a chair—which caused his skull fracture, his hip sprain, and his ankle sprain. He broke his elbow being shoved into a brick wall. The excuses, most of them specious to say the least, went on and on.

How Bill's fifty-four year old body got out of bed everyday without being stiff as a board, Dr. Henderson didn't know. Bill was tough, and obviously had good genes, and an astounding capacity to heal, but age was age, and couldn't be denied. Bill had accepted his need for reading glasses, but seemed to be resistant to considering a less active FBI job, even though his chances for serious arthritis developing in the near future was pretty high.

And, now, his new injuries. Being nearly blown up, for god's sake! Dr. Henderson read on, his lips a thin line of disapproval. Twenty stitches in his scalp and twenty one in his leg. The right sided wrist fracture and Stage II acromioclavicular shoulder separation; the right sided hip pointer. The road burn of the left side of his face and all the other assorted bruises all over his body from playing tag with a trunk, car and road. That he had not been filled with shrapnel, or had a limb torn off was nothing short of a miracle.

Dr. Henderson left his office and wandered through the hospital to Bill's room. He was not surprised to find Bill's friend Ralph Hinkley there, sitting in a chair by Bill's bed. Ralph frequently brought Bill to the hospital, even though he wasn't with the FBI himself. How Ralph was involved Henderson didn't understand; questions on that subject were met with mumbled hemming and hawing. And something else was strange regarding Ralph Hinkley. Often, Dr. Henderson thought he saw guilt written all over Ralph's face when Bill's injury(ies) were explained to him. What Hinkley was culpable for, Dr. Henderson had no idea. How could Hinkley, a high school teacher, be responsible for Bill's injuries? There were so many peculiarities in their relationship, although Henderson knew the affection between them was sincerely genuine. Ralph was always a constant visitor to Bill when he was in the hospital, which Henderson knew Bill sincerely appreciated. Too bad Ralph was not very good at getting Bill to stay under medical supervision as long as Henderson wished. Bill's allergy to "three hots and a cot" was remarkable and he sometimes left the hospital in a condition for which most people would be admitted.

Ralph looked up at the internist. "Hello, Dr. Henderson. You heard about Bill?"

"Yes, the ER docs contacted me."

"I haven't had the whole explanation of his injuries explained to me. Would you mind doing so?"

Why not, Henderson thought? He'd done so too many times in the past three years to count. He glanced at his sleeping patient, disturbed by what a medical mess he was. A tight bandage wrapped around his entire head protecting his scalp wound, leaving a spray of brown hair visible at the top of his head. Blueness and abrasions could be seen slipping out from around the bandage adhered to the left side of his face. His right wrist was encased in a plaster cast, the whole arm in a sling. An ice pack rested on his right shoulder and hip. IV antibiotics and fluids entered into the vein on the top of his left hand.

"Well," Henderson began, "His hearing returned in the ER; he could communicate with the doctors. That's good." Ralph was glad about that. Like everyone else at the bomb scene, when Ralph had descended to the street he had logically discerned Bill's deafness via the slight amount of blood coming out of his ears, his complete lack of response to what anyone said, and his screaming if Ralph was alright. Nodding his head with Bill's hand on it had thankfully settled his partner down immediately.

Dr. Henderson went on speaking and Ralph tuned back in. "--head laceration went all the way down to his skull, which accounts for his notable bleeding. He'll need to wear that bandage around his head for the next couple of weeks, to keep it protected and from getting an infection. Luckily, the gash in his thigh was not as pronounced; it didn't go through the skin into his muscles or ligaments. What else? You can see by the cast he's obviously got a broken right wrist. His right shoulder suffered a shoulder separation which is when his clavicle, uh, collar bone, separates from the scapula, that is, the shoulder blade." Dr. Henderson pointed on his own shoulder the area involved and how the joint was separated. "It's not bad enough to require surgery, but it's going to hurt like the dickens for a couple of weeks. What's going to hurt even more for the next week is his right hip pointer."

"Hip pointer? Isn't that a football injury?"

"It's common in football but not exclusive to it. Bill must have landed hard on his hip and that bruised the iliac crest", he pointed to his own hip, showing where the crest was. "That causes a lot of bleeding into the area, some bruised tendons and ligaments, and a great deal of pain. The medical report indicates his whole right hip area is terribly contused, black and blue, in layman's terms, but there's no internal injuries."

"I see," Ralph said, getting that unmistakably guilty look again, and avoiding eye contact with him. Why the guilt? Ralph hadn't planted the bomb. It was terribly perturbing to Dr. Henderson.

"That ugly but minor facial laceration he received from scraping his cheek against unforgiving pavement shouldn't cause a scar. Doesn't look like he got another concussion; seems he passed out more from shock than a head injury." Henderson paused. "The good news is he's going to survive and recover. The bad news is for the next week or so, he's going to wish he was dead, pain-wise, if he tries to move much."

"He's not going to like that. He's active on a pretty important case."

Henderson sighed. "Isn't he always? Look, Ralph, you're his best friend aren't you?" Ralph nodded weakly, still not glancing at the doctor. "Can't you talk to Bill and get him to consider stopping his active agent duties? He doesn't listen to me. Maybe Bill could get promoted to supervisor somewhere or go teach at the Academy. Some job where he still feels he's making a valuable contribution to the country, but he isn't getting banged up all the time. He worries me."

"Me, too," Ralph said softly.

There was a long silence as Dr. Henderson noted Ralph didn't comment on his request for help in getting Bill a safer job. Some friend, he scoffed. He'll drag Bill into the ER and come to visit him when he's hurt, but won't help prevent it. With friends like that, we should all settle for dogs.

As the silence grew unbearable, Henderson strode in a huff out of the room. Ralph's guilty face didn't waver.