Love is Blind
With apologies to ESG I have taken some liberties with the ending of TCOT Moth-Eaten Mink.
Sgt. Jaffrey has entered Perry Mason's office and Perry has almost proven that it is Jaffrey who has committed the murder of his partner and another man. As Jaffrey has his gun pointed at Perry, Lt. Tragg has quietly entered the office behind the man.
"Mason, you just never learned to mind your own business." The menacing growl in the tall cop's voice was impossible to miss. His eyes blazed, and he made no effort to hide his rage and hostility.
As he raised the gun, the door from Della Street's office area was soundlessly pushed open.
"Hold it, Jaffrey!"
Tragg's voice was enough to freeze the corrupt cop, but not enough to keep him that way. He turned and aimed in one fluid movement. Tragg didn't wait for the sound of the report. He fired twice. One shot caught the cop in the shoulder, causing him to jerk, which made the second shot miss.
As the lieutenant crossed to secure the man, he saw Perry crumpled on the floor. Quickly slapping cuffs on Jaffrey, Tragg knelt by the fallen lawyer. Blood was seeping from a wound on his head and his color was already fading.
Panic seized Tragg and refused to let go. His mouth went dry. "Mason? Perry, can you hear me?"
At that moment, Sgt. Brice and two patrol officers entered the compact space and came up short. One look told them all they needed to know: Jaffrey was in handcuffs, and Perry Mason was down. The hows and whys would come later.
"Brice, get an ambulance up here immediately," Tragg commanded. Tension made the vein in his forehead pulse.
As the sergeant placed the call, Perry let out a low groan.
Tragg let out a sigh. "Damn it, Mason! You scared me out of a year's growth! You can quit resting on your laurels and—"
"Tragg!"
Perry was struggling to sit up, but his world felt tilted on its axis. Up was down, right was left, and nothing made sense. On top of that, something was impeding his ability to sit up. He put out his hands, more-so to steady himself than to identify his surroundings.
"Perry, what's wrong?" Tragg's voice was quieter, more worried now.
"Why is it so dark in here? Did Jaffrey hit the switch with a wild shot? Hit the lights!"
The shock of Perry's statement hit the older man like a slug to the chest. Oh, God. What have I done? He put his hand on the big man's shoulder, pushing him back to the floor.
"Perry, just lie still. The ambulance is on the way." His voice was quiet, yet firm.
As if to punctuate his statement, sirens sounded in the street below.
Perry was rubbing his hands across his face, trying to clear his vision, but all he saw was darkness. The blood from the crease was still flowing, and he was determined to get it out of his eyes. Then it occurred to him the blood would only make things blurry, not black. Finally, his hand landed on Tragg's arm. He felt the fabric of the man's blazer and something in his mind clicked.
His voice was strained and tinged with panic. "Tragg?"
The older man shifted his hand from Perry's shoulder to his hands. "It's okay now, Perry."
Arthur Tragg prayed, with every fiber of his being, that he hadn't just lied.
Della allowed Paul to hold her arm as they hurried down the hospital corridor to the waiting room outside of emergency surgery. They entered as a unit, both determined to get to the information desk without being stopped. Unfortunately, the other two people already ensconced in the waiting room had other ideas.
Tragg, who had been joined by Hamilton Burger, looked up as the pair entered. Nudging the district attorney with his elbow, the lieutenant nodded toward Della and they both rose as one to intercept them.
Della stopped, standing rooted to the spot. "Is there any news?"
Tragg's battered hat was in his hand, and his eyes, shrouded in dark circles from decades without quality sleep, looked haggard. He stood a little back, allowing Burger to speak first. Della noticed but filed the observation away.
Hamilton took her arm from Paul and led her to a chair. Waiting until she was settled, he answered her question. "Not yet. Dr. Baxter met the ambulance and they've called in the top neurosurgeon from UCLA Med Center."
Neurosurgeon? But that would imply Perry has something wrong with his brain! "Why? What's wrong? I thought it was just a simple flesh wound."
Looking from Hamilton's worried stare to Tragg's sorrowful face, two crystal tears escaped her eyes. Swiping at the offending wetness, she steeled herself. "Tell me, Hamilton."
"Perry's blind."
Della's hand flew to her heart, as if the organ had stopped beating with the utterance of those two words. "No," she breathed, as though refuting the claim outright would change it.
When Hamilton would have said more, he stopped when Dr. Baxter emerged from the emergency room doors. Seeing the four familiar faces and the stricken look on Della's, he knew they had been told. Taking a chair next to Della, he pulled off his medical cap and ran his fingers through his graying hair.
"Dr. Baxter?" When he didn't say anything, she dropped the formality. "Mark?"
"Give me a minute, Della."
Paul, who had been silently standing to the side, pushed the cup of coffee he had just purchased into the doctor's hand.
"Thanks, Paul." Taking a long sip, he looked around at the people anxiously looking back at him. "I'm going to do my best to explain what has happened, what to expect and what can be done. I'd appreciate it if you'd hold your questions until I'm finished."
Four heads nodded, almost in unison.
His face was grim, his mouth set. This was not going to be easy to say, nor was it going to be any easier to hear.
With a sigh, he began, "The wound was very minor; the bullet barely creased the hairline just above the left ear. There was no obvious neurological damage. However, Perry is suffering from what we call 'hysterical blindness'. It's caused by several things but in Perry's case we think it's stress and shock. The stress, of course, is coming from his workload and current case. The shock comes from the impact of the bullet, even though it wasn't that serious."
The doctor took another sip of the coffee, waiting. The three men around him were breathing hard, processing the news with a numbness none of them had felt before. But it was Della, resilient in the moment, who asked the question foremost in all their minds.
"Is it permanent?"
"Not necessarily." When she dropped her head, Dr. Baxter continued. "Della, this is why we call it 'hysterical blindness'. It could last a few days, a few weeks, a few months or . . ."
She took that punch right on the chin. Straightening in her seat, she met his eyes directly. Hers were still filled with unshed tears, but they were sharp, too, and focused right on the man.
"Alright, doctor. What do we need to do to help him?"
The doctor was amazed at the strength of the woman who sat before him. He knew if anyone could help cure Perry, it would be she.
"I must warn you—all of you—that for a man as active as Perry, being blind will be worse than if he had been paralyzed. He will go through stages of anger and depression, most likely lashing out at those he cares for." He looked steadily at Della and then the others. "He may even become suicidal."
Once again Della's hand clutched her heart. No one missed it.
"Della, I'm going to keep him here for a few days. I'll convince him I'm going to do a battery of tests. In the meantime, I'm going to put you in touch with someone who will be able to help you deal with him once he has been released."
Della put her hand on his arm, smiling in spite of the tears creeping down her cheeks. "Thank you, Dr. Baxter. I know all of us will do whatever it takes to help Perry through this."
He nodded absently. Finishing the remains of the coffee quickly, he crushed the cup before adding, "Okay. As soon as he is in a room, I will allow visitors. One at a time, guys. And only for a few minutes. This is when he really needs his rest."
Taking a last look at the four faces, the doctor returned through the operating room doors.
His absence felt like the aftermath of an explosion. Destruction was all around; and the sudden silence was nearly deafening. No one spoke for a full sixty seconds. When the quiet swelled, it was actually Hamilton who broke it.
"Della, I know we will all give you whatever help we can. But I'm afraid it's you Perry is going to need. He's always depended on you for almost everything."
Paul looked stricken, but Della only nodded.
"We won't leave until we see him. After that, do you want us to stay with you?"
She shook her head. "No. Thank you, Hamilton. You and Arthur can go on—afterwards. Paul will make sure I get home."
"Sure, Beautiful."
Hamilton took her hands in his. "How can you be so calm? I'm not sure I'll even have the words to say to him!"
She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Don't take this the wrong way, Mr. Burger, but Perry isn't going to hear anything right now anyway. Whatever you say will be the right thing."
He accepted that. "I just hope he isn't . . . I don't even know what I was about to say. I'm in shock."
Beside him Tragg looked gray. "We all are, Counselor. All of you should know that this is—"
At that moment a nurse approached, informing the small group of the room number and reminding them of the doctor's orders for the visitors to be brief, and to go in one at a time. They rose as a unit, and within a few minutes were on the correct floor, standing in the small waiting area near the nurses' station. Together they had decided Della was the one to go in first.
She left them, not looking back. The three men stared at her retreating frame, each wondering if she would crack when she finally saw her boss.
The room in which Perry lay was in semi-darkness. Beside him monitors clicked and beeped, constantly checking his vital statistics. He was awake, but keeping as still as possible while the battleaxe taking his pulse and temperature did what she had to do. He was in no mood to chit-chat with strangers.
That was the tableau Della witnessed when she opened the door. The nurse looked up, smiled a greeting, and came toward her.
"Only a few minutes," she reminded in a whisper.
Della nodded and moved to the side of the bed. There was a bandage wrapped around Perry's head, covering his eyes and the wound where the bullet had creased him. She wanted to reach out, to stroke him, to touch him—anything to assure herself he was still alive and with her.
Her hand moved of its own volition, then she drew it back. Deciding it might be better to take his hand instead, she started to reach for it, but he suddenly turned his head.
"Della? Della are you here?"
Now she did take his hand. His voice still had the power to send thrills racing through her, but this time they were not of the usual variety. She heard the strain in his voice, the fear he tried vainly to tuck away. His fingers closed around hers. They were cold, but they were real.
"Yes, Chief."
"I know your perfume. It's peonies." In spite of everything, he managed a smile.
"My favorite flower. Uh, does your head hurt? I mean where the bullet . . . Sorry, that was a stupid question."
Squeezing her hand, he tried to sit up, but the wires from the monitors prevented it. "Damned nuisance!"
She almost laughed in relief. That was classic Perry. She tried to soothe him. "Easy, Perry."
"No, Della. Don't tell me that. In case they haven't told you, I'm blind."
Della sat on the edge of the bed, still holding his hand. "Is that all? And there I was, fretting away in the waiting area with Paul thinking you were at Death's door!"
He wasn't amused. If anything, he was a little annoyed she didn't understand. He frowned and was about to argue when she continued.
"Now you listen to me, Perry Mason. Dr. Baxter—Mark—told me this is a temporary thing. He's going to run some tests and he will figure this out."
"That's just doctor-speak for he can't do anything." He turned his head away, then mumbled, "You might as well find . . ."
"A bat with which to hit you?" She swatted his hand and he turned back to her. "Because I know you weren't about to suggest something related to my job. No! No, you don't get to say anything yet, Mr. Mason."
He couldn't stop her if he tried.
"Shut up, Perry, and listen: I'm going to close the office—for one week only. Then, after the tests are done and you are released, you are going to get yourself back in there and we will resume business as usual."
"Della—"
She squeezed his hand to ease the sting of her forcefulness. "I have to go. They only gave me a few minutes because you need your rest. I will be back here in the morning and we'll discuss what needs to be done. Goodnight, Perry."
With that she turned and hurried from the room. She managed to make her way back to the waiting room. Paul stood as she came through the doors, catching her as she collapsed in his arms, sobs wracking her body.
Perry lay in darkness, turning Della's words over and over in his mind. He knew she was trying to keep his spirits up. But she was only kidding him and herself.
I bet she's already out trying to find a new job. She'll probably go to work for Hamilton. He's always had his eye on her. If she does that, I'll make both of their lives miserable. I'll . . . You'll what, Mason? Stumble over them and be the butt of their jokes—or worse, their pity?
The helplessness of his situation washed over him like waterfall. It engulfed him, submerging him until he felt as though he might drown from the futility of it. The doctor had explained that he would go through mood changes. Was this feeling one of those moods?
He heard the door open but there was no movement.
"Mark?" No answer. "Is it the nurse?"
"Perry, it's Arthur Tragg. I wanted to . . ."
"GET OUT! GET AWAY FROM ME! IT'S YOUR FAULT . . . YOU . . ."
The door banged open as the doctor rushed in, followed by two orderlies. Tragg was unceremoniously pushed aside as they grouped around the patient.
"Perry, what's going on?" Dr. Baxter asked, but his eyes were on the police detective.
"Mark, I want it understood that Lt. Arthur Tragg is not allowed within 100 feet of me. He's not to speak to you or anyone, or . . . or . . ."
Dr. Baxter had slipped a sedative into Perry's IV, watching as the monitors showed the big man's vitals slowing to normal rates. He adjusted the IV, pulled the disarrayed sheet over Perry's chest and turned. The older man still stood staring at the figure in the bed. The sadness in his eyes spoke volumes.
Then he returned his attention to Perry. "You can't keep getting excited like this, Perry. Not if you eventually want to leave. And this is the last time you're going to be issuing me orders. Do I make myself clear? In this, I am the boss. As for Lieutenant Tragg . . ." he looked at the man again and held up a finger, signaling he wanted the man to remain, "I'll let the nurses' station know your wishes. But if he wants to talk with me, that is my affair."
"Not if it is about me," Perry said stubbornly.
Dr. Baxter sighed. "About your health, I agree. But whether you are awake enough to know it or not, Lt. Tragg is still a police officer, and you are still a part of his case. As am I, now that I'm treating you."
He took Perry's wrist and nodded to himself. "I've given you something to help you relax. Stop fighting and save your strength for the battle ahead of you. You're among friends."
The doctor moved away while the orderlies left the room. Putting his hand on Tragg's shoulder, he nodded toward the hallway, urging him to follow. Once in the hallway, Mark removed his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his lab coat.
"Lieutenant, you need to understand. Right now this is very traumatic for Perry. He doesn't know what he's—"
"No," Tragg interrupted, "He knew exactly what he was saying. And I am to blame. It was my shot." He looked down, then met the doctor's eyes directly. "Don't misunderstand me, doctor. I know it was an accident. I'm sorry it happened. But I don't feel guilty about taking the shot. I know that here." He tapped his head. "But my heart hasn't caught up to my head yet."
"Lieutenant, give it time. I'm going to consult with the best neurologists in the state. You, Mr. Burger, Mr. Drake and especially Miss Street are very important to his recovery."
Tragg chewed on that for a moment, then, putting his battered fedora on his head, he turned and headed down the hallway.