“Not yet, but I suspect he will be before he’s done.”
Easton screams at the cops, “You want me? Then come and get me, fuckers. I dare you.” He makes a come-on gesture with his hands, waggling his fingers at the cops. Larry shrugs and glances at his partner. They look like they are about to take Easton up on his offer when Easton ups the ante by stripping off his shirt. This gives the cops pause and Larry opts for a little verbal coaxing instead.
“Come on, buddy. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
“I’m not your fucking buddy,” Easton screams, tossing his shirt at the cops and then proceeding to loosen his belt. Seconds later his pants drop down to his ankles and he steps out of them, nearly falling off the stretcher in the process. He kicks them toward the cops and then wiggles his ass like some flaky pole dancer.
Larry and his partner take an involuntary step back as the pants fly at them, and this meager bit of success seems to fuel Easton’s fire. Before I can blink he strips off his boxers and assumes a “ta-da” pose with his arms outstretched overhead.
“Wow,” Syph says. “This guy really is crazy.”
“And very well hung,” observes the other nurse.
Easton hears the comment and thrusts his hips toward Larry. “You want me?” he taunts, shaking his impressive tallywacker at Larry. “Then come and get me, you one-bullet Barney.”
“Hey,” Larry objects, looking wounded. He looks at his partner and they apparently share a silent exchange because the partner nods and starts slowly moving toward the foot of the bed. Easton is flinging his hips from side to side and is so taken with the sight of his own penis whacking against his thighs that he misses this move. Nor does he see Larry remove his Taser from its holster.
“Go!” Larry yells.
This momentarily befuddles Easton who looks up at Larry with an expression of confusion. Meanwhile Larry’s partner makes a quick dash to the other side of the stretcher, arriving mere seconds before Larry fires.
There’s a brief buzzing sound as Easton screams like a girl and crumples. Larry’s partner manages to catch him before he flops onto the floor and moments later, a subdued Easton is curled into a fetal position on the stretcher, crying like a baby.
“God, I miss this place,” I tell Syph.
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “It does have its moments.”
The other nurse moves in and tries to soothe Easton. The cops are more than happy to step back and let the nurse do her thing, but they stay close by just in case. It seems the Taser has taken all the fight out of Easton because he willingly submits to being dressed in a gown and lets the nurse draw some blood and start an IV on him.
“Might as well start an alcohol pool,” Syph says, looking over at me. “You want in?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say, digging in my pocket and coming up with a dollar. “Are you doing Price Is Right rules or closest takes it?”
She thinks a minute, then says, “Closest.”
“Okay. I’ll take 389.”
Larry fishes some change out of his pocket and walks it over to Syph. “Put me in. I’ll go for 325.”
Within minutes we have a pool of money totaling eight bucks, hardly enough to get rich off of but that’s not the point. The ability to accurately estimate blood alcohol levels is a prized talent among ER workers and cops, and the esteem of winning goes a lot farther than the money.
While waiting for the blood test results to come back, I relay Bjorn’s predicament to Syph and she manages to find me not only the necessary order form for the new urine leg bags, but a sample of one left behind by a sales rep. Next I explain to her that I’m curious about Shannon’s health history and want to review her medical record. Normally this would be a violation of HIPAA, the law that makes it easier to get your hands on a nuclear weapon than a patient’s chart. But because I’m a deputy coroner and Shannon’s case is one we are investigating, I have a legal right to pull and examine her record.
Pulling a chart is a term left over from the days of Medical Records departments that stored thousands of paper files documenting a patient’s care. Nowadays everything is on computer and in less than a minute Syph has accessed the information I need and given me control of the computer.
Shannon’s record isn’t a huge one. There are a couple of ER visits: one from a few years ago for vaginal bleeding that turned out to be a miscarriage, and another for a small laceration on her leg that needed a few stitches. There is also the appendectomy from a few months ago that I already know about. Her doctor’s office visits are a bit more interesting. Apparently Shannon was dead set against getting pregnant, fearful it would affect her figure so much that it would shatter her modeling dreams. Yet diet alone was obviously a problem too, since there were multiple requests for diet pills. One thing I don’t find in the record is any mention of IBS.
When I’m done, I close the file and log off the computer. Easton’s blood test is back and his alcohol level is a whopping 426, making me, who had the highest guess of anyone, the prized possessor of eight bucks. After thanking Syph for her help with the chart and gloating for a few minutes over my win, I head down to the cafeteria, where I find Bjorn finishing off the last of a food tray. Despite my cautions, I see that he’s currently working on a piece of strawberry shortcake and still has a slice of peach pie to go.
I settle in with him at the table. “Are you about done here, Bjorn?” I ask, glancing at my watch and then eyeing all the empty plates on his tray. “I have another appointment to get to.”
“Almost,” he says around a mouthful of shortcake.
I’m about to lecture him on his poor diet when I hear voices approaching. A moment later a small crowd of people enters the cafeteria and, much to my dismay, I see that it’s the Heinrich clan, minus Easton of course. Tagging along with them is a uniformed cop named Junior Feller, and Hurley.
Junior steers the Heinrich trio to a nearby empty table and motions for them to sit. Hurley, who saw me the moment he entered the room, approaches our table.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Official business,” I say vaguely. “Are you socializing with the upper crust these days?” I add, gesturing toward the Heinriches.
“Part of our divide and conquer strategy,” he says. “Two of the uniforms inherited Bitsy’s kids and took them down to the police station to get a statement. Junior and I inherited this bunch. Their brother is in the ER.”
“Yes, I saw him,” I say, smiling at the memory.
Over at the Heinrich table, Junior and the two sisters get up and head for the food line. Aaron looks like he intends to follow but then abandons the group and moves over to our table instead.
“Well, hello there, Mattie,” he says to me. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Hoping to avoid getting caught up in the family’s drama I say, “I’m just about to leave.”
Aaron pouts handsomely and says, “Darn. I was hoping to have a little time to chat with you.” He settles into a chair beside me and nods at Bjorn, who has finished his shortcake and is working on his pie.
“I don’t have any more information on the death of your father, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” I tell Aaron.
“Well, I suppose that would have been nice, but that really isn’t my objective. May I ask you a personal question?”
This catches me off guard, and while I want to say no, my sense of politeness won’t let me. But since I can’t quite bring myself to openly invite him into my private life, I simply shrug instead.
“I see you aren’t wearing a wedding ring,” he says. “Does that mean you’re single?”