The nurse wasn’t impressed. “Sweetheart, the man is in a drug-induced coma with a manometer attached to his skull to measure intracranial pressure. I don’t care if you’re packing a pass to the Pearly Gates; man can’t talk yet, because the man can’t talk.”

That stole some of D.D.’s thunder. “When do you think he’ll come around?”

The nurse looked D.D. up and down. D.D. returned the scrutiny. Hospitals had policies concerning a patient’s right to privacy. For that matter, the legal system had scribbled a line or two on the subject. But take it from a detective-at the end of the day, the world remained a human system. Some head nurses were bulldogs when it came to protecting their patients. Others were willing to consider the big picture, if things were presented in the right manner.

The charge nurse picked up a chart, glanced at the notes. “In my professional opinion,” she offered up, “hell if I know.”

“How did the surgery go?” Phil interjected. The nurse glanced at him, noted the ketchup stain on his white shirt, and smiled a little.

“Surgeon removed the foreign body. That should help matters.”

D.D. leaned against the nurses’ station. Now that the nurse’s body language had relaxed slightly, it was time to press the advantage. She glanced at the woman’s name tag. “So, Terri, did you hear what Patrick did to his family?”

“Some kind of domestic incident.” Nurse Terri regarded them seriously. “Maybe he didn’t like his wife’s cooking. If you ask me, we see too much of that around here. More men need to start liking burnt food.”

“Ah, but there was a bit more to it than a spat with the missus. Kids were involved. Three kids. He got ’em all.”

Nurse Terri hesitated, showed the first glimmer of interest. “He killed his own kids?”

“Nine, twelve, and fourteen. All dead.”

“Oh Blessed Mary…”

“That’s what we think happened. It would be a good thing to know, however. I mean, there’s a little difference between four people slaughtered by a family member than, say, by a deranged maniac who’s possibly still wandering free. Really, it would be good to dot our ‘i’s and cross our ‘t’s here. As Patrick’s the lone survivor…”

Nurse Terri sighed heavily, seemed to finally relent. “Look, I can’t make the unconscious conscious, not even for Boston’s finest. I can see, however, if Dr. Poor is still around. He was the admitting doc in the ER. He might have something to offer.”

“Perfect.”

“Might as well make yourselves comfortable. Doctors answer only to God, not charge nurses, so this could take a while.”

“Somehow, I bet you have your ways of making a doctor hustle.”

“Honey, don’t I wish.”

D.D. and Phil grabbed coffee from the basement cafeteria and made themselves at home. The waiting room chairs were low slung, the kind that were tempting to position three across as a makeshift bed. D.D. focused on her coffee. She’d slept well last night. Apparently, that would be it for a while.

She thought briefly of Chip, felt a pang of longing for the great sex she still wasn’t going to have, then returned to the matters at hand.

“What did you think of Professor Alex?” she asked Phil.

“You mean my new shadow?” Phil shrugged. “Seems all right. Smart, keeps out of the way, speaks mostly when he has something useful to say. So far, that puts him ahead of half our unit.”

D.D. smiled. “Have you looked him up?”

“I’ll make some calls in the morning.”

“Okay.”

They lapsed into silence, Phil blowing experimentally on his coffee, D.D. already sipping hers.

“And your plans tonight?” Phil finally asked.

“Don’t ask.”

He grinned. “Hey, wasn’t tonight the big date with Charlie’s wife’s friend?”

“I’m telling you, don’t go there.”

“You went to dinner first, didn’t you? Come on, D.D., you should know better by now. You get a night off, you can’t be wasting time on fine dining. Cut straight to the chase before the pager finds you.”

“What? Drag a stranger through my door and bang his brains out? Hi, hello, the bedroom is down the hall.”

“Trust me, guys won’t complain.”

“Men are pigs.”

“Exactly.”

D.D. rolled her eyes. “You and Betsy have been married, what, ninety years now? What would you know of twenty-first-century dating?”

“Oh, but I hear things.”

D.D. was spared further heckling as a harried-looking doctor blasted through the double doors. His hair stood up in brown tufts, and he had both hands shoved deep in the pockets of his white lab coat.

“Detectives,” he called out.

“Dr. Poor.” D.D. and Phil stood up.

He waved at them to follow, so they fell in step as he dashed across the waiting room, through another set of double doors, then made his way through the maze of sterile hallways. “Gotta get some coffee. You need any more? It’s pretty good here. For a hospital and all.”

“We’re all set, thanks,” D.D. replied. She and Phil had to work to keep up with the doctor’s rapid strides. “So, Doctor, we have some questions regarding a patient who was admitted to the ER early this evening, a Patrick Harrington-”

“Injury?”

“What?”

“Injury. What was he admitted for? I don’t have time for names, just wounds.”

“Uh, small-caliber gunshot wound to the head.”

“Ah.” The doctor nodded vigorously, taking a left, then a right, then bursting down a flight of steps to the lower-level cafeteria. “GSW to the left temple, yes? No exit wound, so I’m guessing a twenty-two. Bullet mushroomed upon impact, lost too much velocity to blow out the back of the skull. You know, I saw two separate gunshot wounds last week caused by forty-fours. Blows the skull to smithereens. I think the drug dealers are watching too much Dirty Harry.”

They’d arrived at the basement cafeteria. Dr. Poor beelined for the java station. D.D. thought he might have had quite a bit of coffee already.

“We’re interested in Harrington,” she prodded.

The doctor nodded, poured heavy cream and four packets of sugar into his cup, stirred, then found a lid.

“Okay. Single GSW to the head. Upon admittance, we debrided the wound, examined the damage to the scalp, and evaluated the head injury. Patient had only limited responsiveness and scored poorly on the Glasgow coma test. I sent the patient for an urgent CT scan, then referred him to surgery for removal of the projectile lodged in the left posterior frontal area of the brain. I believe the neurosurgeon on call this evening was Dr. Badger. He does good work, if that helps you.”

“Prognosis?” Phil spoke up.

Dr. Poor made a waffling gesture with his hand. “Three issues with head injuries. First, the bleeding. Second, the direct trauma. Third, the resulting swelling. So far, the patient has survived the bleeding and direct trauma. Swelling, however, remains a concern, as is risk of infection. And, for that matter, further bleeding. Even the best neurosurgeon can do only so much to repair the damage inflicted by a bullet to the brain. It’s like throwing a butter knife into a bowl of pudding. The pudding doesn’t stand a chance.”

“When will he regain consciousness?” D.D. asked.

“Haven’t a clue. I’d have to look at his chart. I’m guessing he’s heavily sedated, which is probably for the best.”

“But we need to ask him some questions,” she persisted impatiently.

Dr. Poor arched a brow. “Half the man’s brain has been turned into the Panama Canal. What do you think he could tell you at the moment?”

D.D. and Phil exchanged glances. It was hardly surprising news, but disappointing.

“Can you describe the entry wound?” Phil asked.

D.D. chewed her bottom lip. She knew what Phil was going for. From a detective’s perspective, it would’ve been better if their suspected shooter had died at the scene. In which case, the ME’s office would’ve bagged the man’s hands and preserved the contact wound on the left temple. Back in the morgue, the ME would then test the shooter’s hands for gunpowder residue while conducting a forensic examination of the entry wound. In twenty-four hours or less, they’d have scientific evidence that Patrick Harrington had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.