BOSTON
When it came to the naked man, pronouncing life extinct didn’t stretch Macbeth’s medical training.
Gabriel had hit the flagstones head first and a gray-flecked halo of blood bloomed around his shattered skull; viscous clots oozed from each nostril and one eye remained wide open, gazing up at the night sky, while the other was half closed, the lid like a carelessly pulled down window blind.
He must have held the young priest in his unrelenting embrace all the way to the ground, because the two men now lay entangled. Corbin and Macbeth turned their attention to Father Mullachy, who lay partly across Gabriel’s chest. The priest also stared up at the dark sky, but his chest pulsed rapidly in short, shallow heaves.
“Can you hear me?” asked Corbin. “Father Mullachy? Can you hear me Father Mullachy?”
The priest said nothing, his gaze remaining fixed on the stars above, his breathing still fast and shallow. Corbin pressed an ear to the injured man’s chest, first one side, then the other.
“Get an ambulance!” Corbin called over his shoulder to the policemen, then turned back to Macbeth. “How’s your emergency medicine?”
“Rusty …” Macbeth lied. Emergency procedures were exactly the kind of thing that he remembered. Perfectly. How to do things, processes, facts and methods he had learned; taxonomies, systems, structured knowledge – these were the memoriesthat were catalogued, indexed and filed, dusted and maintained in the warehouse in his brain labeled Procedural Memory and could be brought back into his recall shining bright and working like new. In contrast, when it came to his Autobiographical Memory, Macbeth found himself in an ill-lit storeroom of cluttered shelves that he could never quite find his way around. Real-life remembrances had to be dusted off before he could examine their faded images. Even then he was never sure what truly belonged to his life and what had been borrowed from others.
Corbin was clearly aware of Macbeth’s recall of procedure, because he made a ‘help yourself’ gesture towards the injured man. Macbeth ran his hands over the priest’s body, like a cop frisking a suspect. Old skills came back in an instant and as he felt each fracture beneath his fingertips, he announced it to Corbin. When Macbeth examined his ribs, Mullachy made a short moaning sound, the only protest he could manage between breaths; then again, louder, when Macbeth felt around the hips. Shattered pelvis. The good thing was that Mullachy could feel the pain in his lower body, meaning his spinal cord was intact. Macbeth checked the distal pulses then worked his way back to the chest. Carefully removing the priest’s dog collar, he inspected his neck: no deformations or serious swelling. Mullachy must have landed in a way that prevented serious injury to his head and spine, the most common cause of death in falls. As Macbeth examined the priest’s throat, he saw a rash of small, raised bumps on the skin, like an extreme form of gooseflesh. Whenever he touched a bump, it moved or popped beneath his fingers, the skin flattening but other bumps appearing elsewhere.
“Rice Krispies?” asked Corbin over Macbeth’s shoulder.
Macbeth nodded. “Snap, crackle and pop all right … Sub-Q air. If the ambulance doesn’t arrive soon, we’re going to have to improvise a chest tube.”
There was now an urgent wheezing to the priest’s breathing. He spoke urgently between shallow breaths.
“Unction …” he gasped. “Last … rites …”
“Don’t talk, Father,” said Macbeth. “Save your breath. You’re going to be fine.” He turned to Corbin. “Go see if one of the cops has got a pocket knife and a ballpoint pen.”
“You’re going to tube him here?”
“Not if I can avoid it. The last thing I want to do is attempt some kind of Boy Scout thoracostomy.” Macbeth sighed. He looked past Corbin to the lights of the surrounding high buildings; the glass globes of the
When it came to the naked man, pronouncing life extinct didn’t stretch Macbeth’s medical training.
Gabriel had hit the flagstones head first and a gray-flecked halo of blood bloomed around his shattered skull; viscous clots oozed from each nostril and one eye remained wide open, gazing up at the night sky, while the other was half closed, the lid like a carelessly pulled down window blind.
He must have held the young priest in his unrelenting embrace all the way to the ground, because the two men now lay entangled. Corbin and Macbeth turned their attention to Father Mullachy, who lay partly across Gabriel’s chest. The priest also stared up at the dark sky, but his chest pulsed rapidly in short, shallow heaves.
“Can you hear me?” asked Corbin. “Father Mullachy? Can you hear me Father Mullachy?”
The priest said nothing, his gaze remaining fixed on the stars above, his breathing still fast and shallow. Corbin pressed an ear to the injured man’s chest, first one side, then the other.
“Get an ambulance!” Corbin called over his shoulder to the policemen, then turned back to Macbeth. “How’s your emergency medicine?”
“Rusty …” Macbeth lied. Emergency procedures were exactly the kind of thing that he remembered. Perfectly. How to do things, processes, facts and methods he had learned; taxonomies, systems, structured knowledge – these were the memoriesthat were catalogued, indexed and filed, dusted and maintained in the warehouse in his brain labeled Procedural Memory and could be brought back into his recall shining bright and working like new. In contrast, when it came to his Autobiographical Memory, Macbeth found himself in an ill-lit storeroom of cluttered shelves that he could never quite find his way around. Real-life remembrances had to be dusted off before he could examine their faded images. Even then he was never sure what truly belonged to his life and what had been borrowed from others.
Corbin was clearly aware of Macbeth’s recall of procedure, because he made a ‘help yourself’ gesture towards the injured man. Macbeth ran his hands over the priest’s body, like a cop frisking a suspect. Old skills came back in an instant and as he felt each fracture beneath his fingertips, he announced it to Corbin. When Macbeth examined his ribs, Mullachy made a short moaning sound, the only protest he could manage between breaths; then again, louder, when Macbeth felt around the hips. Shattered pelvis. The good thing was that Mullachy could feel the pain in his lower body, meaning his spinal cord was intact. Macbeth checked the distal pulses then worked his way back to the chest. Carefully removing the priest’s dog collar, he inspected his neck: no deformations or serious swelling. Mullachy must have landed in a way that prevented serious injury to his head and spine, the most common cause of death in falls. As Macbeth examined the priest’s throat, he saw a rash of small, raised bumps on the skin, like an extreme form of gooseflesh. Whenever he touched a bump, it moved or popped beneath his fingers, the skin flattening but other bumps appearing elsewhere.
“Rice Krispies?” asked Corbin over Macbeth’s shoulder.
Macbeth nodded. “Snap, crackle and pop all right … Sub-Q air. If the ambulance doesn’t arrive soon, we’re going to have to improvise a chest tube.”
There was now an urgent wheezing to the priest’s breathing. He spoke urgently between shallow breaths.
“Unction …” he gasped. “Last … rites …”
“Don’t talk, Father,” said Macbeth. “Save your breath. You’re going to be fine.” He turned to Corbin. “Go see if one of the cops has got a pocket knife and a ballpoint pen.”
“You’re going to tube him here?”
“Not if I can avoid it. The last thing I want to do is attempt some kind of Boy Scout thoracostomy.” Macbeth sighed. He looked past Corbin to the lights of the surrounding high buildings; the glass globes of the
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