Read Online Over Her Dead Body by Kate White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate White
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fate would impact their own. She might have very serious injuries to her brain; in fact, she might never recover.
As the cab shot down Broadway, I dug my cell phone and BlackBerry out of my purse and found the number for Nash. I reached only his voice mail and left a message explaining what had happened in case he hadn’t already heard and leaving my cell phone number. Then I phoned Paul Petrocelli, an ER doctor I knew who let me badger him with basic medical questions when I was writing stories. Half the time when I called him he was busy trying to stop a heart attack or remove a fishhook from someone’s hand, but tonight I lucked out and caught him between disasters. I described Mona’s head wound and seizure and asked him what he thought the prognosis might be.
“It sounds like the blow to the head was pretty hard,” he said, stifling a yawn. “With this kind of injury, you might not have a ton of
internal
bleeding, but the brain swells from the impact, just like any tissue, and swelling is never a good thing up there. The skull’s a tight container, and there’s just no room to expand. The brain tissue gets compressed and you end up with herniation down through the lower part of the brain. And that compresses the respiratory center in the brain stem.”
“There actually did seem to be a fair amount of external bleeding,” I told him. “Does that alter your diagnosis?”
“Okay, then, well, another possible scenario is that the blow ruptured a blood vessel in the lining of the brain. If that was the case, she would have had a large amount of bleeding in the skull—not just swelling. Though you’re looking at the same end point.”
“Could she die?”
“Sure. Head injuries are no picnic. Look, I’m getting a page. Call me back later if you need more info.”
Next I made a call to Lyle Parker, a former FBI profiler I sometimes interview. I wanted her take on the crime, but her voice mail picked up. I left a message saying that I needed to pick her brain.
I had the cabdriver dump me on the corner of 9th and Broadway and felt a rush of relief as I entered my place. It’s a fairly basic one-bedroom with an itty-bitty kitchen, but it sports a few spectacular features that always provide me solace: a walk-in closet that I’ve turned into a tiny home office, a big terrace, and an enchanting view to the west—a skyline of old brick apartment buildings and nineteen wooden water towers. My apartment was the one good thing to come out of my marriage, unless you want to include knowledge of how a football pool works.
I poured myself a glass of wine, kicked off my sandals, and plopped onto the couch with the force of something dropped from a second-story window. I hadn’t eaten a thing all night, but my stomach was churning and I had no appetite. As I lay against the throw pillows, I let thoughts of Mona consume me. I kept wondering who had done this to her. The cleaning lady hadn’t seen the assailant, but Mona must have—she’d been hit in the front of the head. Maybe the doctors at the hospital had managed to stabilize her and she was even now whispering the name of her attacker into the ear of a detective.
I realized suddenly that I needed to call Robby. Not only was I eager to tell him the news, but I also wanted to report to him about my little white lie to the police and make certain that he didn’t reveal the true purpose of my visit to
Buzz.
Last, I needed to tell him that I had never found the letters he’d been so concerned about.
I reached for the phone on the end table and tried his number. This time he answered on the third ring.
“
There
you are,” I said, my voice full of relief. “Look, I’ve got some terrible news.”
“Mona?”
“Yes, how did you hear?”
“Someone I know at
Track
called me. They’re saying she’s in a coma at St. Luke’s.”
“Did you hear that I discovered the body?”
“What?”
“I’m not supposed to share any of the specifics, but, yeah,
As the cab shot down Broadway, I dug my cell phone and BlackBerry out of my purse and found the number for Nash. I reached only his voice mail and left a message explaining what had happened in case he hadn’t already heard and leaving my cell phone number. Then I phoned Paul Petrocelli, an ER doctor I knew who let me badger him with basic medical questions when I was writing stories. Half the time when I called him he was busy trying to stop a heart attack or remove a fishhook from someone’s hand, but tonight I lucked out and caught him between disasters. I described Mona’s head wound and seizure and asked him what he thought the prognosis might be.
“It sounds like the blow to the head was pretty hard,” he said, stifling a yawn. “With this kind of injury, you might not have a ton of
internal
bleeding, but the brain swells from the impact, just like any tissue, and swelling is never a good thing up there. The skull’s a tight container, and there’s just no room to expand. The brain tissue gets compressed and you end up with herniation down through the lower part of the brain. And that compresses the respiratory center in the brain stem.”
“There actually did seem to be a fair amount of external bleeding,” I told him. “Does that alter your diagnosis?”
“Okay, then, well, another possible scenario is that the blow ruptured a blood vessel in the lining of the brain. If that was the case, she would have had a large amount of bleeding in the skull—not just swelling. Though you’re looking at the same end point.”
“Could she die?”
“Sure. Head injuries are no picnic. Look, I’m getting a page. Call me back later if you need more info.”
Next I made a call to Lyle Parker, a former FBI profiler I sometimes interview. I wanted her take on the crime, but her voice mail picked up. I left a message saying that I needed to pick her brain.
I had the cabdriver dump me on the corner of 9th and Broadway and felt a rush of relief as I entered my place. It’s a fairly basic one-bedroom with an itty-bitty kitchen, but it sports a few spectacular features that always provide me solace: a walk-in closet that I’ve turned into a tiny home office, a big terrace, and an enchanting view to the west—a skyline of old brick apartment buildings and nineteen wooden water towers. My apartment was the one good thing to come out of my marriage, unless you want to include knowledge of how a football pool works.
I poured myself a glass of wine, kicked off my sandals, and plopped onto the couch with the force of something dropped from a second-story window. I hadn’t eaten a thing all night, but my stomach was churning and I had no appetite. As I lay against the throw pillows, I let thoughts of Mona consume me. I kept wondering who had done this to her. The cleaning lady hadn’t seen the assailant, but Mona must have—she’d been hit in the front of the head. Maybe the doctors at the hospital had managed to stabilize her and she was even now whispering the name of her attacker into the ear of a detective.
I realized suddenly that I needed to call Robby. Not only was I eager to tell him the news, but I also wanted to report to him about my little white lie to the police and make certain that he didn’t reveal the true purpose of my visit to
Buzz.
Last, I needed to tell him that I had never found the letters he’d been so concerned about.
I reached for the phone on the end table and tried his number. This time he answered on the third ring.
“
There
you are,” I said, my voice full of relief. “Look, I’ve got some terrible news.”
“Mona?”
“Yes, how did you hear?”
“Someone I know at
Track
called me. They’re saying she’s in a coma at St. Luke’s.”
“Did you hear that I discovered the body?”
“What?”
“I’m not supposed to share any of the specifics, but, yeah,
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