The Witness (Badge of Honor 4)

“I’m sure Mr. Stillwell has his reasons….

“I checked with the hospital fifteen minutes ago. We’re planning on taking him out of there at about half past ten….

“Yes, sir….

“I can stop by your office as soon as the interview is over, Commissioner….

“I’m sure everyone else—No. I don’t know about O’Hara, come to think of it. But every one involved but O’Hara has given a statement, sir. I’ll check on O’Hara right away and let you know, sir….

“Yes, sir. I’ll see you in your office as soon as they’ve finished with Payne. Good-bye, sir.”

He put the telephone in its cradle, but, deep in thought, did not take his hand off it.

He finally shrugged and looked at the others.

“Stillwell wants to run Matt Payne, the shooting, past the Grand Jury. It probably makes sense, if you think about it—”

He paused, thinking, I wonder why that sonofabitch didn’t tell me—

“—they will decline to indict, and then Giacomo can’t start making noise about a police cover-up.”

“It was a good shooting,” Sabara said. “Stevens—what does he call himself?”

“Abu Ben Mohammed,” Wohl furnished.

“—came out shooting. It wasn’t even justifiable force, it was self-defense.”

“I guess that’s what Stillwell figures,” Wohl said, and then changed the subject. “Jack has polished my rough plan to protect Matt and Monahan. I’d like to hear what you think of it. Jack?”

Malone took the protection plan, which he had just had typed up and duplicated, from his jacket pocket.

Is he trying to give me credit for this to be a nice guy, Malone wondered, or trying to lay the responsibility on me in case something goes wrong?

TWENTY

Matt had been told “The Doctor” would be in to see him before he would be discharged, and therefore not to get dressed.

“The Doctor” turned out to be three doctors, accompanied, to Matt’s pleasant surprise, by Lari Matsi, R.N.

No one acted as if there was a live human being in the bed. He was nothing more than a specimen.

“Remove the dressing on the leg, please,” a plump doctor with a pencil-line mustache Matt could not remember ever having seen before ordered, “let’s have a look at it.”

Lari folded the sheet and blanket back, put her fingers to the adhesive tape, and gave a quick jerk.

“Shit!” Matt yelped, and then, a moment later, added, “Sorry.”

Lari didn’t seem to notice either the expletive or the apology.

The three doctors solemnly bent over and peered at the leg. Matt looked. His entire calf was a massive bruise, the purple-black of the bruise color coordinated with the circus orange antiseptic with which the area had apparently been painted. There was a three-inch slash, closed with eight or ten black sutures. A bloody goo seemed to be leaking out.

“Healing nicely,” one doctor opined.

“Not much suppuration,” the second observed.

Pencil-line mustache asked, “What do I have him on?”

Lari checked an aluminum clipboard, announced something ending in “—mycin, one hundred thousand, every four hours,” and handed Pencil-line mustache the clipboard. He took a gold pen from his white jacket and wrote something on it.