Sara said, ‘Her hand was reattached.’
‘Yes.’
Sara studied the woman’s face. Brown hair. Olive skin. The eyes were swollen, but they still had the distinctive shape.
Amanda said, ‘She was admitted as a Jane Doe, but they found her ID this morning. Delilah Palmer.’
That name sounded familiar. Instead of asking Amanda more questions, Sara went back to the nurses’ station and asked to borrow a tablet computer. She still had her admitting privileges at Grady. The nurse, Olivia, knew her from before.
Olivia said, ‘The waiting room should be empty.’
Sara got the hint. Four people blocking the ICU hallway was never a good idea.
They all walked down to the empty waiting room. Will stayed at Sara’s side. His shoulder touched hers. He was trying to make sure the connection was still there. She couldn’t find it in herself to let him know this was true.
Sara sat down on one of the chairs. She logged into the system and scanned the woman’s CT, X-rays, MRI and surgical notes.
Finally something made sense.
Faith asked, ‘Well?’
Sara relayed the information from the chart. ‘She was stabbed sixteen times, mostly in the torso, twice in the head. The tip of the knife broke off in her collarbone, minimizing the reach of the blade, which is probably why it just missed the heart and liver. The bowel was punctured. Her left lung collapsed. What remained of the knife was left imbedded in her sternum. The first slash must have been to her arm.’ Sara held up her own arm, the same as she had done yesterday morning. ‘The attacker came straight at her. She took a defensive posture. The knife sliced her wrist, nearly severing the joint. She would’ve been flailing her arms, trying to stop the attack, which would spray blood everywhere, like a hose. Fortunately for the victim, the blade severed the radial and ulnar arteries. I say fortunately, because the arteries contract when they’re sliced in two. That’s why suicides tend to fail. You sever the artery, it rolls up into the arm and stops the blood almost like when you pinch the end of a garden hose to stop the pressure.’
Will asked, ‘That’s where all the blood came from, right?’
‘That volume of blood could definitely come from this type of injury.’ Sara studied the X-rays again. ‘This isn’t the first time she’s been attacked. She’s got several older, healed fractures to the face and head. Two breaks in her arm, probably separated by a few years. These are classic signs of abuse.’
Amanda asked, ‘Does the chart give Palmer’s blood type?’
‘They typed her when she came into the ER. It’s B-negative. Type is inherited. You would need either a B mother or B father to have it.’
‘Like Angie,’ Faith said.
Amanda asked, ‘Can you pull up Delilah Palmer’s past admits?’
Sara went back to the home screen. She found Delilah Palmer’s medical history, which hadn’t been ported into the ICU chart yet. ‘Palmer was born here twenty-two years ago. Ward of the state. Overdoses. PID times five. Bronchitis. Skin infections. Needle abscesses. Heroin addict. She had a baby two years ago. Hold on.’ Sara went back to the belly scans from two nights ago. ‘Okay, according to the most recent chart, the one that was started Sunday night, the woman lying in the bed at the end of the hall has a scar for a C-section.’ She flicked back through the screens. ‘But the older chart says that Palmer had a natural childbirth two years ago, which would fall in line with an episiotomy scar, which is what the body downstairs, the one Angie left at the funeral home, has.’ She looked up. ‘The body downstairs showed signs of long-term IV drug use, but there’s no indication of drug use in the woman at the end of the hall, who is supposed to be Delilah Palmer.’ Sara felt slow on the uptake. ‘The body downstairs is Delilah Palmer. Jo Figaroa is here in the ICU. Angie switched their identities.’
‘That’s what we think.’ Faith showed her two photographs on her iPhone. ‘The one on the right is Jo Figaroa. The one on the left is Delilah Palmer.’
Sara studied the two women. There was an eerie similarity. ‘Are they related?’
‘Who knows?’ Faith asked. ‘They both had the shit kicked out of them. Figaroa’s own husband couldn’t tell them apart.’
Sara didn’t point out that Will hadn’t been able to, either.
Faith said, ‘We have a witness who puts Angie sticking Palmer in her trunk. I’ve gotta assume that Angie mutilated the body so we couldn’t get a positive ID off the fingerprints.’
Sara asked, ‘Why would Angie want us to think that Jo Figaroa was dead?’
Will said, ‘She’s working a scam. That’s the only explanation. Our Jane Doe put together the night of the attack for us. Harding’s dying. Josephine is bleeding to death. Angie rushes Josephine to the hospital, then instead of leaving town or lying low, Angie drives back to the club to remove Delilah and stage the scene. That’s a lot of work for somebody who doesn’t like to do a lot of work. I guarantee you there’s some kind of payday at the end of this.’
Sara felt overwhelmed with disgust. She dropped the tablet on the chair beside her. She was sick of Angie’s games, and she was the only one in the group who actually had the luxury of walking away.
Will seemed to sense that she was at the end of her rope. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sara didn’t want to blame him. If ever there was a victim of Angie’s machinations, it was Will. ‘Do you have any idea where she is? Where she might be keeping a child?’
He shook his head, and she saw the idiocy of her question. If they knew where Angie was, they would be breaking down her door.
Faith said, ‘We can only hope that because he’s her grandson, she’ll . . . Motherfucker . . .’ Faith’s voice trailed off. ‘She’s here.’
They all turned in unison.
Angie had just stepped off the elevator. She looked up. Her mouth formed an ‘O,’ a perfect reflection of their shock. She tried to get back onto the elevator, but the doors closed. She scrambled toward the stairs.
She wasn’t fast enough.
Will had bolted the moment he’d seen her.
In seconds he’d closed the gap between them. His arm shot out. His fingers snagged the back of her collar. Angie was wrenched back by the neck. Her feet flew out from under her. She hit the floor. He picked her up and threw her into the waiting room. Chairs clattered, crashing into each other, tipping over. He snatched her up again, his fist went back. The only thing that kept Will from shattering her into pieces was the two security guards jumping on his back like they were taking down a charging bull.
‘Will!’ Faith yelled, leaping into the fray. She pushed him against the wall. ‘Stop it!’ She was panting, out of breath. She said, ‘Stop it,’ quieter, still making it clear she wasn’t going to let him do what he obviously wanted to do. ‘Calm down, okay? She’s not worth it.’
Will shook his head. Sara knew what he was thinking. Killing her was worth it. Hurting her was worth it.
Sara said, ‘Will.’
He looked at her, his eyes on fire.
‘Don’t,’ she said, though she wanted him to.
The fire abated. The sound of her voice seemed to relax some of the tension from his body. He held up his hands in surrender, telling Faith, ‘I’m okay.’