Page 103 of Sharp Force
I pull on a pair of gloves as the door opens, and a young man insurgical scrubs walks in with paperwork. He introduces himself as Zain’s surgeon, and he looks sleep-deprived and harried.
“Which one of you is Doctor Scarpetta?” he asks.
“That would be me.” I assume he might have concluded that since I have a medical kit and am wearing gloves.
“The notes you’ve requested.” He hands me a file folder without much in it. “But I can give you the upshot on his injuries.”
The surgeon explains that Zain suffered two cutting wounds to the front of his throat, one approximately two inches long, the other closer to three, requiring a total of twenty-four stitches. He was extremely lucky that the wounds are “relatively superficial,” missing any major blood vessels in the neck.
I think of the silver necklace Reba O’Leary mentioned. It would explain the two incisions. They’re from a single stroke interrupted by the knife hitting the chain Zain was wearing.
“Three millimeters more, and the blade would have cut his carotid,” the surgeon explains.
“I understand he needed a transfusion?” I ask.
“He bled most heavily from the cut to his left arm,” the surgeon tells me. “His radial artery was severed, and that’s the reason for most of the blood loss. Not his neck, although it would have bled heavily.”
He explains that he repaired the artery with an anastomosis, suturing the vessel end to end like a straw that’s been cut in half. It doesn’t appear that Zain suffered any nerve damage. He’s expected to have a complete recovery. The biggest risk now is infection, and he’s on an antibiotic prophylactically.
“He’ll have a few scars he can brag about.” The surgeon gives his patient a weary smile. “You’ve got my surgical notes.” He says this to me. “Let me know if you have questions.”
Then he’s gone, the door shutting.
“What is it exactly that you plan to do?” Calvin Willard stares at me with distrusting gray eyes.
“We have questions,” Benton answers before I have the chance. “And Doctor Scarpetta wants to take a look at him.”
“He’s bandaged like a mummy. What do you expect to see?” the senator says to me.
“It’s okay, Uncle Calvin.” Zain seems unfazed, inching his way up straighter in bed.
He seems to be enjoying the attention.
“I want to check him for any other injuries—” I start to explain.
“You don’t have to tell them a damn thing, son,” his uncle interrupts. “I can order them to leave right now.”
“That just makes me look guilty,” Zain counters. “I didn’t do anything. Why would I do something like that to Georgine? Why would I hurt her?”
His eyes well with tears, his voice trembling.
“She was like a mother to me. Why would I do this to myself?” He holds up his bandaged arm and touches his swathed neck.
“When did Georgine go to bed last night?” Benton asks him.
“I think it was getting close to midnight when she turned in.”
“And you, Zain?”
“Around the same time.”
“Were the two of you getting along before turning in for the night?” Benton asks.
“We always got along. And if you’re implying that I might have reason to hurt her?”
“I’m not implying anything,” Benton says. “But would you have had a reason, Zain?”
“Why would I?” He stares at Benton.
