But all the same, it irked him to see how much Hart seemed to revel in potential mistakes by officers. It appeared as if the arrogant, self-righteous bastard felt like every one of those mistakes was his chance to show everyone how much smarter he was than everyone else.
Which, in the Chief’s opinion, he wasn’t. He was a useful tool. Maybe even a round peg in a round hole, but one that he viewed as a necessary evil. And there was no way Lieutenant Alan Hart was going to make Captain, at least not while he sat in the Big Chair at the Big Desk.
The Chief of the River City Police Department let out a long sigh. It was on days like this that he wished he drank before five o’clock.
1432 hours
Katie’s head throbbed while she listened to the doctor’s explanation.
“You definitely suffered a concussion,” he told her, “but based on the results from the tests we ran last night, there was no significant brain trauma beyond that. So, with the exception of the bruises, swelling and small cuts on your face, you came through this assault rather well.”
Then why do I feel like shit? Katie wondered.
“There’s really no reason to keep you here in the hospital any longer,” the doctor continued. “I’ve already signed your discharge papers. The nurse will be along in a few minutes with your release instructions and a prescription for the pain you might encounter over the next few days.”
“What’s the prescription for?”
The doctor smiled. “Ibuprofen,” he answered. “What were you hoping for?”
“Magic juice,” Katie replied.
The doctor smiled at her. Katie tried to smile back, but the soreness on her cheek and the cut inside her mouth caused her to wince instead.
“I think you’ll find the ibuprofen will keep the pain under control.” Then he added, “Without the disorienting side effects.”
Katie nodded. Parts of the last twenty-four hours held a dream-like quality. Mostly, she remembered floating peacefully. The rest had already slipped away, just like dreams tend to do the morning after.
“If you feel spacey or have any other symptoms of disorientation, give your regular doctor a call. Same thing if you’re overly nauseous. That’s a sign that you haven’t come through the concussion yet.” The doctor glanced down at her chart. “Other than that, you’re good to go. Do you have any questions?”
“Just one. How long before I can go back to work?”
“That’s up to you, I suppose,” he said. “But I’d give it a couple of days, at least. After that, if you’re symptom free and feel up to it, there’s no medical reason not to.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
The doctor gave her a warm smile, replaced her chart and left the room. A few minutes later, the nurse arrived as promised. She went over the release paperwork in painstaking detail, causing Katie’s headache to get worse. Finally, after it seemed like she’d scratched out her initials enough times to buy a house or settle a peace treaty, the nurse told her they were finished.
“Do you want some help getting dressed?”
Katie shook her head no. “I’ll do it myself.”
“All right. Just buzz when you’re ready to go. We’ll need to escort you out to the police car.”
“Police car?”
The nurse gave her a confused look. “You’re the cop, right?”
“Yes, but-”
“Once the doctor discharged you, we called the police. It was in the instructions on your chart. They’ve sent a car to transport you home.”
“Oh.” Katie supposed it made sense. She had no other way home, anyway.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the nurse said, and left.
Katie swung her feet off the bed and stood. The tile was cool, even through her hospital issue socks. She shuffled over to the mirror. Once there, she took a hesitant look at herself.
A large bruise was painted across the left side of her face, coating the entire cheek and under her eye. Even a day later, the noticeable swelling gave her the look of a boxer after a twelve-round slugfest. Another smaller bruise appeared like a shadow on her forehead, along with a narrow, red splash on her chin.
“Ugh,” she said back to the reflection.
She moved to the closet. The soreness and bruising throughout her limbs and torso punctuated each movement. When she reached for the closet door, it exposed her forearm, which was dotted with large splotches of dark bruising. And to top it all off, her leg was still tender from where the Russian kicked her.
“I should have been a firefighter,” she said, reciting a common police officer lament.
Inside the closet, the only clothing she saw was a neatly folded pair of dark green surgical scrubs and a pair of slippers. None of her own clothing was present.
Katie frowned. The expression made her wince, though not as badly as her earlier attempt at a smile. Where were her clothes?
A moment later, she realized that they had probably been seized as evidence. Someone, probably Tower, had taken possession of the clothes, bagged them, labeled them and logged them onto evidence at the Property Room.
For some reason, the thought bothered her. Maybe it was the idea of someone handling her undergarments. It gave her a feeling of vulnerability, almost as if her privacy had been violated.
Or it could be that victims had their clothing booked on as evidence. Not cops. And she was a cop, not a victim.
Katie shrugged away the thought. Instead, she focused on changing into the scrubs. The process was more painstaking than she expected, as every muscle she used to strip off the gown and slip on the clean hospital gear seemed to scream at her in protest.
Eventually, she managed to finish the job. She shuffled back to the bedside and pushed the call button for the nurse. A few moments later, the nurse appeared with a wheelchair. Before Katie could object, she raised up one of her hands.
“It’s hospital policy,” she said, “so don’t even think to argue.”
“Who’s arguing?” Katie answered.
“Most cops do,” the nurse told her, “so I figured I’d make things clear right up front.” She swung out the foot posts and gestured for Katie to sit down.
Katie lowered herself into the wheelchair. Part of her felt humiliated at using it, but another part of her was grateful for the ride. She settled in without a word.
The nurse put a small blanket on her lap. “We don’t have any jackets,” she explained. “It’s rainy out.”
“Figures,” Katie mumbled, pulling the blanket toward her middle.
The nurse wheeled her out of the room. Thomas Chisolm stood in the hallway, wearing jeans and a windbreaker. Katie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Tom?”
Chisolm shrugged. “I asked Dispatch to let me know when you were getting discharged. I figured you’d need a lift home.”
Katie didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she settled with a mumbled, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Chisolm said. He motioned to the wheelchair. “May I?”
“No,” the nurse said. “I have to wheel her to the door. Hospital policy.”
“Okay.” Chisolm fell into stride beside them as the nurse walked quickly to the elevator. They waited in silence for the elevator to arrive, then jockeyed their way inside.
“Where are you parked?” the nurse asked.
“Outside the E.R.,” Chisolm told her.
Her disapproval was plain on her face as she punched the appropriate floor. “That’s reserved for on-duty personnel.”
“I’m never off duty,” Chisolm told her lightly. He caught Katie’s eye and gave her a wink.
The nurse didn’t reply. Once they exited the elevator, she rolled Katie toward the Emergency Room entrance at something that seemed just shy of the speed of sound. Katie realized after a few moments that she was actually gripping the armrests of the wheelchair tightly.
“Hi, cop,” came a deep voice to her right.