But before setting out, Aria called the main switchboard operator at Bellevue to find out where Madison was since the hospital had a number of intensive-care units. Aria assumed that she’d be in the Shock-Trauma ICU connected to the Emergency Department, but it turned out she was wrong. Madison was in the unit on the second floor of the west wing that had private rooms. In a way that was good news as it suggested that not only was Madison still alive, but she must be in reasonably stable condition and therefore could probably talk. It was all the more reason for her to make the effort to visit.
Leaving Hassenfeld, Aria retraced her steps, now heading south on First Avenue. Moving quickly, she again passed the four-block expanse of the Langone Medical Center and then even OCME as well. Now she was walking along several of the aged brick buildings that had been part of the old Bellevue Hospital and were still standing. As she’d done many times walking between the hospitals, she wondered what kind of horror stories they could tell if they could talk. The new Bellevue was just beyond, and she entered through the front door.
Once again, her NYU Medical Center identification card that hung around her neck on a lanyard was the ticket for uninterrupted access to various portions of the hospital. Pushing her way through the crowds, Aria used an elevator to get to the second-floor west wing, where the ICU was located.
As a pathology resident Aria had had little reason to visit Bellevue ICU except when she’d rotated through the hospital as an anatomical pathology resident. On several occasions she attended teaching rounds, so she was acquainted with how it was set up. The fact that it had private rooms made being an ICU patient a bit more tolerable from the patient’s perspective and was intended to keep them from getting PTSD. It afforded the opportunity to be shielded to a degree from calamities happening to other patients. Until recently, the mental trauma of being an ICU patient had not been given the thought it deserved. The 24/7 full illumination and activity combined with the sounds of the respirators and cardiac monitors were enough to drive someone mad.
From her experience as a sub-intern while she was in her fourth year of medical school, she knew whom to speak with first. The ICU charge nurse essentially ran the unit during her shift even if critical care residents were present, which was usually the case, or even intensivist attendings. As Aria entered the unit, she was surprised to see a number of NYPD personnel standing off to the side and chatting among themselves, both uniformed and some in plainclothes who she guessed were detectives. Aria found the charge nurse at the central desk, which was the equivalent of the brain of the ICU with a bank of monitors showing each of the patients’ vital signs as well as their cardiac function. Each patient had their own intensive-care nurse who spent seventy-five to eighty percent of the time at the bedside. On this particular shift, the charge nurse was Maureen D’Silva, and she was running the show as if she were a conductor of a symphony orchestra. Aria had to wait to get a word in edgewise.
“I’m here to see Madison Bryant,” she said the moment she had an opportunity.
“You and everyone else,” Maureen said. But then her attention was demanded elsewhere, and she had to yell across the room about blood work that needed to be done. A moment later she redirected her attention to Aria. “Who was it you were inquiring about?”
“Madison Bryant,” Aria said.
“Right, the subway victim,” Maureen said. “She’s in room eight.”
“Is she conscious?” Aria asked. “Is she able to talk?”
Maureen held up her hand horizontally and wobbled it in midair. “She’s in and out of consciousness, but reasonably oriented to time, place, and person when she’s with us. Considering what happened to her, she’s one lucky unlucky woman. Medically she is surprisingly stable, which is why they moved her up here.”
“Were you joking about other people coming to see her?” Aria said.
“Not at all,” Maureen said. “All these policemen are here because of her, as well as a bunch of bigwigs, who are in her room right at the moment.”
“Why the fuss?” Aria asked.
“Apparently she was pushed by some homeless guy,” Maureen said. “At least that’s the word.”
“What do you mean by ‘bigwigs’?”
“Try the president and CEO of Langone Health and Hospitals,” Maureen said. She was obviously impressed. “It’s the first time I’ve seen the man in the flesh. Plus, there are some NYU Medical School department heads and the head of Bellevue Emergency Department in there, too.”
“You mean Vernon Pierce is here?” Aria asked. From where she was standing at the central desk, she could see into room 8. The room looked full, and as she watched, people started coming out into the hallway. She even saw someone she recognized: Dr. Carl Henderson.
“That’s Vernon Pierce,” Maureen said, pointing at the first man who had emerged from room 8. He was of a bit more than average height and heavyset, with moderately long black hair slicked back and parted on the left. His face was full but not flabby, with a dark complexion and a five-o’clock shadow. It occurred to Aria that if he weren’t a hospital president, he could have passed for a mob boss.
“What is the extent of Madison Bryant’s injuries?” Aria asked, still wondering about the chances of her helping with Lover Boy’s identity.
“A broken leg, a few broken ribs, a fractured skull, and a broken arm. The worst part is that she lost a foot from just above the ankle. Luckily, she landed between the rails except for the foot.”
Holy shit, Aria thought. Fractured skull meant concussion or worse, which argued against her being in any condition to help, at least on this particular day. Before even trying to talk with her, Aria was now feeling progressively negative about making the effort. Although getting run over by a train was a damn good excuse for not returning a text, Aria couldn’t help but feel irritated that Madison had allowed herself to be victimized. She must have been standing too damn close to the yellow line painted on all subway platforms that people were told to stay well behind. It reminded Aria of New York City pedestrians who always crowded out into the street waiting for the traffic light to change, practically daring the taxis to run them over, which happened on a fairly frequent basis.
“Dr. Nichols!” a voice called out, catching Aria off guard as she was debating whether to attempt to talk with Madison or just leave. Turning in the direction of the voice, Aria saw Dr. Henderson coming in her direction, dragging the mob boss with him. If she could have fled, she would have, but there wasn’t time.
“What a coincidence,” Carl said, crowding close enough to Aria so that she could smell his coffee breath. “I was just talking about you to our president five minutes ago. Vernon, this is Dr. Aria Nichols, who was involved with the autopsy on Kera Jacobsen. Remember, you asked me for her number?”
“Of course I remember,” Vernon said with the mild irritation of a man under stress. He stuck out his hand, which Aria shook against her better judgment. She had an instantaneous dislike for Vernon and his dark beady eyes. To her he seemed inappropriately cast as a hospital president.
“The administration wants to thank you for your understanding of the sensitivity of the Jacobsen tragedy,” Vernon said. Aria nodded. At least the man had a commanding voice. “We hope you will not draw any more attention to it since we’re still concerned it could adversely affect our medical center, especially now with this new, supposedly newsworthy event that is indirectly associated. As you are well aware, we much prefer to stay out of the tabloids.”
Aria chose not to answer, which created an uncomfortable moment.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Vernon said. “I’m glad to meet you, Dr. Nichols, and thanks again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to deal with these detectives here and hopefully keep the fallout of this latest unfortunate episode to a minimum.” With a kind of bow, Vernon moved on. Carl stayed where he was.