Calderon’s assignment was simple: Make sure the boy never reached the hospital. Josue Chaca and his mother would be discovered later, perhaps in some dank alley — newly arrived visitors who fell victim to random gang violence. It was a distasteful assignment, made necessary only because of his client’s lax attitudes about security.
His cell phone sounded. It was a unique ringtone assigned only to Mr. Kong, his “spotter” at the gate. “They here?” Calderon asked.
“We got a problem,” Kong said. “Something’s happening up here…”
2
“Will she have any scars?” the woman asked.
“Nothing that anyone will notice,” Dr. McKenna lied. He knew her girl had the worst kind of wounds — hidden from view, out of reach — the kind that fester for a lifetime. “She’ll have a small scar here, just behind her ear, but in a few years you probably won’t even be able to see it.”
“Her fourth birthday is next week. We were talking about her party when…” The woman’s words gave way to a muffled sob.
McKenna gently lifted the edge of the wound with forceps. “When what?”
“When we fell down the stairs.”
“We?”
“I was carrying her.” A heavy sigh. “It was dark. I guess I didn’t look where I was going.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “What did she hit her head against?”
“I didn’t notice.” She fidgeted nervously, leaning forward in her chair. “You’re sure she’s going to be okay?”
“It’s a superficial wound — she was lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.” And next time, or the time after that, it probably will be. The bruises flashed in his mind, yellowish-brown marks he had found when he removed the girl’s blouse. Fading echoes of violence. They were too old to have happened a few hours ago, and with a little imagination they formed the outline of a hand. A large hand.
Luke McKenna let the conversation evaporate while waiting for the social worker to arrive. It seemed a complete waste of time to lob lies back and forth. He was growing frustrated with this woman, and annoyed at himself for being irritated with her, so he returned his thoughts to the girl.
Surgical drapes covered the child’s head. Except for a small exposed area around the wound behind her right ear, the only trace of her was a tendril of curly red hair peeking out from under the edge of a sterile drape. She was breathing heavily, slowly, nearly asleep now, having spent herself during her first hour in the emergency room. Like most children her age, the girl had fought every step of the way. That is, until two nurses wrapped her body, flailing arms and all, in a Velcro papoose designed specifically with combative toddlers in mind.
An occasional sigh was the woman’s only assurance that her daughter was still breathing under all those bloodstained towels and drapes.
Luke adjusted the overhead light with his elbow and picked up a clamp. “As soon as I finish with these stitches, we’ll send her over for some X-rays just to make sure that she—”
“She doesn’t need any X-rays.”
Of course. You’ve been through this before, you know the routine. No X-rays, no chance that we’ll find old healing fractures. Her voice was thick, but not from alcohol or drugs. It was difficult to speak clearly with her lower lip protruding awkwardly.
McKenna put his instruments down and shifted his gaze to the woman. She had the face of a boxer — the one who lost the fight. Her cheeks were a latticework of contusions and raw abrasions, her left eye was clamped shut, and her lower lip had swelled to the size of a small walnut. Dried blood matted her short brown hair in spots. Passing her on the street a month from now, he probably wouldn’t recognize her.
A flashing red light invaded his peripheral vision. The intercom unit on the wall called out, “Dr. McKenna, the Trauma Unit wanted me to let you know — the airport transport is on its way in.”
Luke worked a jaw muscle. “Tell ’em I’ll be there.”
He knew that the frustration creeping into his voice wasn’t helping. Looking back at the woman, he said, “For your daughter’s sake, it’s important that we get those X-rays. Without them, I can’t be certain about the extent of her injuries. If this was caused by a fall—”
“I told you, we fell down the stairs.” Her face was an equal mix of defiance and fear. “That’s how it happened.”
“Okay,” was all he could think to say. What he wanted to say was, But I don’t believe you.
“That’s what happened. We fell,” she whispered to no one in particular.
Tears began running down her bruised cheeks. She looked about his age, thirty-six, but life’s afflictions probably added ten years to her face.
He reached over and placed a hand on her arm.
She recoiled with a shudder.
Luke drew back as if yanked by a rope. “Sorry.”
He was clumsy at this, he realized. What did he expect — that she’d collapse onto his shoulder and admit that some cretin had beaten the two of them?
“I just want you to understand that I’m concerned about you,” he said. “I’m concerned about both of you.” The words felt awkward and cumbersome.
They shared several seconds of uncomfortable silence before McKenna settled on a different approach. He glanced at a side table, rechecking the patient’s chart to see that the woman’s last name was the same as her daughter’s. “Mrs. Erickson, you sustained some fairly significant injuries yourself. I’ll say it again. You should be seen in an emergency room — tonight.”
The woman exhaled heavily. “Can’t one of the doctors here just take a quick look at me, maybe give me some bandages?”
He shook his head. “I wish we could, but this is a pediatric hospital. Unless it’s a life-threatening emergency, we have to send you to an adult facility. There’s a hospital just a few blocks away that—”
“Never mind, then.”
Adjusting the needle to start another suture, Luke went back to work on the girl’s wound. It was time for plain talk. “I’m sorry if what I’m going to say offends you, but your injuries don’t look like they happened falling down a stairway.”
“It wasn’t a stairway like in a house. We were outside.” She squirmed in her chair, as though she were sitting on a hot griddle. “The steps outside our back door are concrete. It was dark. I slipped.”
He looked up just as the woman pulled back a strand of hair hanging over her swollen eye. Her hand was shaking.
“Then do you mind if I swab a few areas on your daughter’s scalp?” he asked. “We can test it for traces of concrete.” He had no idea whether such a test even existed.
She didn’t respond.
As he snipped the ends of the last suture, he heard the woman weeping again. He slowly removed the surgical drapes.
The girl’s head did not move. She was asleep.
Luke and Mrs. Erickson both turned to a metallic sound — curtain hangers scraping along an overhead track. A tall, thin man, his graying hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail, peered at them from behind the half-open privacy curtain.
It was Dennis, the social worker. Luke waved him into the room.
If anyone could connect with this lady, it was Dennis. He had more experience with child abuse than anyone else in the hospital, and his skills were particularly useful when dealing with an abused spouse who was afraid to talk.
Of course, it was now considered more “correct” to refer to these incidents as non-accidental trauma rather than child abuse, to remove the supposed bias conveyed by the word “abuse.” Luke still preferred the term “child abuse.”