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“Hell of a doc,” Patrick said, putting a blood pressure cuff on Nana Mama’s left arm.
I stood there, knowing I should feel relieved because a first-rate physician and longtime friend of my family would soon be in charge, but I found myself swallowing the emotions surging through me.
For the first time I thought, This could really be it. The end of an era.
13
AFTER LEAVING ALEX AND Nana Mama at St. Anthony’s Hospital, John Sampson called Pam Doolittle, a neighbor who occasionally babysat for his daughter, Willow, and whose son, Tomas, went to the same elementary school. Pam answered on the second ring and confirmed that she could pick up Willow from after-school and take her to her dance lesson.
“I’ll be a little late getting home,” Sampson said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll feed the kids dinner together,” Pam told him.
“Great,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
He hung up and then called Metro PD’s IT office, got Analise Clark, an old friend, and requested a database search for a cleric, priest, or minister who might’ve gone missing.
“Try ASAP and then take a look tomorrow and for the next few days in case no one has reported him gone yet.”
“I’ll let you know, John,” Clark said.
On the way back to the encampment, Sampson called Willard Kane, Metro’s chief of detectives, told him about Alex Cross’s emergency situation, and filled him in on the early stages of the John Doe homicide/arson investigation.
“A torched Audi in a camp for homeless people,” Kane said. “Any leads on the victim?”
Sampson told the chief about the boy who thought he saw a cleric’s collar on the victim before the explosion, then he described how hard it had been to get statements from many in the camp, all of whom said they’d been hunkered down in their shelters when the Audi exploded.
“Maybe they were telling the truth,” Kane said. “The storm was pretty bad. I had lightning hit a tree close to my house. Sounded like a bomb going off.”
“I get it. Anyway, I think the arson guys should be wrapping up their work at the scene and with the car. We talked to most of the people on one side of the encampment, but I want to go back and talk to the folks on the other side. I want to hear what they have to say.”
The chief paused, then said, “The way you describe this place, it’s almost like another culture.”
“Certainly feels like it’s their world and we’re the outsiders.”
“Then you need a guide, an insider, someone who knows the power structure and the fabric of the place.”
Sampson thought about Anna Bananas and Boog. “I think you’re right, Chief,” he said. “Maybe Alex and I weren’t asking the right questions this morning.”
14
IN THE TRAUMA BAY, while Patrick got Nana Mama’s vital signs, Rich crouched at the head of the gurney. “Regina, can you hear me?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Try calling her ‘Nana Mama,’” I said.
“Nana Mama,” Rich said, “can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered. She replied in a muffled, soft whine.
“Can you open your eyes?”
Her left eyelid fluttered again and then opened.
“My name is Rich, and you’re in the ED at St. Anthony’s,” the nurse said, pulling out a penlight. “Your grandson Alex is here. They said you had a fall down some stairs. Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” she said weakly, thickly. “Dizzy.”
