As the week passed, my life fell into a routine. Work, sleep, get up, and work some more. Gramps continued his updates on Tucker’s condition. They didn’t change that much from day to day. The neurologists had decided to induce a coma, since he’d become restless, and tried to climb out of the bed. My grandfather settled into his own routine predicated on when doctors did their rounds. On the neurology/stroke ward rounds were scheduled around ten in the morning. Right at nine-thirty he’d be sitting by the writer’s bedside with a large coffee and buttered roll. By the end of the first week, he told me, he knew everyone, from the phlebotomist who loved his job to the angry curly haired nurse dumped by one of the second-year residents for a different curly haired nurse in orthopedics. Upset with having to see her former boyfriend five days a week, her chronically cranky mood hovered over the ward like a black cloud whenever she was on duty.
I reminded Gramps that patients tended to forget that what was life or death to them was just another day at the office for the hospital employees.
Through his fire department and police contacts, Gramps confirmed there were no new developments in the assault case on Tucker. Hate crimes were more common than the general public thought. The forensic team found the alleyway where the attack took place a swamp of DNA containing multiple sources, having been used by bums, prostitutes, and drug addicts for months, if not years. The pawnshop located next door periodically hosed it down to get the urine odor out, but that was it. No city services ventured there.
Tucker had put up a ferocious fight. Defensive wounds showed on both arms and hands. Broken fingers and toes indicated how hard he tried to protect himself. When knocked down, the writer crawled his way through the alley, clawing and kicking his attacker in a heroic attempt to get away, but at the same time covering his clothes and body with a potpourri of random DNA and fibers. No identifiable DNA was recovered from under his fingernails. With a vague eyewitness description and no coherent statement from the victim, the crime remained unsolved and probably would stay that way. Each day meant new victims in the Big Apple.
That night, after work, I tried to expand on Dr. Holtzer’s dog-owning theory, but immediately became bogged down.
After doing a computer search of the Oak Falls Animal Hospital files, I discovered over one hundred-fifty German shepherd or German shepherd mixes over the years who had been patients. This was assuming the breed data had been entered correctly. Our office was one of fifteen veterinary hospitals in the Greater Kingston/Saugerties/High Falls and Woodstock area. I didn’t even bother to add in Rhinebeck and the outlying counties. To make matters more complicated, there were two AKC registered German shepherd breeders in our immediate area, as well as the famous monks of New Skete up north in Cambridge, New York.
Tracking down owners of German shepherds using all this data was an impossible task, not to mention the fact that the Big Bad Wolf might have switched breeds. For all I knew, Carl Wolf now owned a pit bull.
Everything changed later that evening when Gramps finally called with good news about Tucker. The brain swelling had resolved and his weakened arm had gained some strength. But the best news was that our redhead patient was walking the halls without help, talking about his writing, and loudly complaining. His docs expressed cautious optimism for a full recovery.
With our patient mostly out of the woods, Gramps and I reviewed Tucker’s allegations, trying to decide whether to take these claims to the FBI.
First: Gloria herself never said she saw Wolf, only someone evil. Tucker alone jumped to that conclusion. Second: Any truth to his suspicion of being followed? There was no evidence to support that. Third: Had Carl Wolf come out of hiding and assaulted him? Tucker, in his delirium, probably mumbled the last thing on his mind, the Big Bad Wolf, a pivotal part of his new book. With no memory of the event, that was another supposition.
Logically, nothing clearly pointed to a killer hiding in our midst. The FBI had plenty of real threats to deal with. If we brought our concerns to them at this point they’d most likely assign it a low priority. In fact, when I went back over our list of “clues” I had to admit many could be chalked up to an overactive imagination. After our conversation, Gramps diplomatically recommended we both cease our amateur investigating, at least until Tucker could make the decision to go to the FBI for himself.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
A huge feeling of disappointment settled in. I kept seeing Gloria’s face. If Tucker was right, but no one believed him, Wolf would win again.