FOUR DAYS LATER, I wake in a hospital bed at the Albany, New York, Medical Center. A plastic sticker affixed to a television set in the room is the first clue to my location. I know it’s been four days, because the CNN scroll at the bottom of the TV screen gives me a date. The scroll also tells me it’s ten o’clock in the morning. My left shoulder is packed heavily with gauze, and my left arm immobilized in a plaster cast. I’m hooked to an IV. I feel lightheaded. Beside my hospital bed stands an East Indian man wearing scrubs and Crocs who I assume is a doctor. He is busy making entries on a chart he has open on his iPad.
“Will I live?”
Startled, he stares. “I’ll notify the doctor you’re awake.”
He exits the room like a house on fire, leaving me to wonder.
Neither time nor trauma dulls the memory of the moment. My recall is intense; discovering Gabby standing balanced on an ice-block with a noose around her neck; the moment a slug fired by The Chatterbox enters my shoulder from the rear; relieving the pressure on Gabby’s neck by suspending her by the belt from the ice-hook; being decked and dragged helpless by The Chatterbox through the dirt to the deck; crawling from the deck to the ground; four shots—one, followed by two, and another before everything goes black.
Failing Gabby.
Twenty minutes after the man wearing scrubs and Crocs abandons me, a second man wearing almost identical scrubs and Crocs enters my room. This man is tall, bald, mid-forties.
“Detective, my name is Doctor Samuelson. I’m head of surgery here at Albany Med and the man who performed surgery on your shoulder. I’m glad you’re back with us. You had us worried. Emptied out the local blood bank to keep you breathing. In time, you’ll make a full recovery.”
Afraid to ask about Gabby, I say, “What happened?”
“In plain English?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“You took a hit to the left Subclavian Artery from a forty-five caliber slug. From what I suspect, the slug was fired at a distance and from an oblique angle. You were wearing a shoulder holster.”
“What are you? Internal Affairs?”
“No, no,” he says, without a trace of humor. “I only mean to say this set of unique circumstances saved your life.”
“How so?”
“An injury like the one you suffered typically would lead to catastrophic blood loss causing you to bleed-out in minutes.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“The shoulder holster saved your life. When the bullet struck, it softened the impact. The angle of entry, the velocity of the slug, and a quantity of leather debris becoming lodged within the artery itself combined to staunch the blood flow, which in turn allowed you to survive long enough to med-e-vac you here. Another twenty minutes you wouldn’t be recovering, your family would be planning a funeral.”
How comforting. “Why does my shoulder hurt so much? I know I took a bullet, but it’s not the first time. It feels like my left side has been removed by a hacksaw.”
“I’m sorry to say your left clavicle has been obliterated, turned into dust. After passing through the artery, the slug hit the clavicle bang-on. You’ll need reconstructive surgery and an implant before that arm is much use to you again.”
Digesting my prognosis, I work up the courage to ask. “My partner, Detective Fernandez? Mel?”
With a sympathetic look the doctor says, “I’m sorry, Detective, I’m not authorized to say more. Your Commanding Officer has been advised that you’ve regained consciousness. No doubt, he has questions. From what I understand, he’s arriving by chopper from New York sometime in the next couple of hours or so. In the meantime, you should try and get some rest.”
“I’ve been on my back for four days. I’ve had enough of rest.”