9.

Swann presented his thumb. The American MD pricked it with a needle, then squeezed out a thorn of blood onto a glass specimen plate.

‘Done.’

The navy doctor’s name was Maria Gonzalez. She had a small round face with almond-shaped eyes, and she hummed while readying the plate under the microscope. Swann had already been CT-scanned. The celluloid images were clipped onto a white glass projector above the doctor’s head. Even from Swann’s position on the bed he could see the dozens of shotgun pellets still in his shoulders, neck and jaw. There were dozens more scattered through his chest and lower back.

Swann had assumed that after his shooting the surgeons had removed all of the pellets, but Dr Gonzalez had told him that removing each pellet wasn’t the norm, at least in the US. It was also unusual to Swann that there were pellets in his back and chest. He’d been shot from behind and above, and the fortunately distant blast had sprayed his head, neck and shoulders. He asked her, and Dr Gonzalez told him that it was common for pellets to migrate through the body. She described her first job interning in a Chicago public hospital ER unit before she’d joined up, where such gunshot wounds were common.

It was Webb who’d suggested Swann see the resident shift doctor of the Carl Vinson. Webb had invited Swann onto the aircraft carrier, to shout him lunch in the officers’ galley, but Swann was only three feet up the gangway when he’d hurled into the blue harbour waters.

‘Worst case of sea legs I’ve ever seen,’ Webb joked, before guiding Swann down through the Minotaur maze that was the ship’s lower decks. Even with half of the crew on shore leave, the corridors were crowded with sailors, marines, pilots and officers going about their business. Webb had stopped outside the brightly lit doorway that led into the hospital ward. A young white sailor sat in a chair holding his bloodied head, eyes avoiding Webb’s glare, reeking of booze.

‘Even navy hospitals have waiting rooms, as you can see. But you can come through with me, Frank.’

The regular hospital smell of soap and rubbing alcohol had made Swann’s stomach churn, but he didn’t have long to wait. Dr Gonzalez emerged from a nearby office. She was short, even with her bun of black hair and elevated shoes. She shook Swann’s hand as Webb described his previous shooting and slow recovery, his recent symptoms of fatigue, nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain. Both Webb and Dr Gonzalez seemed to know what was going on, even if Swann didn’t. Dr Gonzalez nodded at each of the symptoms, as though Webb were describing a common cold. Webb joked to her that Swann was his specially appointed deputy sheriff while the Vinson was in port, and that because Swann’s Australian doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him, he’d like Dr Gonzalez to run some tests. He asked the doctor to call when she had results, because meanwhile he had to follow up on an AWOL sailor.

‘Take care, Frank. Our facilities here are better than most hospitals on land. I’ll bring you back a sandwich. Doc.’

Dr Gonzalez gave Webb the peace sign. She had moved to Swann and stuck her fingers into his throat glands, watching his reaction, which was to pull away and retch. She then took a sample of his blood.

‘The symptoms are getting worse, or staying the same?’

‘Getting worse. What’s your call, doctor?’

‘My call?’

‘If you were a betting person?’

She smiled. ‘That wouldn’t be a fair bet. I’m pretty certain of a diagnosis, but we’ll have to wait for spectrometer analysis of your blood, which needs to be sent to a lab stateside.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it done here. In the meantime …’

‘As you wish. I can confirm my suspicions by looking at your blood under the electron microscope, but you’ll need that spectrometry done if my suspicions are correct, to get the definitive picture.’

Dr Gonzalez went to a broad desk, shifted aside some test tubes and a steel-cased centrifuge before flicking a switch. The largest machine on the desk, which looked like a space-age coffee machine, came to life with a low murmur that for some reason made Swann even more nervous.

‘They keep you busy in here?’

Dr Gonzalez’s smile told Swann that she’d picked up on his nerves. He felt like a kid in the VD clinic for the first time, sweating on the results, except that in this case he was beginning to fear the worst. Was it his liver, gone into terminal decline? Swann’s stepfather Brian had died of liver failure after copping a beating, and when it came on, the end was fast – six weeks from diagnosis to death – and his symptoms prior to the beating had been the same. Like his stepfather, Swann too had been an alcoholic throughout his thirties, struggling to cope with a detective’s workload, internal copper politics, a failing marriage and a young family. The truth of course was that he hadn’t coped.

Dr Gonzalez nodded, smiling wryly as she loaded the slide containing Swann’s blood into the machine. ‘Yes. Despite regulations, we get plenty of workplace accidents. Strained backs, wounds that require operations. Sometimes the men fight, as you’d expect. Long hours and cramped quarters. And then there’s shore leave, our busiest time. Traffic accidents, muggings, the contraction of tropical illnesses, bar fights and venereal disease.’

The doctor stopped talking as she slipped on her reading glasses, sat astride a low stool, leaned over a brightly lit panel. Swann wanted to keep making conversation, but suspected that he’d get no reply. Dr Gonzalez tweaked a few dials and nodded, looked back at the panel and jotted notes on a yellow pad.

‘If you’d come here, Deputy Sheriff. Look over my shoulder.’

Swann did as he was told. The level of detail was incredible. On the screen was a rectangle full of red spheres, squashed on one side, resembling cushions that’d been sat on. Transparent white shapes that looked like jellyfish.

Dr Gonzalez pressed a button that took a photograph of the image. She began to count the transparent white shapes, dabbing the tip of her pencil onto the screen as she counted.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘The bloodwork of a very sick man, I’m afraid.’

Swann’s heart sank.

‘You see those red blood cells with stippled blue shades and even worse, blue dots? You’ll notice that one in about every dozen cells is so coloured. That is evidence of severe lead poisoning. Like I say, this isn’t a precise reading of levels, but what’s in front of me confirms that diagnosis. Your white cell count is way higher than it should be, too.’

Now Swann understood. He remembered Webb’s and the doctor’s knowing looks earlier, as the doctor examined his healed wounds. The CT image and evidence of dozens of shotgun pellets still in his body.

‘My doctor told me that lead pellets missed during the operation wouldn’t cause long-term damage.’

Dr Gonzalez pressed another button and a printer whirred on a desk behind them. ‘Your doctor was correct. Generally, the body heals over bullets and pellets with a form of internal scar tissue, sealing them off from the bloodstream, but that’s only in muscles.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, most likely, that some of the pellets penetrated a blood vessel or an internal organ. Lead pellets are soft enough to deform upon contact, and because they’re small can be passed through the body, settling in organs where they break down and become diffused, ultimately poisoning the bones. The long-term consequences are often fatal, I’m afraid.’

There, she’d said it. Even though the doctor’s bedside manner throughout their meeting had indicated bad news, it still came as a shock. She pushed away her stool and looked up at him. Hers were eyes that’d seen plenty. Swann knew those eyes because he had them too. A doctor, like a copper, having to relay the worst kind of news, to a terminally ill patient, or a dead child’s mother and father.

‘Please, Frank, sit down on the bed. This is serious, but it’s also reasonably common … at least in the US.’

Swann did as he was asked. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Strangely, perversely, at that moment he felt fine. No nausea, or pain. He was in shock.

When he finally spoke, his words came from a long way off. ‘Is there anything –?’

‘Yes, there is, fortunately. You need to begin immediate chelation therapy. It’s a substance taken orally or by injection that bonds to the lead, and is passed out of the body by natural means. You’re very lucky to have caught this early.’

Swann didn’t quite understand. ‘You mean that this … chelation therapy, can cure the poisoning? Entirely?’

Dr Gonzalez nodded. ‘Yes, although you’ll need to manage it for many years. Regular tests. Monthly, then yearly. It’s possible for lead poisoning to occur in gunshot victims, even decades after the initial trauma. The good news is that you’ve only been sick for a few months. Any damage to your organs or bones is likely to be minor, although potentially significant depending upon underlying factors, such as heart, liver or lung disease. You seem reasonably healthy otherwise, based on the standard indicators – blood pressure, heart rate et cetera.’

Swann hadn’t noticed, but Webb was there in the doorway, listening; a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand. He shared a look with the doctor that told Swann they were more than friends.

Swann stood, and wrapped the doctor in a hug. ‘Thanks, doc. I owe you one. And you too, Webb.’

Webb smiled, but there was strain in it. ‘That’s good, Frank. Because …’

Webb looked at Dr Gonzalez again. She understood, and went about her business, placing the printed photograph of Swann’s bloodwork into a manila envelope. When she’d finished, she handed it to Swann and wished him well. Webb stood in the doorway, his eyes saying that he was the bearer of bad news.