Chapter 2 - WHAT FELL TO THE FLOOR
The saw screamed against fiberglass.
I cut slowly.
One line along the outer edge.
Then another.
The smell intensified.
Marcus gagged behind his mask.
Clara whispered a prayer.
The boy's name was Noah.
He moaned once when I reached the lower edge near his wrist.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I said. "We're almost there."
Martha stood against the wall between the security guards.
She no longer looked angry.
She looked terrified.
"Stop," she said.
Nobody listened.
The cast split.
Clara helped me lift the top half.
For one second, nobody understood what we were seeing.
Then something small dropped from inside the cast onto the floor.
A plastic syringe.
Not a medical syringe from our hospital.
An insulin-sized disposable syringe with no needle attached.
Dark residue stained the barrel.
Then another object fell.
A folded piece of gauze.
Then a tiny silver key.
Marcus stepped backward.
"What the hell?"
Clara stared.
"Why is there a syringe inside an eight-year-old's cast?"
I didn't answer.
Because Noah's arm demanded all of me.
The skin underneath was severely infected.
Pressure sores.
Swelling.
Areas where circulation had been compromised.
A narrow puncture wound near the forearm.
Another near the elbow.
Someone had been accessing his arm through holes made inside the cast.
Repeatedly.
"Blood cultures. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. Call pediatric surgery and ortho," I ordered.
Marcus moved.
I looked at Martha.
"What was being injected into him?"
Her face went blank.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"There is a syringe inside his cast."
"I've never seen it."
"And puncture wounds."
"He scratches."
"Through fiberglass?"
She said nothing.
Noah opened his eyes.
His lips moved.
I leaned closer.
"What is it?"
"Blue medicine."
Every person in the room froze.
"What blue medicine?"
He looked toward his mother.
Martha shouted:
"Noah, don't say anything!"
One of the guards tightened his hold.
I crouched beside the bed.
"You're safe."
Noah's voice was almost gone.
"Mom says it makes me sleep."
Martha began screaming.
"He's confused!"
Noah whispered:
"Dr. Kent gives it to her."
Dr. Kent.
I recognized the name.
Dr. Alan Kent.
Pediatric orthopedics.
Not employed by our hospital, but well known in the city.
He had treated Noah's fracture.
I looked at Clara.
"Call Child Protective Services."
Martha lost control.
"You have no right!"
"I have every right required by law when I suspect a child is being harmed."
"I'm his mother!"
"And right now that doesn't give you permission to interfere with treatment."
Pediatric surgery arrived.
Noah's blood pressure dropped again.
The room transformed into controlled chaos.
Fluids.
Medication.
Monitors.
Oxygen.
He needed emergency surgery to clean the infection and restore blood flow.
Before they moved him, he grabbed my wrist.
"Don't let Mom take me home."
My chest tightened.
"I won't."
That promise would later become much harder than I understood.
Police arrived within forty minutes.
Detective Aaron Ruiz had spent twelve years investigating crimes against children.
He looked at the syringe through an evidence bag.
"Any idea what's inside?"
"Not yet."
"Could it cause this?"
"Depends what it is."
"What does the boy say?"
"Blue medicine. Makes him sleep."
Ruiz looked toward the observation room where Martha sat with an officer.
"Mother?"
"Denies everything."
He nodded.
"They usually do."
I disliked how easily he said it.
But maybe experience had earned him that cynicism.
Then Clara approached me.
"Sarah."
She held Noah's clothing.
"What?"
"Look."
Inside the pocket of his pajama pants was a folded piece of notebook paper.
Written in childish block letters:
IF I GO TO SLEEP DON'T LET MOM GIVE ME THE BLUE SHOT.
I stared at it.
Noah had written his own warning.
An eight-year-old had understood enough to fear unconsciousness.
Detective Ruiz photographed it.
"Who else lives at home?"
Martha had told registration it was only her and Noah.
But when Ruiz asked Noah later, Noah gave a different answer.
"Grandpa."
"Your grandfather lives with you?"
Noah nodded weakly.
"Downstairs."
"What downstairs?"
"The locked room."
Ruiz looked at me.
"What locked room?"
Noah began crying.
"Mom says Grandpa is dead."
Silence.
"But he's not?"
Noah shook his head.
"He talks to me through the vent."
My skin went cold.
Ruiz straightened.
"Address."
Martha refused.
The hospital registration system had it.
Police left immediately.
At 7:42 that evening, officers entered Martha Harris's home.
At 8:16, Ruiz called me.
His voice sounded different.
"Sarah."
"What did you find?"
A pause.
"Her father."
"Alive?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Basement room. Door locked from the outside."
I sat down.
"Condition?"
"Bad. Dehydrated. Malnourished."
"What the hell is happening in that house?"
"We're trying to figure that out."
Then he said:
"And there's something else."
"What?"
"We found boxes of medication."
"Blue?"
"Some liquid medication, yes."
"From Dr. Kent?"
"His name is on the labels."
My stomach tightened.
"How much?"
"Enough that this isn't a misunderstanding."
"Why would an orthopedic surgeon prescribe sedatives to an eight-year-old and an elderly man?"
"He didn't."
"What?"
Ruiz's voice hardened.
"The pharmacy says those prescription numbers don't exist."
The medication was fake.
May you like
Or illegally obtained.
And somebody had gone to considerable trouble to make it look legitimate.
