Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,27
he wasn’t the black sheep of his family for being gay. He was the black sheep for being the only one still sober.
Alex returned with a younger-looking guy, six feet, gym fit and clad in black sweats. D.D. did the honors. “Detectives Phil and Neil, Boston PD. Russ Ilg, my personal torturer, er, physical therapist.”
Everyone exchanged handshakes. D.D. kept her own arms tight by her sides, where no one would see her hands tremble with growing nerves. Her first choice for this mission would’ve been her doctor. But MDs didn’t keep schedules that allowed for last-minute field trips; hence, Russ agreed to do the honors. Besides, as he put it, doctors just diagnosed the damage. His job was to rebuild and repair, which provided him with a much more intimate knowledge of injuries both past and present.
As the lead detective, Phil brought them from the kitchen to the base of the stairs. D.D. could see the bullet holes in the drywall along the right-hand side. Three individual marks, sprayed across the surface. If she’d been aiming at the time, it didn’t speak well of her marksmanship.
Phil cleared his throat. “So D.D., um, Sergeant Detective Warren was found unconscious at the base of the stairs. Given the, um, injuries she sustained, working theory is that she started at the top, fell down.”
Russ nodded. He didn’t look at D.D. but kept his gaze focused on the straight rise of the narrow staircase, for which D.D. was grateful. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so great. Her stomach was churning, and she could feel sweat once more beading her brow.
Rockabye, baby . . .
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would make the feeling of foreboding go away. Her own nervousness angered her. She was here to remember. She needed to remember.
She forced her eyes open and locked them on the bullet holes instead. Her damage inflicted by her bullets fired by her gun. She owned them. One way or another, they would always be hers.
“So,” Russ started, as if reading her thoughts, “first thing I’m noticing is that there’s no right-hand railing on this staircase. Violates code, I believe, but not so uncommon in renovated older homes with narrow staircases.”
They all nodded.
“Given that variable alone, D.D. was definitely falling backward down the stairs, facing the second-floor hall at the time.”
He gestured to the stairs and they obediently filed into a single line, climbing up behind him.
“What’s the first thing you do as you fall?” Russ asked now. It seemed a rhetorical question, so no one answered. “You reach out a hand to catch yourself. In this case, D.D.’s holding her firearm in her right hand, correct?”
She nodded.
“Given that you fired off three shots, you were still holding the gun in your right hand as you fell. That leaves your left hand to catch yourself, which would explain the damage to your shoulder.” Russ had arrived at the top of the stairs. He indicated for them to take up a position in the hall. At which point, he backed down several steps, then grabbed the top of the left-hand railing with his left hand and abruptly let himself twist and dangle.
D.D. could see it immediately. The way his dangling posture rotated and strained the muscles of his neck, shoulder and left arm. She couldn’t help herself; she winced, looked away, her arm held even more tightly to her side.
“D.D. falls backward,” Russ stated matter-of-factly. “She reaches out with her left arm to break the force of her backward momentum. In turn, her arm is abruptly wrenched in abduction and external rotation as she grabs on to the railing. This leads to the avulsion fracture of the lesser tuberosity of her left humerus, where the tendons that connect the muscle to the bone end up tearing away a piece of that bone. Then, sequentially speaking, her head snapped away from her left shoulder due to the sudden halt in momentum, leading to the overstretching injury to her brachial plexus.
“At this point, given the sudden and excruciating pain to her neck and shoulder, she probably released the railing. Her momentum has been slowed, but she’d still be off-balance; hence, the rolling tumble onto her head at the base of the stairs. Which would explain the bruising to her back and the moderate concussion.”
Russ glanced at D.D. “Did I miss an injury? I think that covers your file.”
She shook her head. His gaze was kind, sympathetic even. It didn’t help. She didn’t want to be here anymore.