IV. The Impossible Escape
1026 Words
A nurse slipped out of the trauma bay. "Doctor, the new IV drip is ready for administration."
Émilie’s shoulders slumped. She had no choice but to yield; the patient's immediate life took precedence over her eight-year quest. The doctor, relieved by the interruption, said nothing and quickly followed the nurse back inside.
Left alone in the sterile hallway, Émilie sank against the wall. She waited for them to finish, her mind a dizzying blur. For eight long years, she had been digging in dry earth for a single clue. Now, it felt like everything was suddenly and violently pouring in.
The moment the doctor and nurses exited the room, Émilie was on him. She opened her mouth to resume her questioning, but the doctor cut her off, his words rushed and preemptive.
"Sorry, Detective. I truly am sorry about what happened to your father eight years ago. I'm tired of the chaotic life we had back then. That’s why I left Sicily and moved here. Please, let me live in peace—at least far from those thugs."
"Doctor, please," Émilie pleaded, stepping closer. "My team and I can guarantee your safety." As a daughter desperately chasing even the smallest possibility, she was willing to promise anything to find the truth.
The doctor’s face was pale and firm. "The best I can do to help your investigation is to give you the complete medical reports." He gestured toward the room. "For other details regarding the mafia, you can ask him when he wakes up and is stable enough." He didn't wait for a reply, turning and walking swiftly away, leaving Émilie with no room for further questions or requests.
She walked into the trauma room and took a moment to observe the victim. The young man, now heavily bandaged with a stitched head and IVs running, was a static figure of brutal violence. Needing a reprieve from the tension and the flood of emotion, she decided to seek out some fresh air.
She found the nearest café, ordered a cold brew, and carried it out to the hospital’s small, quiet garden. After a few deep sips of the bracing coffee, her phone rang, and the screen flashed her partner’s name.
“Hi, Em. Just checking in. What’s going on?”
“It’s been a day, Adrian. A long, exhausting day,” she sighed deeply.
“What’s wrong? Did you hit a wall, or did you find something connected to Pop’s case?”
“I think I almost had it, but I let it slip right through my fingers.”
“What? Why the hell would you do that?!”
“It’s a long story. I’ll send you the medical reports later. Please look into Le Ombre’s pattern of killing and find out everything you can about Dr. Carl Cullen, a trauma surgeon.”
“Consider it done, ma’am!” Adrian chuckled, a sound that finally brought a genuine, if brief, smile to Émilie’s face.
“Thanks, bro.” Feeling a measure of comfort restored, she finished her coffee and headed back inside, making a beeline for the nurses’ station.
The nurse who had been working with Dr. Cullen immediately approached her. “I’ll prepare that for you, Detective. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you. And please ensure another copy is sent directly to Detective Inspector Adrian Scott.”
The nurse settled in front of a computer and, ten minutes later, handed Émilie a thick printout. “I’ve just confirmed the copy was sent to Inspector Scott, Detective.”
“Thank you so much. Can I go back in to see the victim now?”
“Of course. But please notify us the moment he wakes up so we can check his vitals and injuries.”
“I will. Thanks again.” She strode back to Trauma Room 2 and took a seat on the couch against the wall, positioning herself near the victim’s bed.
Out of sheer exhaustion and the weight of relentless deduction, Émilie had drifted into a deep nap on the uncomfortable hospital couch. An hour later, a sudden commotion ripped her awake.
“Code Yellow! Trauma Room Two: a victim of a gang incident. I repeat, Code Yellow!” A nurse’s urgent voice blared over the intercom.
Émilie was on her feet instantly. “What is happening?” she demanded, grabbing a passing nurse gently but firmly by the arm.
The nurse, frantic, explained, “I was about to check the patient’s vitals when I found the bed empty. And you were lying asleep there at the couch.”
Émilie released her. Her detective mind instantly seized control. The patient had been unconscious for hours, severely injured, and dosed with a high level of sedatives—it was impossible for him to wake up and simply walk out. She raced into the hallway, her eyes already tracking the line of ceiling-mounted surveillance cameras.
At the reception desk, she flashed her badge. “Detective Laurent. Who is in charge of surveillance? We need to track the missing patient from Trauma Room Two immediately.”
The front desk officer understood the gravity and instantly pressed the security alert button. Within minutes, a security officer was ushering Émilie toward the surveillance room.
The first feed they pulled was the camera directly across from the room. At 3:15 PM, the victim appeared, limping badly as he moved into the hall. He paused and scanned his surroundings, freezing whenever a staff member passed.
“What the heck was he doing?!” Émilie exclaimed, genuinely shocked. The man was clearly injured, but acting alone.
They followed his tracks through camera after camera until they hit a critical blind spot: a broken unit near the staff restroom and the changing room.
The security officer immediately jumped to the easiest conclusion. “The victim must have escaped through the restroom window. We have no camera coverage beyond that area.”
Émilie shook her head, dismissing the idea instantly. She had seen his injuries and knew the potent cocktail of drugs in his system. It was physically impossible for him to scale a window, especially while maintaining that heavy limp.
- Writer
