A Confidential Source by Jan Brogan

it really was the same man…
    I knew then that I had to see his face. I had to make sure that the guy I’d seen last night in front of the dairy case was
     the same guy who was now incapacitated in the hospital. Then I could breathe again, I could run on the boulevard without looking
     over my shoulder for hulking figures, without imagining threats in every shadow and on every street.
    From my short foray into a hospital public-relations career in Boston, I knew that if this guy was a murder suspect, he would
     also be under police guard. But I also knew that most hospitals were short staffed on Saturdays and that the visitors’ desk
     was often manned by a volunteer. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak into the hospital, but what floor?
    “You okay?” Holstrom asked.
    “Fine.” I smiled to show the appropriate gratitude, to let him know I knew he was giving me information to allay my fears.
     “You said this guy was unconscious?”
    He nodded. “Head injury.”
    “Did he need surgery?” If he needed surgery, I could limit my search to the surgical floors.
    “Yeah. Something to do with relieving pressure in his cranium.”
    “Will he survive?”
    “They usually do,” he said, with a roll of his eyes.
    I pulled out my notebook. It took only a few minutes to jot down the little that Holstrom had confirmed. I found myself wondering
     where exactly a police guard would be posted at the hospital—inside the room? Outside in the hall?
    “Can you tell me the name of the guy? The
car accident
victim,” I asked.
    Holstrom gave me a look, and I realized I’d made a mistake by calling him a victim. This might again imply that the police
     cruiser chasing him was somehow at fault. “The reckless, driving-to-endanger guy. The one charged with resisting arrest,”
     I clarified.
    Holstrom rewarded me with an actual name: Victor Delria, twenty-four years old, of Central Falls.
    “Prior arrests?”
    “Simple assault and an unarmed robbery, two years ago. Driving under the influence, last year, too.”
    “But there’s no official connection to the Mazursky murder?” Sometimes in reporting, you have to ask the same question over
     and over, just to clarify.
    “The matter is still under investigation.”
    I scribbled this in my notepad to show that I would quote him verbatim. When I looked up, I saw another cop standing in the
     doorway. The man was dressed casually, in blue jeans and a ski sweater, and was holding a file under his arm, but I could
     tell by his posture and by the way Holstrom shifted in his seat that the new cop was of higher rank.
    “I’m surprised to see
you
in today,” Holstrom said.
    “Just checking in on a few things.” Holstrom introduced him as Detective Major Errico. He was a densely packed man with solid
     arms and a lined face. His eyes scanned mine, sizing me up.
    “Reporter?”
    “The one from last night. At the shooting,” Holstrom said. “Hallie Ahern—new to the
Chronicle.”
    “Ah,” Errico said, as if that explained everything. He looked past me to the photo books on the desk. Holstrom tilted his
     head slightly. A response of some kind. A communication between them.
    “Well, I think we’re about done here,” Holstrom said, standing.
    I hesitated to take my cue, but Holstrom’s face was suddenly stony. There was no question, this interview was over. I picked
     up my notebook from the table. At the doorway, Detective Major Errico acknowledged my departure with a polite nod, but his
     tense stance transmitted impatience. I glanced at the stack of files under his arm. On the outer corner, I saw some lettering.
    He instantly tucked the file tighter under his arm. Outside in the hall, I heard the click of the door closing behind me.
    With an extraordinary display of confidence, I told the elderly man at the visitors’ desk that I was a social worker who had
     left a case file up on the surgical floor. “What floor is that again?”
    He looked it up and even gave me a page of