The Sinner by Tess Gerritsen Page A

we’ve heard.”
    “I’ll be doing that postmortem tomorrow. I wanted to
compare
the pattern of injuries between these two victims.”
    “I don’t think there’s much you’ll be able to
see
here. Not now, after surgery. You’ll learn more by looking at her admission
X rays and head scans.”
    She gazed down at the patient, and could not disagree with him.
Ursula’s
head was encased in bandages, her injuries by now altered, repaired by the
surgeon’s
hand. Deeply comatose, she was breathing with the aid of a ventilator. Unlike
the
slender Camille, Ursula was a woman of large proportions, big-boned and solid,
with
the plain, round face of a farmer’s wife. IV lines coiled over meaty arms.
On
her left wrist was a Medic Alert bracelet, engraved with “Allergic to
Penicillin.”
An ugly scar tracked, thick and white, over the right elbow—the aftermath
of
an old injury, badly sutured. A souvenir from her work abroad? Maura wondered.
    “I’ve done what I could in the O.R.,” said Yuen.
“Now
let’s hope Dr. Sutcliffe here can head off any medical complications.”
    She looked at the ponytailed physician, who gave her a nod, a
smile.
“I’m Matthew Sutcliffe, her internist,” he said. “She
hasn’t
been in to see me for several months. I didn’t even know she was admitted
to
the hospital until a little while ago.”
    “Do you have her nephew’s phone number?” Yuen asked
him. “When he called me, I forgot to get it from him. He said he’d be
talking
to you.”
    Sutcliffe nodded. “I have it. It’ll be easier if
I’m
the one who stays in touch with the family. I’ll let them know her
status.”
    “What is her status?” asked Maura.
    “I’d say she’s medically stable,” said
Sutcliffe.
    “And neurologically?” She looked at Yuen.
    He shook his head. “It’s too early to say. Things went
well
in the O.R., but as I was just telling Dr. Sutcliffe here, even if she regains
consciousness—and
she very well may not—it’s likely she won’t remember any details
of
the attack. Retrograde amnesia is common in head injuries.” He glanced down
as his beeper went off. “Excuse me, but I need to get this call. Dr.
Sutcliffe
can fill you in on her medical history.” In just two quick strides, he was
out
the door.
    Sutcliffe held out his stethoscope to Maura. “You can examine
her, if you’d like.”
    She took the stethoscope and moved to the bedside. For a moment
she
just watched Ursula’s chest rise and fall. Seldom did she examine the
living;
she had to pause to call back her clinical skills, acutely aware that Dr.
Sutcliffe
was a witness to just how out of practice she felt when examining a body whose
heart
was still beating. She had worked so long with the dead that she now felt clumsy
with the living. Sutcliffe stood at the head of the bed, an imposing presence
with
his broad shoulders and intent gaze. He watched as she shone a penlight into the
patient’s eyes, as she palpated the neck, her fingers sliding across the
warm
skin. So different from the chill of refrigerated flesh.
    She paused. “There’s no carotid pulse on the right
side.”
    “What?”
    “There’s a strong pulse on the left, but not the
right.”
She reached for the chart and opened it to the O.R. notes. “Oh. The
anesthesiologist
mentions it here. ‘Absent right common carotid artery noted. Most likely a
normal
anatomical variation.’ ”
    He frowned, his tanned face flushing. “I’d forgotten
about
that.”
    “So it’s an old finding? The lack of a pulse on this
side?”
    He nodded. “Congenital.”
    Maura slipped the stethoscope onto her ears and lifted the
hospital
gown, exposing Ursula’s large breasts. The skin was still pale and youthful
despite her sixty-eight years. Decades of protection beneath a nun’s habit
had
spared her from the sun’s aging rays. Pressing the diaphragm of the
stethoscope
to Ursula’s chest, she heard a steady, vigorous heartbeat. A
survivor’s
heart, pumping on,