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“Lucky for me you did all the work, Laquitha.”
“Aw shucks,” she said. “Anything not to get de-funded.”
He laughed. “Anything else in the room?”
“Whatever was found we took. You can wait for us to log it or come by.”
“The latter,” he said. “You’ve been great, again thanks. You mind if I pay Gilmore a visit?”
“Suit yourself,” said Laquitha Morrison. “I’m concentrating on all the OIS noise that’s sure to come. And supporting my people. The officer who shot him is a sensitive sort and people were phone-photoing the scene. Hope some prick doesn’t edit and warp.”
Milo said, “Gilmore’s implicated in my three murders and a good bet on four more. Can’t imagine anyone’s gonna turn him into a hero.”
“In a perfect world, Milo. But you know how it is, reality’s a concept, no longer a thing.”
CHAPTER
48
That afternoon, Milo and I drove to Centinela Hospital, where he used his badge to get us into the ICU.
In the movies, doctors are always warning cops about unduly stressing patients and displaying an overall hostile attitude to law enforcement. A. Singh, M.D., Rooney Gilmore’s attending physician, said, “Have your way with him but he’s been in and out of consciousness, good luck.”
“Prognosis?”
“Hard to say with a bowel wound,” she said. “He tolerated surgery okay but you never know how many bad little buggies have leaked out.”
“He say anything?”
“Mostly he fought the cuffs and cussed everyone out. He did tell one of the nurses that it was an Isis thing.”
“He sees himself as a terrorist?”
“People like that,” said Singh, “does it make a difference why they do the things they do?”
She led us to a room in a corner, separated from the others in the ward and tagged with a hand-letteredIPD/Special Circ.sign taped to the door.
Milo said, “Special?”
Singh said, “As in dangerous.”
She left as we entered.
Rooney Gilmore lay slightly propped on a hospital bed, his left wrist shackled to a side rail bolted into place, his right arm immobilized by an I.V. setup affixed to a bedside stand also attached to the floor. The hospital was in a high-crime area. Lots of Special.
An oxygen tube in his nose failed to improve his color. His vitals peaked and troughed graphically on the monitors, beeping and burping in concert. Slightly elevated blood pressure and pulse, oxygen level ninety-two. Not bad for someone a few hours out of surgery.
The pasty face from his arrest photos had settled to a doughy consistency, slack around the edges. Black tats had faded to charcoal gray. A bald head was inked, as well. Lightning bolts. His beard had been cropped to stubble. His chin displayed razor nicks. Hasty shave in the O.R., eliminating loose hairs, one less hassle for the surgeon.
His eyes were open but glazed. They began blinking manically when he saw us. His pulse and his BP began rising. One of these days, someone would start using ICU gear as impromptu polygraphs.
Milo said, “Hi, Rooney. Milo Sturgis.”
Guttural groan.
“How they treating you?”
“Uck U.”
