False Prophet

“She’s sedated?”

“No, no.” The nurse frowned. “You don’t sedate people with possible head injuries. She’s asleep. It’s been a long day for her. Her brother tried to talk to her about a half hour ago, but she was—”

“Her brother? You mean Dr. Brecht?”

“Yep.”

“He was here?”

“Why is that weird? He’s the patient’s brother.”

“I’ve been looking for him,” Decker said. “Left messages at his office, at the hospital—”

“I never got any messages from you.”

Decker let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he just get here or has he been here all day?”

“I’d say he came about a half hour ago. When he saw she was sleeping, he said he’d be back in a half hour. But like I said, that was a half hour ago. So he should be back around … now.”

“I’m going to take a quick peek in Lilah’s room,” Decker said.

“Okay,” replied the nurse with hairy forearms. “But don’t wake her.”

Decker said he wouldn’t. Her room was at the end of the hallway—one of the few privates available in the hospital. She was sleeping sitting up in the bed, glucose trailing down an IV line threaded into her arm. Her hair had been brushed off her forehead, her scrubbed face showing the bluing and swelling of her ordeal. Both eyes were puffy, with scratches and cuts above her brow. Her mouth was open; the dry air had caused her red lips to crack. Her skin tone had markedly improved. She was still pale but the cold, ashen complexion was gone. She wore the standard hospital gown backward, the split open in the front. But her modesty was protected by a bedsheet across her chest. Softly, he called out her name.

No response.

He checked his watch and decided to wait a few minutes. He pulled a chair up to the bed, about to stretch his legs when a stern voice jerked his head around, demanding to know who the hell he was.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties, medium height and weight, prematurely bald with just a few plugs of thin blond hair sticking up from a pink scalp. He made up for his lack of cranial hair with a full sandy-colored beard and thick eyebrows. He had close-set, pale-blue eyes and a long beaky nose. He wore a long white coat over an embroidered work shirt and jeans. On his feet were an ancient pair of Earth sandals—the kind where the toe was higher than the heel. Decker thought those had gone the way of the Nehru jacket.

“I’m Sergeant Decker of the Los Angeles Police.”

The man paused. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “I don’t think she’s equipped to talk to the police at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’re Frederick Brecht?”

“I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht, yes.”

With an emphasis on the doctor, Decker noticed. He stood, overshooting Brecht by around six inches. He put him at about five-ten, one-seventy. Even though his coloring was similar to Lilah’s, brother and sister bore little resemblance.

“I’m handling your sister’s assault, Doctor. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

Brecht’s scalp turned a deep shade of rose. “Why is that a concern of the police?”

“You went out with your sister last night,” Decker said. “Maybe you noticed something—”

“Nothing,” Brecht said. “If I had, I would have contacted you. Anything else?”

Decker said, “Doctor, how about we grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria as long as Lilah’s resting? Maybe you can help me out by answering a couple of questions.”

“But I have nothing to tell you,” Brecht insisted.

Lilah moaned.

“Patients, even in sleep, are still receptive to their surroundings,” Brecht lectured. “I think this conversation is upsetting her. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Doctor, I know this is a bad time for you—”

“Bad is an egregious understatement, Sergeant. I’m in no mood to be interrogated.” Brecht touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “I can’t think clearly. Maybe tomorrow.”

Decker was struck by Brecht’s manner—incongruent with the informal, guru appearance. He’d expected a palsy-walsy interaction and was getting anything but.

“Sure, tomorrow’s fine,” Decker said. “It’s just … you know. Well, maybe you don’t. Time is really important in these kind of cases, Doc.”

Brecht closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. “I suppose a few minutes …”

Decker walked over and looped his arm around the doctor’s shoulder. Gently, he guided Brecht out the door. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

“I never drink caffeine,” Brecht said weakly.

“Now’s a good time for an exception.”

“No, no.” Brecht sighed. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m very shaken. Who wouldn’t be?”

“True.”

They took the elevator down to ground level. It was after five and the cafeteria had begun to serve dinner, the special was meat loaf with mashed potatoes, peas, and coffee or soft drink for $4.99.

“Hungry?” Decker asked.

“I never eat red meat,” Brecht said.

Decker picked up an apple.

“That’s been sprayed,” Brecht commented. “If you must eat chemically adulterated items, may I suggest an orange as opposed to an apple. Its peel, being thick, absorbs most of the pesticides, leaving only traces of the poison in the meat of the fruit.”

Decker stared at him. “Maybe I’ll just stick to coffee.”

“Caffeine has been implicated in heart disease and infertility.”

“My wife’s pregnant,” he said, then wondered why.

“Good God, I hope she has enough sense not to drink coffee. Caffeine’s been implicated in birth defects!”

Decker was quiet. Now that he thought about it, Rina was suddenly drinking mint tea. He wondered if that had been implicated in anything, but didn’t ask. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and led Brecht to a corner table. He pulled out his notebook.

Brecht said, “How long have you been with the force?”