Two Detective Walter Duncan #3
These episodes are coming more often. The flare-ups of pain are a little worse this week, but I have to be careful of any sort of medication.
I can’t be impaired on the job. Liv deserves a partner who won’t let her down.
If it gets to the point where I feel I can’t be a good partner, I’ll have to go ahead and retire.
Until then, I plan to do my job. I intend to keep this ugly reality to myself. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me or hovering over me. Work is what I do, it’s who I am, and I want to keep doing it until I either die or fall down and can’t get back up. Then we’ll all know I’m done.
Maybe it’s selfish, but it’s how I want to do this.
At some point, I will have to tell Liv. I managed to pull off being gone for a day last week for the biopsy. But I can’t keep pretending.
The door opens, and I stand a little straighter as Dr. Kingsley rushes in, his nurse right on his heels. Kingsley is around fifty, tall, athletic looking, and always in a hurry. Gray has invaded his hair at the temples. Damn stuff took over mine ages ago.
“Detective Duncan.” He glances up from my medical file and smiles. “We have news. You might want to sit down.”
Well, shit. Here it comes. I take my seat once more.
The doctor settles onto the wheeled stool and tucks my file under his arm. His hands rest on his thighs and he watches me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. “You do not have cancer.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I think we’ll just let this thing happen naturally, but no words come out because his take a few extra seconds to assimilate in my brain.
I lean forward. “What did you say?”
“The nodule that had all the earmarks of cancer was benign. We removed it when we did the biopsy, so there’s no further concerns there.”
I look around, expecting someone to jump out and say, “Just kidding!” Except they don’t.
“What about all these symptoms I’m having?” I watched my wife die with lung cancer. I know the damned symptoms.
He nods, his lips compressed. “I’ve spoken with a colleague, a cardiologist. He’s looked at your scans, your lab work.
He wants to see you. The symptoms you’re having strongly suggest congestive heart failure.
The scans show some significant narrowing of the coronary arteries. If you recall, we discussed this.”
I nod. I do recall, but I just can’t find my voice. I was so damned certain.
“The cardiologist will recommend the steps to take next. They’ll set up an appointment for you as you check out.” He stands, reaches for my hand. “I’m very glad you no longer need me, Detective Duncan.”
I manage to stand and accept the handshake. “So my ticker is giving out on me.” Well, hell, how is that much better?
“The cardiologist will advise you on how to proceed, but in my experience, medication and lifestyle changes can make all the difference. You could live a long and productive life if you follow the doctor’s orders.”
Stunned, I manage a “Thanks.”
Kingsley nods once and passes my file to the nurse standing by. He’s out the door, and she’s ushering me in that direction.
I leave the office with an appointment to see the cardiologist next week.
In the parking lot, still in a bit of shock, my cell vibrates against my hip. I pull it free of my utility belt as I slide behind the wheel of my Tahoe. “Duncan.”
“Hey, Walt.”
Tim Reynolds from the crime lab. Reynolds is my go-to guy.
A couple years younger than me, he has more experience and expertise in his little finger than most have in their entire beings.
If there’s anything in the collected evidence to help our investigation, he will find it. “What’ve you got for me, Reynolds?”
It’s too early to have a DNA match on the blood. We’re operating under the assumption that the blood is Fanning’s, but it’s always possible it belongs to someone else. Not the sort of news I want to hear, considering what that would likely mean. I want the blood to be his.
“Most of the blood is B positive, Fanning’s type. We should have DNA results in a couple of days. The chief put a rush on it.”
“Thanks for the update.” The idea that he said “most” nudges me, but before I can ask, he says, “Wait, there’s more.”
I hesitate before backing out of the parking slot. “I’m listening.”
“I found a second blood type in the mix, mostly on the hand towel that was in the puddle. This one’s O positive. Maybe that blood was already on the towel before whatever happened in his kitchen. Either way, it belongs to someone besides Fanning.”
Holy shit. That is not what I wanted to hear. It could simply mean that Fanning’s kidnapper injured him- or herself during whatever happened in the house.
Or it could mean Fanning had someone in the house with him. Possibly a victim.
“Thanks, Reynolds. Let me know if you find any DNA matches in the database.” I drop my cell phone into the cupholder of the console.
Son of a bitch. I sag in my seat.
Every victim Carl Fanning ever took was a child.
My gut twists. We need to look at any children who’ve gone missing in the past few days.
This is damned bad news.