File M For Murder

Magda Johnston hovered in the doorway, and hearing her name, stepped forward. “I stopped by to see Laura, and her door was slightly open. When I stepped inside, I saw her on the floor. I was just checking her out when Mr. Harris arrived.”

A campus police officer showed up then, and he took charge of the questioning. Magda Johnston and I repeated our stories. The EMTs placed Laura on a gurney for transport to the hospital, and as they rolled her out of the office I called out that I would be right behind her.

I turned to the campus officer and said, “Someone struck my daughter on the head and knocked her out. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with the death yesterday of her colleague, Connor Lawton. You might want to notify the sheriff’s department about this, in case there is a connection.”

When I mentioned the dead playwright’s name, I heard Magda Johnston whimper. I shot her a quick glance, but her face was averted. Was she upset over what happened to Laura, or was it Lawton’s name that elicited a response?

She had been very interested in the playwright at the party, I recalled. At the time I had put it down to her inebriated state, but what if there was more to it?

An even uglier thought came to me then. Was Magda Johnston Laura’s assailant?

SEVENTEEN

By the time Sean dropped me off at the hospital, a nurse and an ER physician were examining Laura. The nurse appeared to be cleaning the wound while the doctor watched. The doc, an attractive woman in her forties, asked who I was, and before I could reply, Laura said, “My father.” I spotted the doc’s name embroidered on her lab coat: LEANN FINCH.

The nurse, a chunky, short man of about thirty, didn’t stop what he was doing, but the doc nodded in acknowledgment before she resumed watching the nurse work.

When the nurse finished, the doc bent over Laura. Her gloved fingers probed the back of Laura’s head. Laura, on her side facing me, winced.

I stood at the side of the small room and observed the rest of the examination.

After some minutes the doc said, “Your hair is very thick and seems to have cushioned the blow. You don’t even need stitches.” She nodded at the nurse who took over and finished treating the wound while the doc continued to talk.

“Her reflexes are good, although she’s complained of a little dizziness and nausea. She lost consciousness, she told me. Any idea how long she was out?”

“No.” I glanced over at Laura, who now appeared to be asleep. I explained what I knew of the situation.

Dr. Finch nodded. “She doesn’t have any memory of what happened in the moments leading up to the blow on the head. Not unusual in the circumstances. I want a CT scan to see whether there’s any kind of internal trauma.” She laid a hand on my arm, evidently having noticed my alarmed expression. “I don’t think there will be any. As I said, her hair is very thick, but the blow did break the skin enough for her to bleed. Just a mild concussion probably. The CT scan is a necessary precaution.”

“Whatever you think best,” I said. I prayed the doc was right and there was no internal injury.

“Once I’ve had a chance to examine the results of the scan, I’ll probably send her home. I’ll discuss with you later the kind of aftercare she needs.” Dr. Finch smiled warmly. “Any questions?”

“Does she need to stay awake? I’ve read that you need to keep someone with a concussion awake for a while.”

“No, that’s not really necessary,” Dr. Finch said. “Natural sleep is okay, but if she loses consciousness you’d need to bring her back in.” She paused, apparently waiting for further questions, but when I nodded, she smiled and moved to a nearby laptop computer and began typing.

“You can sit here if you like.” The nurse’s deep voice startled me, because I hadn’t seen him approach. He indicated a chair near Laura’s bed. “It’s going to be a little while before they come to get her for the CT scan.”

I thanked him and sat down. My head was about two feet from my daughter’s, and as I gazed at her, I could feel my heart rate increase. Seeing her like this brought back sad memories of her mother’s times in the hospital.

Then I chided myself for such morbid thoughts. Laura was going to be fine. This was nothing like her mother’s case, when pancreatic cancer ravaged her. Laura was young and healthy and would make a rapid recovery, I assured myself.

As I watched, Laura’s eyes fluttered open and she yawned. “Guess I dozed off,” she said, her voice weak and low. “When can I go home?”

“They want to do a CT scan first,” I said. “The doc wants to make sure there are no internal injuries.”

Laura frowned. “Okay.”

I checked to see whether Dr. Finch and the nurse were out of the room. They were, and one of them had pulled the door almost shut. I turned back to my daughter.

“Time for a few questions,” I said. I hated doing this now, but Laura was in grave danger. “You’ve been through a lot in less than twenty-four hours, and I need some answers. I want to know what’s going on in that pretty, stubborn head of yours.”