Mark turned away from Gifford, staggered back to his car and drove off.  Swithin remained slumped against the office door, struggling to speak.  When Mark’s car was out of site Swithin’s voice returned.  “Thank you,” he said in a raspy whisper, and then went unconscious.

Swithin awoke in San Francisco General, stretched out on a trauma room bed with an IV in his arm.  A nurse was carefully placing EKG electrode tabs onto his chest and a doctor was evaluating his injuries.

“How am I?” Swithin asked the nurse.

“We’re trying to find out,” the nurse replied.

“What’s your name?” Swithin asked.

The nurse smiled.  “Charlotte.”

When Swithin’s condition stabilized, a patrol officer walked in to see him.  He confirmed Swithin’s name, home address and phone number, but was interrupted by the doctor before he could take a statement.  “Your interview is going to have to wait,” the doctor said.  “We need to move him on to X-ray and MRI.”  

Following Swithin’s X-ray and MRI, the doctor determined that his face, although bruised and swollen, was not severely injured; his left third and fourth ribs had separated from his sternum, but hadn’t punctured or damaged any organs; and the bullet had passed through his bicep, entering and exiting without striking vein or artery.  All said and done, Swithin was lucky.  Still, as he lay on an emergency room bed getting his left arm dealt with by his nurse, luck was not what he was feeling.

“Jesus!” Swithin exclaimed as the nurse held up a vial and punctured its septum with a syringe.  “Is that really necessary?”

The nurse gave Swithin a look. “It is…”

“What is it?”

“It’s an antibiotic called cephalosporin.  You have a penetrating wound, so there’s a chance for a deep tissue infection.” The nurse gestured with the syringe in her hand.  “This’ll help reduce the possibly of that happening.”  The nurse stuck the syringe needle into Swithin’s injured arm.

“Ouch!”  Swithin exclaimed.

“Don’t be a baby,” the nurse commented, as she pressed the syringe plunger down and pulled the needle out. 

“I was shot,” Swithin commented.  “Could you muster up a little sympathy?”   

“Compared to the gun shot wounds we usually get, yours isn’t that big a deal.” The nurse picked up a small strip of gauze from a stainless steel tray beside her and started packing Swithin’s wounds.

“You’re not sewing me up?”

“Just packing and smacking.”

“Packing and smacking?” Swithin questioned.

“Packing your wounds and smacking you on the butt to get out of here.  You got busted up, but not badly enough for you to stay here much longer.”

“I’m leaving after this?”

“You sound disappointed.”

Swithin grimaced.  “I just figured I’d be here longer.”

The nurse looked up at a wall clock.  “You’ve been here nearly three hours.”

Swithin pursed his lips.  “Say, you never told me your name.”

“I did.  You just forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” Swithin replied defensively.

The nurse looked at Swithin.  “Then, what’s my name?”

Swithin paused for a moment and then smiled. “Okay… I forgot.”

“It’s Charlotte,” the nurse replied as she continued packing Swithin’s wounds.

Five minutes later, the nurse taped a pad over Swithin’s entrance and exit wounds. “You’re ready to go...  I’d smack you on your butt, but your sitting on it.”

Swithin looked over at this bicep.  “It’s okay to leave the gauze stuffed in there like that?”

“Yes and no.  It needs to be left in there, but it also needs to be changed out—twice daily, for eight weeks.”

Swithin’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me?”

“If you don’t do it, you could loose your arm.”

Swithin swallowed hard.  “What do I need to do?”

The nurse handed Swithin a plastic bag filled with latex gloves, a saline rinse, sterile gauze and tape.  Then she went over the procedure he’d have to follow to clean and redress his wounds.  When she was done, Swithin held his breath, grimaced and started to lean up.

“Easy there tiger,” the nurse said, reaching out to brace Swithin.  “No sudden movements.”

“How long before the pain subsides?”

“About a month.”

Swithin paused to catch his breath. “Is there anything you can do for the pain?”

“You’re getting a bottle of Tylenol3 before you leave.”

The nurse rotated Swithin until he was seated on the side of the bed.  Then she helped him out of his hospital gown and into his street clothes.  His shirt and slacks were wrinkled, soiled and bloodied, but relatively clean. Once dressed, he held his left arm steady with his right hand.  “Fucking arm,” he commented under his breath.

“Wait here for a moment,” the nurse said as she stepped away and wove between a break in the curtains that circled the bed.  She returned a few moments later pushing a wheelchair with a blue arm sling on its seat.  She set the wheelchair aside and held up the arm sling.  “This’ll help take the weight off your left arm,” She said as she helped Swithin slide the arm sling into place and fasten it over his shoulder. 

“That’s a lot better,” Swithin commented gratefully.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the nurse replied. “Now all that’s left is to get you into your wheelchair.”

“That’s okay…  I can walk.”

The nurse smiled.  “All patients get curbside drop-off.”

Swithin sighed.

When Swithin was seated and moderately comfortable in the wheelchair, the nurse handed him a bottle of Tylenol3 and small plastic bag filled with his personal belongings.  Then she handed him dose schedule information, a handful of aftercare instructions for his chest and arm, and a release form for him to sign.

“How are you getting home?” The nurse asked Swithin as he signed the release.

“I’m calling a cab.”

“Is there a friend or a family member you could call instead?”

Swithin paused.  “There isn’t.”

“Do you live with someone?”

“No...”

The nurse sighed. “Here’s the deal.  We don’t like to release patients unless we know they’re going to be looked after on the other side.  So after you settle in today, your going to call and let us know everything’s okay.  Okay?”

Swithin nodded.  “Okay.”

The nurse smiled.  “Good.”  She reached out and pulled open the curtains.

Standing on the other side of the curtains was a man in a dark brown suit.  His hair was short and parted to the side and he had a thick moustache.  “Mr. McGuire?”

Swithin gulped.  “Yes?”

The man stepped forward and flashed his police ID.  “My name’s Stan Clark, I’m an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department.  Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“I suppose not,” Swithin replied nervously.

The nurse walked past the inspector and slid the curtains shut behind her.  “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

“How’re you feeling?” The inspector asked Swithin as he pulled out a flip pad and pen.

“I’ve felt better...”

The inspector took a breath. “Your full name’s Saint Swithin McGuire?”

“It is…”

The inspector made a check.  “Neat name.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. McGuire?”

“I’m a personal assistant.”

“For whom?”

“Dave Bennett.”

The inspector paused.

“He’s the CEO of kitschcreations.com.”

“Ah, I see,” the inspector commented as he started to write.  “A dot-com…”

“Yeah,” Swithin confirmed.

“How long have you had your job?”

“A little over a month.”

The inspector stopped writing and looked at Swithin.  “New job?”

Swithin nodded.  “Yeah.”

The inspector smiled.  “Congratulations.”

Swithin cleared his voice.  “Thanks.”

“So Mr. McGuire…  What were you doing before the incident?”

“I was attending a party at Studio Eleven.”

“When did you leave the party?”

“Some time around twelve…”

“If you had to guess…  Would you say sometime before twelve or sometime after twelve?”

Swithin paused.  “Before…  Eleven-fifty or so.”

The inspector jotted something down.  “What happened then?”

Swithin took a breath.  “It was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I started jogging down the street toward my car.  I didn’t want to step in a puddle so I kept my head to the ground.  Two blocks from the club…” Swithin trailed off and stopped talking.

“Are you okay?”

Swithin looked down and took a breath.  “I’m fine… It’s just difficult to talk about.”

“I understand,” The inspector commented.  “Still, please go on.”

Swithin continued.  “Two blocks from the club, a tall guy with a pony tail stepped out in front of me and kicked me in the chest.”  Swithin paused.  “I fell to the ground and he kicked me again—in my face and then my chest another time.  I tried to get away, but I was disorientated and backed into a door.  I slid to the ground, and heard the shot.”  Swithin gripped his left hand and squeezed it.  “I passed out after that.”

“You have any idea why this guy would want to hurt you?”

“I don’t...”

The inspector paused.  “Did he ask you for your wallet, or say anything?”

“He didn’t say a thing.”

The inspector took a breath.  “Do you think you’d be able to identify your assailant, if we put him in a lineup?”

“He survived?”  Swithin said softly then inhaled quickly as if he was trying to suck his words back into his mouth.

The inspector paused.  “Why would you ask that?”

Swithin took a breath.  “I don’t know…”

“Did you see something?”

“No,” Swithin replied nervously.  “I passed out.”

The inspector gave Swithin a look.  “Someone who fits the description of your attacker was found dead a few feet from where you were laying.  His injuries suggest a car hit him.  Did you see that happen?”

Swithin looked into the inspector’s eyes.  “I already told you…  I passed out.”   

“Yes…  You did say that,” the inspector commented as he tucked his flip pad and pen away.  “In all likelihood, the man found dead on the street was your attacker.  In turn, he committed a felony assault, moments later himself becoming a victim of a felony hit-and-run.” The inspector took a breath.  “You’re a victim…  He’s a victim…  The only person left alive and not a victim, is the driver of the hit-and-run vehicle.” The inspector paused.  “Help us find the driver…”

Swithin was silent.

The inspector leaned forward, griped the arms of the wheelchair and moved his face up to within an inch of Swithin’s.  “Look kid, I don’t buy your story.  Your attacker was a drug dealer, with arrests in Oakland and San Francisco.  What I think happened…  Something went down between the two of you, something that pissed him off enough to want you dead.”

Swithin looked away.

The inspector continued.  “I can’t make you help me…  But if you do, I stop digging and go away.” 

The inspector’s cell phone started chiming the theme song to the 80’s television show Chips.  He stepped away from Swithin, unclipped the phone from his belt and answered it. “What is it?” he said, gesturing for Swithin to wait.

Swithin could hear the voice of the person on the phone—it was male.

“The driver just turned himself in.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.  And get this for irony…  He was high when he hit the dealer.” 

“High on what?”

“Acid.”

Swithin’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

“Where’s his car?” the inspector asked. 

“Impound.”

“I’m on my way.”  The inspector flipped his cell phone shut and clipped it back onto his belt.  He turned to Swithin. “Looks like we’re done here.”

“Bye,” Swithin said in a flat voice.

The inspector started to pull open the curtains, but stopped himself short and looked back at Swithin.  “He pulled the trigger twice, you know?”

Swithin looked perplexed.

“Your attacker, Gifford Longfellow…  He took a second shot.”

“How do you know?”

“There was a hammer dent on the next rounds primer, but for whatever reason it didn’t fire.”

“So?”  Swithin questioned sarcastically.

“So, if it had fired, and it hit you in the chest—a likely possibility given the short distance Longfellow was to you—you likely wouldn’t have the chance your getting today.”

“What chance is that?”

“The chance to stop making decisions that leave you beaten and shot outside a club.”

Swithin dropped his eyes to the floor.

The inspector pulled open the curtains and left.

Chapter 34 - The Party's Over >>