“We’ll also be running the Black Widow story, if there’s a positive I.D.,” he nervously reminded her.

She didn’t care.

“I’m wondering,” Brazil pushed his luck, “if you’d have a problem with my slipping in a few details or two that might trick the killer.”

“What?” Hammer glanced blankly at him.

“You know, if I messed with him a little. Well, Deputy Chief West didn’t think it was a good idea, either,” he conceded.

The enlightened chief caught on to what he was suggesting and was interested. “As long as you don’t release sensitive case details.” She fixed on the triage nurse in her console and headed there. No introduction was necessary.

“He’s on the way to the O.R. right now,” the nurse said to the police chief. “Do you want to wait?”

“Yes,” Hammer decided.

“We have a private room the chaplain uses, if you’d like a little quiet,” the nurse said to this woman who was one of her heroes.

“I’ll just sit where everybody else does,” Hammer said. “Someone might need that room.”

The nurse certainly hoped not. Nobody had died in the last twenty-four hours, and this had better not change on her shift. Nurses always got the raw end of that deal. Doctors suddenly vanished. They were off to their next bit of drama, leaving the nurses to take out tubes, tie on toe tags, wheel the body to the morgue, and deal with bereft relatives who never believed it and were going to sue. Hammer found two chairs in a corner of the reception area. There were maybe twenty distressed people waiting, most accompanied by someone trying to comfort them, most arguing, others moaning and bleeding into towels or cradling broken limbs and holding ice on burns. Almost all were weeping or limping to the restroom, and drinking water from paper cups and fighting another wave of nausea.

Hammer looked around, pained by what she saw. This was why she had chosen her profession, or why it had chosen her. The world was falling apart, and she wanted to help. She focused on a young man who reminded her of Randy, her son. The young man was alone, five chairs away. He was burning up with fever, sweating and shivering and having a difficult time breathing. Hammer looked at his earrings, his chiseled face and wasted body, and she knew what was wrong with him. His eyes were shut as he licked cracked lips. It seemed everyone was sitting as far from him as possible, especially those leaking body fluids. Hammer got up. Brazil never took his eyes off her.

The triage nurse smiled at Hammer’s approach. “What can I do for you?” the nurse said.

“Who’s the young man over there?” Hammer pointed.

“He’s got some sort of respiratory infection.” The nurse became clinical. “I’m not allowed to release names.”

“I can get his name from him myself,” Hammer told her. “I want a large glass of water with a lot of ice, and a blanket. And when might your folks get around to seeing him? He looks like he could pass out any minute and if he does, I’m going to know about it.”