The trade off to getting to go home on Monday was showing the nursing staff I’d be fine to do so. Which meant doing bullshit exercises like pacing up and down the hallway three times a day,getting out of bed to go to the bathroom by myself, and standing for longer than three minutes without my legs shaking from exhaustion.
I was a fit guy with plenty of energy stocked up in my twenty-four year old body. I’d gone from lean muscles to bulking out a bit when I entered the academy and had been put through training to hike up my stamina. Diet military training, as my sister so lovingly put it.
But goddamn, recovering from major surgery was an absolute bitch.
Since graduating from the academy, I’d kept up those same routines. Felt comfort in them because they were familiar at a time in my life where I’d felt desperate enough to join an organization that I knew would turn me inside out and make something new without taking me away from my sister and niece like the armed forces would have.
I’d never regret my decision to become a cop, even in those last moments of consciousness after I’d been stabbed and was feeling the life drain out of me. I’d always wanted to make a difference in this world—an impact, somehow—even if I’d seen my life playing out completely differently five years ago.
But that was fine.
Things changed, plans altered, and this spinning rock in the middle of space continued to turn.
Coming up on the nurse’s station, a thought occurred to me.
What were the chances Dr. Montgomery was wrong about my stuff getting thrown out?
With Thomas having died the day before yesterday, and the investigation with IA most likely still ongoing, there would be a need for forensic testing of some kind, regardless of the witness accounts from those who were there that night.
Right?
At least on the off chance that I sued. It gave IA plenty of options to cover their asses before a lawyer slapped them with a packet full of paperwork.
So far, I’d only gotten a few visitors from the precinct stopping by to see me, none of them coming around to take my statement or fill out a report on what happened that night.
I could only guess it was because they were waiting for me to get discharged and come in for a formal interview with IA present, and in the meantime, were busy gathering whatever evidence they could against Thomas to keep his family from suing.
This was an open and shut case by all means, however protocol still needed to be followed, regardless of how many people were there to witness the fucking mayhem.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bishop.” One of the nurses, Beth, smiled at me when I got close enough. “How’s the walk going?”
She reminded me of my grandma when she was still alive—a little frantic when things got chaotic but other than that, sweet as pie.
“Good. Hey, listen. I was wondering…” Lifting my arm, I rested it down onto the counter, using it to relax my body weight against instead of the pole from my IV drip. My hand was cramped and sore when I loosened it, pins and needles shooting all the way up to my shoulder. “During my surgery, I had some personal items taken. You wouldn’t happen to know where they ended up, would you?”
“Most of your clothes had to be disposed of, unfortunately.”
“Right. I figured as much.” My abs pulled uncomfortably when I heaved a sigh. “I had my utility belt and some jewelry on, too.”
She slid back in her chair, rolling it around to face the computer. From here, I could see the screen’s desktop. “Let me see if any of that got logged.”
“I know my weapon was exchanged, but other than that, I haven’t heard anything about the other items.”
She hummed, her fingers flying over the keyboard while she brought up some screen to log into the hospital portal.
Was it bad of me to be getting my hopes up like this?
There was a strong possibility I was going to walk away from this empty-handed and even more disappointed because I was naive enough to believe Dr. Montgomery hadn’t personally chucked my things into a waste bin before slicing me open.
He had to have plenty of nurses in that room with him though, right?
All of them cutting me free and throwing my dirty clothes and items away from the operating table in order to make room to save my life.
He could’ve simply been told by one of the nurses that whatever was left in the OR was disposed of without actually taking the time to ask about an entire catalog.
Because why would he?
It’s not like it was any of his shit getting tossed.
