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She pulled the clipboard out and flipped pages.
“As we discussed briefly, the trauma is significant, worse than the burns, which are about three percent TBSA-”
“Would you mind going over that for me?” Payne said.
She made a face of annoyance at the interruption. She looked to the Benjamins for permission.
They nodded their assent.
“Total Body Surface Area,” Dr. Law said. “A specialized burn center is required for any injury over five percent TBSA, or a burn of the face or hands or one that encircles an extremity. Third-degree-what do you know about burns, Mr. Payne?”
He held up his right hand about ear high. The palm faced her, the thumb holding down the pinky to leave the middle three fingers extended together.
“Everything! I’m an Eagle Scout! And, please, call me Matt.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“First-degree burns,” he went on, lowering his Scout sign, “are mildest. Only the skin’s outer layer is damaged. Second-degrees are worse-deep and very painful. Usually blisters. And third-degree burns, also called full-thickness burns because all skin layers have been affected, are the worst. Very deep and serious. And there may be no pain in the burn because of destroyed nerve endings.”
“Not bad,” Dr. Law said with a serious face. “That is, for a Boy Scout. But there is a fourth-degree. They extend down to the muscle, sometimes to the bone. Fourth-degree is rare.”
Payne nodded. “The pair who died in the explosion had fourth-degree. I just assumed those were categorized as severe third-degree burns. Which, now that I say it, would appear redundant.”
Payne then wondered if Skipper had fourth-degree burns.
Tony Harris also had told him that when Skipper bolted out of the burning motel room, he thought that the staggering man had been damn lucky to get out alive with only his clothes blown to shreds. Then Harris had realized the man was naked. What he’d thought were strips of clothing actually had been his flesh blown into strips.
“You were at the motel, Matt?” Mrs. Benjamin said with great interest.
“Yes, ma’am. Afterward. After the firefighters finished.”
“And you saw the ones who died?” Dr. Law asked.
Payne nodded. “The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office showed me.”
“May I ask what you were doing there?” Dr. Law asked.
“I’m with the Homicide Unit.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a wad of cash folded under a silver money clip. From the middle of the bills he slipped out one of the three or four business cards he kept there. He held out one to her. “Sergeant Matt Payne. My information, in case you can think of something I should know later.”
And with that statement the blue shirt now has figured me out.
She looked at it, then wordlessly-and perfunctorily-took it. She stuck it on her clipboard, then looked him in the eyes.
Do I detect, my dear doctor, something more than idle interest?
Please? You’re certainly Law. I would like to study…
“Matt,” Mr. Benjamin injected, “do you mind if we get back to Becca?”
Dr. Law said: “My apology, Mr. Benjamin. Your daughter is now heavily sedated and immobilized. The windshield that hit her actually did her a bit of a favor. That is to say, what hurt her also helped her.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Benjamin said.
“It served to protect her from worse injury. Her burns are limited to her upper scalp and her right hand. The glass protected the rest of her body.”
“Thank God!” Andrea Benjamin said, then audibly sighed with relief.
“Unfortunately,” Dr. Law continued, “the blunt-force trauma of the windshield has caused intracranial hypertension-”
