Page 12 of Skin Deep

Our ripper’s preferred targets were women aged eighteen to thirty-five, all in lower income brackets. He drugged them with something that rendered them immobile but still conscious and sliced up their faces. Only two of his victims had died, but he had fourteen victims in total, all of them disfigured. I should know. I’d consulted on eight of the twelve cases for reconstruction. Reducing the appearance of the scars was possible, but it was too expensive for his victims.

And last night, he’d claimed a fifteenth victim. That made two this month, more than usual. Why was he stepping up his game now?

More importantly, why wasn’t anyone doing anything about this guy? Why hadn’twedone something? Wasn’t that what we did? Taking him out seemed like it would qualify as a community service, so why hadn’t anyone brought it to the table?

Maybe I should, I thought, sipping my protein shake.Someone’s got to do something.My watch beeped, letting me know I had fifteen minutes until I had to leave. I sighed.But not me. Not today.

Myworkdaywasthesame most days. First surgery at six, except on Mondays when I did consults and held my appointments. Around noon, I’d drive across town to either the private clinic where I worked or to Best Face Forward, a charity that provided reconstructive surgery to low-income clients.

My workload was light that morning, with only two consults, so around ten o’clock, I went upstairs to have a look at the ripper’s latest handiwork.

I pulled her file and sat behind the charge desk with my mid-morning coffee to scroll through it on the computer. Shauna King. Age twenty-eight. Two pregnancies. Never drank, never smoked. I scanned her chart with a frown. They’d stabilized her for the most part, but there was already information in the chart aboutdischarge. After less than twenty-four hours? Was her attending doctor insane?

“Hey, Hannah. Why is eleven-twenty-seven B being discharged?” I asked.

The charge nurse, Hannah Utz, was a heavyset woman who’d been with the hospital for almost forty years. A lot of the doctors talked shit about her because she argued with us, but I liked her. Hannah was damn good at her job, which was taking care of her patients and not kissing my ass.

She barely looked up from the form she was filling out. “You mean the ripper lady? Family’s refusing care. No insurance. I tried to talk to the husband, but he wasn’t having it.”

I stood, wrapping my stethoscope around my neck.

Hannah snorted, shook her head, and went back to her paperwork. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it. And War? Be nice.”

“Nice doesn’t save lives,” I replied.

I went straight to room eleven-twenty-seven. The lights were out and the patient—Shauna—seemed to be resting. Her entire face was hidden behind white bandages except for one eye, which was swollen and bruised. The man in there with her—a middle aged man in worn flannel and jeans—looked up as soon as I knocked on the door frame. He had his hand resting on her wrist. Her right hand was bandaged too. Had she fought back?

I glanced at the light switch and frowned. If I touched it, I might have to do it thirteen times. Maybe there was enough light in the room that I didn’t need it.

The husband looked at me with bloodshot eyes, his bottom lip protruding in a slight underbite. “You here with our discharge paperwork?”

“I’m Doctor Laskin,” I said, going to wash my hands before sliding on a pair of sterile gloves.

The man frowned deeper, watching me with obvious distrust. “They said they weren’t going to run any more tests.”

“I’m from cosmetic surgery,” I replied.

The man’s face hardened, jaw setting and eyes growing colder. “We didn’t ask to speak to a plastic surgeon.”

“I know. I didn’t come because you asked for me. I came because…” Why was I there? If he complained to my superiors, I’d get another reprimand, and the administrator was probably tired of my face. Patients didn’t like me, even though I was the best damn plastic surgeon in the hospital. I sighed. “Sir, Mr. King, I’ve consulted on cases like your wife’s before and—”

“Didn’t you hear me? We don’t need you.”

My jaw clenched and anger sparked. Of course he would use that particular phrase.Calm down, War. It’s not personal. He’s having the worst day of his life and he doesn’t trust doctors.Probably been screwed over by the system too many times. It wasn’t even that unusual.

I took a deep breath. “Listen, the hospital doesn’t give a shit about your wife. To the administrators, you’re just a name in a computer and an address to send the bill to.”

His nostrils flared. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Someone who cares,” I lied.

I didn’t, even though I wanted to. It wasn’t in me to care about most people, especially people I didn’t know. What I cared about was the ripper. He’d been getting away with hurting people for too long in my town.

It didn’t matter to Mr. King if I cared about his wife or the ripper. He only needed to know that I was there to help him, and I’d say whatever it took to get him to believe that.

I took a step closer. “There’s no charge for my visit today. My superiors don’t even know I’m here, and if you’re fine with it, I’d like to keep it that way so you don’t wind up with the bill.”

He gave me a hard look up and down. “Why are you here if you’re not getting paid?”

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