Page 117 of The Watchmaker's Hand

He could not say definitively that he saw whether the traffic light he was approaching was green.

He was deceptive regarding injuries. Significantly he sustained a head injury on a case, which apparently required considerable rehabilitating work. The injury resulted in memory loss and confusion. There’s little in his NYPD personnel file on his condition. I suggest we locate the original medical report and append it to any recommendation by the full Officer Involved Accident board.

His rendering of a diagram of the scene was childlike. He could not even draw a straight line.

Because you intentionally sat me down in front of a cluttered desk. There was nothing else to write on but my lap. Christ …

My conclusions are that while the quantity of drugs in his system was negligible, given the presence of narcotics and the totality of his confused and memory-impaired responses, it would be prudent for the department to either terminate Subject Pulaski or assign him to an administration position in the NYPD. I do not think the department can afford to risk Subject Pulaski creating another life-threatening situation.

Respectfully submitted,

T. J. Burdick, Deputy Inspector

Burdick.

Hell.

“It’s all out of fucking context,” he muttered, using a word that rarely escaped his lips, and had never done so in his family home. “For all I know, they doctored the tape to make me sound like a zombie.”

Spencer asked, “The injury they’re talking about?”

Eyes on the lawn, he paused and said, “It was a job. The first one I worked with Lincoln and Amelia.”

He explained how he’d turned a corner of a building while searching for an unsub, too close to the wall, and the perp, who’d been lying in wait, caught him in the forehead with a billy club.

The lump went away not too long after, but the brain injury remained. He’d lost memory, lost his ability to make decisions and to work out the simplest of problems.

His parents, Jenny, his brother, had all been there to support him and help with the rehab. They also encouraged him to get back into his uniform.

Which he couldn’t do.

He wasn’t afraid. Like the old adage about getting back up on the horse after a fall. That meant you’d been hurt once and were worried about getting hurt again. He couldn’t even remember the attack, let alone any pain he’d suffered.

What troubled him: He was worried about endangering a partner, a bystander.

Worried about hesitating when he had to act.

Worried about not unpacking a situation properly and making the right decisions.

And so he avoided the risk altogether. Though it killed him to give up his beloved street patrol, he chose to hide. He sat at home, he walked, he drank coffee and watched games. He wrestled with taking other lines of work. Maybe programming on a computer in the NYPD’s statistics department. That was important, he told himself. You needed accurate figures when it was budget time.

Then came Lincoln Rhyme.

And with his trademark bluster and impatience, he told Ron what everyone else was tiptoeing around: Get over it.

“Everybody’s gotsomethingwrong with them, Rookie. Hm?” And didn’t bother to glance down at his useless legs.

Two months later, the day after his last head injury rehab session, Ron donned the uniform once more.

Now, looking over his tiny backyard, Ron said to Lyle Spencer, “This’s a hit job.”

“Why?”

“Burdick was contaminating my crime scene. We could’ve had a private conversation, but he was grandstanding in front of the press. I threatened him with obstruction. Nearly cuffed him.”

“So he sent Garner after you.” He shook his head. “Personal vendetta? Man, that’s low … And, I’ve gotta say, it took a lot of effort. He must really have it in for you. And those medical records of yours. They’re going to be a problem. Hell, they might even change them. Make it seem worse. Maybe say something like there’s permanent damage.”

Medical records, Ron Pulaski was thinking.

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