“You’re in the medical examiner’s office. You’re going to be fine,” Claire said. “We’re going to get you off of that skinny little bed, right now.”
Claire was still shocked that the woman in the drawer was alive, but she was starting to get some perspective. This wasn’t the first time in history that a convincingly dead person had revived himself or herself inside a morgue—or a coffin. There were cases in the nineteenth century where people overdosed on barbiturates and were presumed dead, even though they had, instead, fallen into a deathlike state. Some of the time, they “came back to life” before burial.
Claire wondered if there was a modern drug affecting the woman in front of her, but then she remembered that there was a condition called catalepsy.
Could the bloody woman have that disorder?
Claire knew that people who suffer from catalepsy go into a dead-not-dead state, with slow breathing and a weak pulse. Their muscles go rigid, and sometimes they lose sensation in their body. Claire recalled from something she had read long ago that catalepsy could be triggered by disease, certain drugs, or traumatic shock. And if the “undead” was cooled down—for instance, by being stored inside a morgue’s cold room—the brain would remain functional until death took over or the person awoke.
In today’s high-tech medical environment, it would be hard to mistake catalepsy for death. But this woman appeared to be an exception to the rule.
The patient was clearly not dead.
Chapter 5
The woman in the drawer stretched out her good arm, and Claire and Bunny helped her to a standing position.
Claire’s spot assessment was that this poor thing was middle-aged and bone-thin. She’d been shot and was lucky to be breathing.
Claire also saw that another bullet had grazed her hip. Like the shot to her shoulder, it wasn’t life-threatening.
Would this lady’s good luck continue? Or would bad luck send her back in the drawer?
Bunny and Mallory helped the woman onto a stretcher and pulled a sheet up to her shoulders while Claire checked her vitals. The woman was breathing without assistance. Her pulse was slow, but her heart was beating regularly. Her wounds weren’t bleeding and she had spoken, which is always a good sign.
Claire put her stethoscope away, and the woman’s eyelids suddenly flew open. The woman drew back, afraid. It was as though she’d forgotten she’d been awake just moments ago.
“Who are you?” she gasped. “Where am I?”
Claire introduced herself again and ordered someone to get water. Then she asked, “What’s your name?”
“My name?”
After a few long seconds, the woman said, “I’m Joan Murphy. Did you say this is a morgue? What am I doing here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Miss Murphy.”
“Call me Joan. My shoulder. It hurts.”
“Actually, medically, that’s a good sign. You took a bullet, Joan, so it’s natural for your body to be reacting to the pain. Do you know who shot you?”
“What day is it?” Joan asked.
“Monday. It’s about eight thirty in the morning.”
“So yesterday was Sunday?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I woke up in my own house. I had breakfast and watched the news shows with my husband—my husband. Someone has to call Robert.”
“Of course. We will. Right away.”
Joan Murphy recited numbers and Mallory wrote them down.
Then Claire said to her patient, “Joan, an ambulance is on the way. You need emergency medical attention and I’m not equipped to do that for you here.”
“If I could just get dressed,” said Joan.