The Doctor's Parallel

"There's a particular vulnerability to being medically assessed by someone who reads injury patterns the way I read crime scenes—both of us trained to spot what doesn't add up, neither of us willing to pretend we don't see it."

The wait felt longer this time.

I'd lost track of temporal markers entirely—couldn't tell if five minutes or fifty had passed since Jackson left. The headache made time slippery, unreliable. The clock on the wall insisted it was 8:17 PM, but that number existed in abstract space rather than connecting to any meaningful sense of duration.

The Emergency Department's ambient noise continued its chaotic symphony beyond my curtain. Medical staff conferring in voices that carried urgency without panic. Equipment alarms beeping their various warnings. The mechanical hum of ventilation systems working to circulate air through spaces that held too many people breathing too hard.

My hand had progressed from numb to a strange tingling sensation as the local anaesthetic began wearing off at the edges. Not quite pain yet, but the promise of pain returning soon. The phantom feeling of stitches pulling with each slight movement, reminding me they were there even when I tried to forget.

The curtain pulled aside with deliberate movement—not the quick swish of someone passing by, but the purposeful opening of someone entering with intent.

The man who stepped into my curtained bay radiated authority despite casual posture. Tall—easily six foot two—with a lean, athletic build that suggested an active lifestyle rather than gym membership. Sandy brown hair showing distinguished grey at the temples, styled in that particular way medical professionals achieved—short enough to be professional, practical enough to survive twelve-hour shifts without maintenance.

But it was his eyes that caught immediate attention. Piercing blue, framed by dark eyebrows that gave intensity to his gaze. The kind of eyes that missed nothing, that assessed and catalogued whilst maintaining warmth that prevented the scrutiny from feeling invasive.

He wore scrubs like everyone else, but somehow made them look professional rather than utilitarian. Carried himself with the casual confidence of someone completely comfortable in his domain, moving into the small space with economy of motion that suggested awareness of exactly how much room he occupied.

His name badge identified him as "Dr. Finn Montgomery, FACEM" with additional credentials underneath that I couldn't quite focus on reading.

"Detective Lahey," he said, voice warm but professional. Australian accent, educated, the kind of voice you'd trust instinctively in emergency situations. "I'm Dr. Finn Montgomery, Head of Emergency. Understand you've given yourself a couple of decent injuries this evening."

He pulled up the stool Jackson had vacated. His posture was relaxed—one elbow resting on his knee, the other hand holding a tablet—but his eyes were already assessing. Taking in my colour, my posture, the way I held my injured hand, the squint against overhead lighting, probably cataloguing a dozen subtle signs of injury and distress I wasn't consciously displaying.

"Jackson's done excellent work on that hand," Dr. Montgomery continued, glancing at the fresh bandaging. "Six stitches, clean closure, should heal well. But I'm more concerned about what's happening up here."

He tapped his own temple lightly, the gesture both professional and somehow friendly. Making the examination feel collaborative rather than authoritative.

"Head injuries can be deceptive. Look minor, feel manageable, then suddenly deteriorate. So I'm going to be thorough, ask what probably feel like repetitive questions, do several tests. Fair warning—some of them will be annoying and potentially make you feel worse temporarily. But it's necessary to establish baseline and ensure we're not missing anything concerning."

I nodded, immediately regretting the movement as it sent fresh spikes of pain through my skull.

"Right, let's start with history. Talk me through exactly what happened—mechanism of injury, immediate symptoms, progression since. Take your time, include details that might seem irrelevant."

I repeated the story for the third time that evening. Fell during a search of residential premises in Berriedale. Lost footing. Caught hand on broken glass from window. Hit head on wall on the way down. The fiction was becoming more solid with each repetition, details filling in automatically, gaps closing themselves through narrative momentum.

Dr. Montgomery listened without interruption, occasionally making notes on his tablet. His expression remained neutral throughout, giving no indication whether he believed what I was telling him.

When I finished, he set the tablet aside, leaning forward slightly.

"And this fall—can you describe the exact mechanics? Were you moving when you lost balance? Stationary and stumbled? Tripped over something?"

The question required more detailed lying, filling in specifics I hadn't fully constructed. "Moving through a dim room. Didn't see something on the floor, foot caught, momentum carried me forward into the wall."

"Head first or did you get your hands up?"

"Tried to catch myself. That's when my hand hit the glass. But my head connected with the wall pretty solidly."

"Which part of your head made contact?"

I touched the left side, just above and behind my ear. The area that throbbed with particular intensity, where I could feel swelling beneath my hair.

"May I?" Dr. Montgomery asked, already standing, moving closer. His hands were gentle as they probed through my hair, fingers carefully palpating the area I'd indicated. "Tell me if this hurts."

It did. Everything hurt. But particularly where he was touching, where swollen tissue protested manipulation.

"Significant hematoma," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "No obvious skull deformity, which is good. No open wounds, though you've got impressive swelling." His fingers moved methodically, checking the entire scalp, checking my neck, feeling for anything concerning. "Any pain in your neck? Stiffness, restricted range of motion?"

"No."

"Good." He returned to the stool, producing a penlight from his pocket. "Right, neurological assessment proper. Follow the light with your eyes—don't move your head, just your eyes."

The penlight clicked on, bright enough to make me wince. Dr. Montgomery moved it slowly side to side, up and down, diagonal patterns.

"Pupils equal and reactive," he noted, clicking the light off. "Good tracking, no nystagmus that I can detect. That's all positive."

He produced what looked like a small hammer from his pocket—the kind doctors used to test reflexes in examination rooms. "Going to check some reflexes. You know the drill—try to stay relaxed."

The hammer tapped below my knee, eliciting the expected kick response. Then the other knee. Elbows. A few other points I couldn't quite track. Each producing the automatic reactions that indicated nervous system function.

"Reflexes symmetric, appropriate. Also good." Dr. Montgomery set the hammer aside, pulled the stool closer. "Now some questions to assess cognitive function. I know you're probably quite sharp normally, but humour me. What's your full name?"

"Sarah Jane Lahey."

"Date of birth?"

I provided it.

"What's today's date?"

"Sunday, July 29th, 2018."

"Who's the Prime Minister?"

"Malcolm Turnbull."

"Can you spell 'world' backwards for me?"

"D-L-R-O-W."

"Excellent. Orientation and concentration seem intact." He made notes on his tablet. "Now memory assessment. I'm going to give you three words to remember. I'll ask you to repeat them back to me in a few minutes. The words are: apple, table, penny. Can you repeat those?"

"Apple, table, penny."

"Perfect. Hold onto those."

He continued the examination, asking about symptoms with methodical thoroughness. Headache severity—I admitted to eight this time, the lie of seven no longer sustainable. Nausea—definitely present. Light sensitivity—significant. Sound sensitivity—yes. Dizziness—moderate. Balance problems—uncertain, hadn't tried walking much. Vision changes—just the light sensitivity and some peripheral softening. Confusion or memory gaps—no.

"And those three words I asked you to remember?"

"Apple, table, penny."

"Brilliant. Memory formation and recall functioning well." He set the tablet aside, expression becoming more serious. "Right. Based on this assessment, you're presenting with classic signs of moderate concussion. The good news is there's no indication of anything more serious—no skull fracture, no obvious signs of intracranial bleeding or increased pressure. But concussions are tricky things. Symptoms can worsen over the next several hours, and there's always risk of complications."

He paused, ensuring I was following. "Standard protocol for someone in your condition is observation. Minimum four to six hours, potentially longer depending on symptom progression. I'd like to admit you to our observation unit—private room, regular monitoring, comfortable enough that you can rest but medical staff nearby if symptoms worsen."

Observation meant staying here. Meant being available when Claiborne arrived. Meant facing conversations I'd been trying to delay.

"I'm fine to go home," I protested, the objection automatic despite knowing how unconvincing it sounded.

Dr. Montgomery's expression suggested he'd expected resistance. "Detective, I've treated enough police officers to know you're trained to minimise symptoms and push through injuries. It's part of your professional culture—toughness, resilience, not admitting weakness." His voice was kind but firm. "But concussions aren't something you can tough out. Your brain has been traumatised. It needs rest and monitoring."

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. "Jackson mentioned your supervisor's been notified. I imagine that's contributing to your reluctance to stay. But medical necessity overrides professional concerns. You're not in trouble here—you're in treatment. And right now, treatment means observation."

The kindness in his voice, the understanding of professional pressures, nearly undid the careful control I'd been maintaining.

"The fall..." I started, then stopped, uncertain how to continue without revealing too much or lying more than I already had.

Dr. Montgomery waited patiently, giving me space to find words.

"It was more complicated than the intake form suggests," I finally managed, the admission feeling both dangerous and necessary.

"I suspected as much." His tone remained neutral, non-judgmental. "The injury pattern doesn't quite match simple fall mechanics. Your hand laceration is consistent with catching yourself on glass, yes. But the head impact suggests considerable force—more than typical stumble physics would produce. The trajectory's wrong for someone catching themselves."

Of course he'd noticed. Of course a doctor with his experience would recognise inconsistencies between story and physical evidence. Would apply the same analytical reasoning to injury patterns that I'd apply to crime scenes.

"My partner—" I stopped again, the words tangling before I could properly form them.

"Is your partner injured?" Dr. Montgomery asked directly, cutting through my hesitation.

"No."

"Did your partner cause your injuries?"

The question was gentle but unavoidable. The one I'd been dreading since arrival, now asked with compassionate directness by someone who wouldn't let me deflect.

"It wasn't... he didn't mean..." The words refused to cooperate, wouldn't arrange themselves into explanations that made sense. How did you articulate that violence without intent was still violence? That Karl hadn't wanted to hurt me but had anyway? That breakdowns could be simultaneously blameless and unforgivable?

Dr. Montgomery's expression shifted—not to judgment, but to a different kind of professional concern. The look that medical staff developed when domestic violence entered the diagnostic picture.

"Detective, I need to be clear about something. If you're reporting domestic violence or partner assault, there are resources and protocols—"

"It's not that," I interrupted quickly, desperately, needing to redirect before this went somewhere I couldn't follow. "We're not... we're partners. Work partners. This happened during an investigation."

"I see." He sat back slightly, recalibrating his approach. "That changes the context, though not my medical assessment. You still need observation regardless of how you acquired the injuries."

Relief and shame warred in my chest. Relief that he wasn't pursuing the domestic violence angle, wasn't mandating reports to services I didn't need. Shame that I was lying by omission, that the truth was simultaneously more and less complicated than he imagined.

"I had a patient once," Dr. Montgomery said slowly, tone shifting to something more conversational. "Back in early 2015. Police officer, came in with facial fractures, broken ribs, defensive wounds on his forearms. Claimed he'd fallen down stairs."

I looked up, caught by the obvious parallel he was drawing.

"His story didn't match his injuries either. Falls down stairs produce predictable patterns—usually one dominant side of impact, multiple contusions at varying stages of healing, specific fracture locations. His injuries suggested something else. Something more direct."

Dr. Montgomery's gaze was steady, kind, refusing to let me look away. "Turned out he'd been assaulted by his partner during an argument. He'd tried to defend himself, got hurt worse in the process. Didn't want to report it—professional pride, not wanting to seem weak, concerned about judgment from colleagues."

He paused, letting the story settle. "Took him three more hospital visits over six months before he finally accepted help. By that point he'd sustained permanent damage to one eye, hearing loss from repeated head trauma. Damage that could have been prevented if he'd been willing to tell the truth the first time."

The message was clear—whatever had actually happened, concealing it would lead to worse consequences than honesty. That protecting someone who'd hurt you was protecting them at the cost of yourself.

"I'm not comparing your situation directly," Dr. Montgomery continued. "Every circumstance is unique. But I am saying that the story you're telling doesn't align with observed physical evidence. And that concerns me both as your doctor and as someone who's seen what happens when violence gets minimised or excused."

I wanted to explain. Wanted to tell him that Karl hadn't meant it, that he'd been experiencing some kind of episode, that this wasn't characteristic behaviour but an aberration. That the situation was complex in ways that simple assault narratives couldn't capture.

But explaining meant admitting the lie in my intake forms. Meant starting formal processes I couldn't control. Meant consequences cascading in directions I couldn't predict.

"It was an accident," I said finally, weakly, the words feeling hollow even as I spoke them.

Dr. Montgomery held my gaze for a long moment, expression suggesting he knew exactly how much accident had been involved. But he just nodded slowly, professionally accepting my statement whilst making clear he didn't believe it.

"Right. Well, medical assessment stands regardless. You need observation." He stood, collecting his tablet. "I'm going to admit you to a private room rather than keeping you in this bay. More comfortable, better for rest, gives you privacy when your supervisor arrives."

The reprieve felt like mercy. Privacy meant not being on display behind a curtain, meant having walls instead of fabric separating me from the department's chaos.

"Jackson will arrange the transfer. I'll want vitals checked every hour, neurological assessment every two hours. If symptoms worsen—increased headache, vomiting, vision changes, confusion, loss of consciousness—you'll be escalated immediately for imaging and possible specialist consultation."

He paused at the curtain, one hand holding the fabric aside whilst he looked back at me. His expression carried both professional authority and genuine concern.

"One more thing—I'm noting in your chart that you're showing signs of moderate concussion with mechanism of injury inconsistent with reported circumstances. That's going in the official record." His voice was gentle but firm. "I'm also documenting restrictions: no driving for minimum forty-eight hours, no work for at least seventy-two, no alcohol, no strenuous activity. You'll need someone to check on you regularly for the next twenty-four hours—someone who knows the warning signs and can get you back here immediately if needed."

The restrictions made sense medically but created practical complications. No driving meant I couldn't leave under my own power when observation ended. Someone would need to transport me home, which meant involving other people, answering questions, accepting help I'd rather not need.

"I'll arrange something," I said vaguely, not knowing how but unable to admit I had no plan.

Dr. Montgomery looked like he wanted to push but decided against it. "Your supervisor will be here soon. Perhaps that can be sorted then." He offered a small, sad smile. "In the meantime, try to rest. I know that's easier said than done with concussion symptoms, but even closing your eyes in a dark room helps."

Then he was gone, curtain swishing closed behind him, leaving me alone with the weight of his unspoken understanding that I'd lied and his professional obligation to treat me anyway.

I sat on the trolley-bed, cradling my sutured hand, feeling the pull of stitches with each small movement. Six points where thread held torn flesh together. Physical evidence of violence that I'd documented as an accident.

Dr. Montgomery had seen through it. Had recognised the inconsistencies, had even drawn explicit parallels to another officer who'd concealed assault. Had given me every opportunity to tell the truth whilst respecting my choice to maintain the fiction.

But he'd also documented his concerns. Had created an official record noting that my story didn't match my injuries. Had inserted doubt into the narrative I'd tried to establish as fact.

That notation would follow me. Would flag the incident as questionable regardless of what I claimed. Would ensure that anyone reviewing my medical records would know something didn't add up.

I'd tried to control the story, to shape how events were documented and understood. But medical professionals were trained observers, skilled at reading injury patterns and detecting inconsistencies. Every lie I told created more evidence against itself.

Minutes passed. I couldn't tell how many. Time remained slippery, unreliable.

Then Jackson returned, pushing a wheelchair.

"Right then, Detective. Let's get you settled somewhere more comfortable." His voice was warm, professional, giving no indication whether Dr. Montgomery had briefed him on suspicions about my story. "Hospital policy for concussion patients—wheelchair transfers even if you can walk fine. Humour me?"

I slid off the bed with Jackson's steadying hand, lowering into the wheelchair with what remained of my dignity. My head protested the movement, sending fresh waves of nausea that required careful breathing to control.

Jackson wheeled me through the Emergency Department, navigating around equipment and staff. Past curtained bays where other patients dealt with their own crises. Past the nurses' station where Rachel looked up and offered a small smile. Through another set of security doors into a quieter corridor.

This area felt different—less chaotic, more controlled. Doors rather than curtains. Actual rooms rather than temporary spaces. The observation unit, where they kept patients who needed monitoring but not intensive care.

Jackson opened the third door on the left, revealing a small but surprisingly comfortable room. Single bed with proper linens rather than paper covering. Monitoring equipment mounted on the wall but currently inactive. A visitor's chair positioned beside the bed. Small television mounted high up. A window overlooking the car park, curtains currently open to darkness beyond.

"Home sweet home for the next several hours," Jackson said with cheerfulness, helping me transfer from wheelchair to bed. "I'll be checking on you regularly—vitals every hour, neurological assessment every two. Dr. Montgomery will review your progress before making a final decision about discharge."

He adjusted pillows, positioned the call button within easy reach on the bed rail, ensured the water jug on the bedside table was full.

"Your supervisor should be here within the half hour—Rachel spoke to him about twenty minutes ago. I'll bring him straight through when he arrives."

Twenty minutes ago. Which meant he was probably parking right now, walking through those automatic doors, being directed to observation by staff who'd been notified to watch for him.

"Is there anything you need right now?" Jackson asked, hovering near the door. "Pain relief for the headache? Something for nausea? Extra blanket?"

"I'm fine," I said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually—something for the nausea might help."

"I'll bring some antiemetics. Won't eliminate it completely but should take the edge off." He paused, expression thoughtful. "Dr. Montgomery mentioned you'll need transport home when you're discharged. If there's anyone you'd like us to call—family, friend—we can arrange that."

"My supervisor's handling it." Probably. I hoped. Couldn't imagine Claiborne leaving me here without ensuring I got home safely, regardless of how angry he might be about the situation.

Jackson nodded, accepting the response without pushing. "Right. Well, I'll be back shortly with that medication. Try to rest—I know it's difficult with everything, but your brain needs it."

Then he was gone, closing the door with a soft click that somehow made the room feel simultaneously safer and more confining.

I sat on the hospital bed in the private observation room, alone for the first time since arriving. Truly alone—no curtain separating me from departmental chaos, no medical staff entering at random intervals. Just me and the quiet hum of medical equipment and the weight of lies that had brought me here.

My hand throbbed beneath its bandaging—anaesthetic wearing off completely now, leaving behind sharp awareness of each suture point. Six stitches holding together damage Karl had caused, transformed through medical intervention into neat closure that would eventually heal into scar tissue.

But you couldn't suture trust back together once it had torn. Couldn't close fractures in a partnership with thread and good intentions.

I'd lied to protect Karl. Had created an official fiction, documented in multiple medical records, that transformed assault into accident. Had made myself complicit in concealing what he'd done.

And medical staff had seen through it anyway. Rachel's careful questions. Jackson's gentle probing. Dr. Montgomery's explicit acknowledgment that my story didn't match physical evidence.

They'd documented their suspicions. Had created official record noting inconsistencies. Had ensured that even if they didn't push now, the doubt would remain. Would follow me. Would flag the incident as questionable.

I'd tried to control the narrative and failed. Had tried to protect Karl and instead created something worse—a lie that everyone knew was a lie but nobody could challenge without my admission.

The room was dim, only indirect lighting from the corridor seeping under the door. My eyes adjusted slowly to the lower light levels, grateful for the reprieve from fluorescent glare.

A soft knock on the door made me jump, sending fresh spikes through my head.

"Come in," I called, voice rough.

Jackson entered, carrying a small plastic cup with pills. "Antiemetics as promised. Two tablets, take them with water. Should start working within twenty minutes or so."

I swallowed them obediently, washing them down with water from the jug he'd left. The liquid was cold, soothing against my raw throat.

"Your supervisor's arrived," Jackson said gently. "He's speaking with Dr. Montgomery currently—getting briefed on your condition and the observation plan. Should be here in just a few minutes."

My stomach clenched despite the antiemetics. "Right. Thanks."

Jackson studied me for a moment, expression kind. "For what it's worth, Detective—whatever happened today, whatever really happened—you survived it. That matters. Everything else can be figured out later."

Then he left, door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone with the knowledge that Claiborne would walk through that door any moment and the lies I'd constructed would face their first real test.