Angel Maker: An Unputdownable Scandinavian Crime Thriller With A Chilling Twist (DI Jamie Johansson Book 1)
48
The warning alarm from the heart monitor blared angrily.
Jamie and Wiik trailed the doctor and the nurse with the trauma cart, following the noise. Jamie hoped that they weren’t headed to Robert Nyström’s room, but knew that they were.
The officer just in front of them was hurrying back to the post he’d seemingly deserted, but it was already too late.
He was a tall man, slim, with a shock of dark hair. He got to the doorway first and filled it, hands pressed on the frames. ‘Shit,’ he said, freezing in his tracks.
Wiik got there a second later and damn near shoved him off his feet. ‘Move!’ he commanded, shouldering into the room behind the nurse.
Another nurse was already at Nyström’s side, the doctor over him now, shining a light in his eyes, looking at the heart monitor.
It screamed at them.
The nurse with the trauma cart moved frantically, stripping gauze from packets as the doctor barked orders.
Jamie moved past Wiik now to see, and stumbled at the sight, gasping despite herself.
The doctor had his hands on Robert Nyström’s throat.
Jamie did a double take, her own memories invading what she was seeing now.
Blood was pouring through his fingers.
Nyström was perfectly still, but everyone else was moving in a vortex around him.
Jamie and Wiik watched motionless. Speechless.
The monitor continued to cry, its numbers dropping rapidly.
The nurse with the wadding came forward and plunged it against Nyström’s throat.
The doctor stood back, throwing his hands to his sides to get rid of the blood.
It splattered all up the wall, and then he was back at Nyström’s neck, commanding the nurse to put up blood bags. To get coagulants. To start compressions. To prep the paddles.
But for all the shouting, for all the movement, for all the franticness and all the effort – it was too late.
Jamie watched as the numbers on the screen behind the doctor fluctuated, burned red for a moment, and then hit zero.
The erratic line flattened and the tone became constant and dull.
Robert Nyström was dead.