Body Parts (Rye & Claire 1)

by Crumb, Kit

  body parts

  ©2009 by Kit Crumb

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems without written permission of the publisher.

  Lost Lodge Press

  40 Water Street

  Ashland, Oregon 97520

  kitkcrumb@gmail.com

  cover design by Chris Molé

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Rob Parnell and my brother Kim who first read this manuscript in it’s roughest form and still found enough merit in the writing to encourage me to continue. Thanks to Chris Molé for her beautiful cover and help with all aspects of publishing this book.

  Note to the reader

  The manuscript for Body Parts was completed in 2003. I was inspired to write this story by an article in a nationally published newspaper that exposed the illegal distribution of donated human body parts by a major University. I felt that through a story fictionalizing pornography and the black market sale of body parts I could illustrate the vulgar and heinous nature of an industry that exists in almost every country on earth.

  Other Kindle books by Kit Crumb:

  Retribution

  Cutter’s Legacy: The Search for Yamashita’s Gold

  Slider

  Measure of Time

  Chapter One

  To the aides, cnas, med techs, or anyone not in the operating room, Jan Eckert was at the little clinic above the town of Denton Beach undergoing a fairly common heart procedure to correct a defective heart valve.

  As she lay on a gurney in the hall just down from Operating Room 13, the local anesthetic she’d been given started lulling her into relaxation. Her shoulder length jet-black hair was bound and tucked inside a surgical cap. Her nude body modestly covered with a sheet.

  The orderly responsible for transporting Jan from her room to the O.R. couldn’t take his eyes off her. The more he tucked in the sheet the more it revealed the flowing curves of her body. He noticed how young she was, how the skin around her eyes was without blemish or wrinkle.

  Operating Room 13’s chief nurse, Bonnie Clouse, popped her head out of the OR door and looked down the hall. “Quit fussing and move it, doctor’s real restless tonight,” she snapped at the orderly, letting the door shut as she stepped back into the OR.

  Anesthesiologist Derrick Corwin watched her from his position on the stool at the head of the operating table.

  “Rumor is the doc’s pissed, you know anything about that, Bonnie?” he asked.

  Bonnie Clouse brought the instrument tray into position next to the operating table, she answered without taking her attention from her task.

  “He was expecting three patients, tonight, I think…” she didn’t get the chance to finish. Quickly turning at the sound of the operating room door opening, she faced Dr. Peter Simms as he entered.

  The anesthesiologist spun on his stool in time to catch the doctor’s eye. “Derrick, crank her up. We’ve got a hot one tonight,” Simms said. Taking his cue, Derrick began checking gas levels and green lights. Minutes later, the orderly wheeled Jan Eckert in and lifted her onto the operating table where her vitals were checked and two IVs inserted into her arm.

  Dr. Simms stood just off the foot of the table, taking in every step of the final pre-op procedures.

  Derrick was standing now, speaking in low reassuring tones to his patient. “I’m going to place this mask over your mouth and nose. I want you to breathe slowly but deeply. This is my special blend—it’ll help you relax.” In reality it was pure oxygen, the Propofol in the IV would put her out within five seconds of the first drip.

  As he spoke, Jan opened her eyes and smiled up at the young anesthesiologist.

  “Patient’s awake, Doctor,” Derrick said.

  Simms walked around to stand next to Derrick so he could look directly down at his patient.

  “It’s alright my dear, I’ve done thousands of these MVP corrections.” Then to Derrick he whispered, “Do you think she heard me?”

  “No, Doctor.” Derrick turned back to check her pulse and respiration. “BP 96 over 69, pulse 44, I’d say she’s out.” He then pulled her eyelids back. “No ocular reflex, she’s out.”

  “Good to go?” Simms asked.

  “Good to go, Doctor,” Derrick said.

  Just to be sure, Derrick leaned over and gently probed the palm of her hand with a needle while watching her heart rate and pulse for any change that might indicate she was still sensitive to pain.

  “She’s all yours, Doctor,” Derrick said.

  Simms walked back to the patient’s side taking up a scalpel and sliced through the skin, cutting up from the mark that started just below and to the right of the xiphoid process and continuing up the middle of the breastbone, stopping at the interclavicles.

  “Nurse,” Simms said, extending his hand.

  Clouse, who’d been following the doctor’s progress, was ready. She placed a small circle saw into his outstretched hand.

  As he flipped the switch, the operating room came alive with a whining whir. Stepping tight against the table, holding the saw with both hands, Simms allowed the rotation of the blade to draw itself and his hand along the incision. He briskly pulled it out and turned off the motor when he reached the top of the cut.

  The whirling blade singed the skin along the incision leaving the faint scent of burned flesh lingering in the air, a familiar odor that no one seemed to notice.

  Simms, still poised over his patient turned his head and looked intently at Derrick.

  “Not a blip, Doctor, she didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Spreaders,” Simms said, once again extending his right hand.

  Clouse dabbed the perspiration from the doctor’s forehead, then stepped back out of the way.

  “Thank you, Nurse.”

  He gently placed the spreader on the patient’s chest, allowing the flat bars to slip into the groove in the bone made by the saw. Holding the device in place with one hand, he began turning a small crank with the other, listening intently for the familiar “crack” indicating the separation of the ribcage. He then gazed into the cavity that housed the still-beating heart.

  “Clamps,” Simms said, extending his hand yet again.

  One at a time, he pinched off the major blood sources leading to the heart.

  “OK, Nurse, get the suction ready.” He began snipping the arteries, keeping one hand under the heart as the once dry cavity filled with blood.

  “Keep it clear, I‘m losing view. That’s it, that’s it.” He elevated the heart slightly, then snipped some more.

  “BP and heart rate dropping, Doctor,” Derrick said.

  “Nurse.” Simms didn’t need to say anything more. Clouse knew exactly what to do.

  “Doctor, the ice chest is on your left,” she said.

  With a smile of victory, the doctor lifted the heart for the camera and staff to see, placed it in the icy container, and then turned to Derrick with a questioning look.

  “She never felt a thing Doctor, never felt a thing,” Derrick reassured him.

  Simms smiled and sighed with relief. “Good work everyone.”

  Chapter Two

  Traffic on the four lanes of drake’s drive narrowed into two and crept along, a fact that was lost on Rusty Kidding as he guided his Honda Gold Wing motorcycle along the dotted line between lanes.

  When traffic began to
speed up, Cecil Dumont exhaled loudly, gently accelerating. “Finally,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a space opening on his right.

  “Yes!” Cecil said. He cranked the wheel hard as he nosed out of his lane and aimed for the space, gunning the engine. He never saw the motorcycle.

  Cecil’s SUV struck the Gold Wing hard, catapulting Rusty twenty feet through the air. He landed on his side in the outside lane and slid onto the dirt shoulder.

  Cecil barely felt the collision and wouldn’t have stopped if not for the blaring horns, and the fact that traffic was suddenly slowing again.

  ***

  Sweat trickled down Claire Anderson’s temples, sides and back, turning her sleeveless sweatshirt a charcoal gray where it pressed against her breasts and spine. She finished her workout and glanced up at the clock, their shift had already started and Rye wasn’t back with the ambulance yet. She crossed the floor, grabbed a towel, and headed for the bathroom.

  Wondering if the annual maintenance hadn’t turned into something more than points, plugs, and an oil change, she paused, considering the consequences of attempting a shower.

  “Half an hour into our shift and not a single call, what the hell?” Claire muttered under her breath. She stripped and was just adjusting the water temperature when the scanner crackled to life. “God, I knew it.”

  “1180, accident reported by cell phone, 1067 request unit 88 in vicinity of Drake’s Drive, respond.”

  Claire grabbed her underwear, making the towel into a toga and ran into dispatch. After the general call response, she flipped to Rye’s frequency.

  “Rye, pick up,” Claire said. “What’s your 1020?”

  Rye unclipped the hand-held mike from the dashboard. “ETA ten minutes to HQ.”

  “Better make that five minutes. Big 1180 on Drake’s Drive. Out.”

  A short, feisty woman, Claire was ready to do whatever it took to get the job done. To become an Emergency Medical Technician, an accomplishment of which she was fiercely proud, she’d had to deal with a childhood phobia and compete in a male dominated profession.

  Claire and her husband, Rye Anderson, were co-owners of the Mad Dash Search and Rescue Ambulance Service. Rye was a bull of a man, six foot three inches tall with a thick mustache that covered his entire upper lip. It matched his eyebrows, which overshadowed his deep green eyes. Claire loved the way he was always ready with a laugh at the slightest hint of something funny.

  Rye could hear the subtle edginess brought on by adrenaline in his wife’s voice. They both loved the freedom of owning their own business, and the excitement of being EMTs that went along with the satisfaction of helping people.

  Claire whirled around in the captain’s chair and ran out of the dispatch room, dropping the towel as she entered the utility closet. She stepped into her bra and panties, then into the orange and gray jumpsuit, grimacing as she brought the zipper up and over her chest.

  She often complained to Rye that the jumpsuit was designed for a man. He never complained.

  She tied her long, chestnut brown hair into a ponytail. Looking around at the small room and the walls that seemed to be crowding her, she shivered, shook it off, then located and grabbed one of the jump kits. Checking to be sure it contained everything they needed to work away from the ambulance, she headed for the front door.

  Rye had popped on all the lights but only two of the sirens. With the new sound systems in most cars, drivers were more likely to see flashing emergency lights than hear a siren. He crept the ambulance through the busy intersection of Ripkey and Burnt, then hit nearly sixty for the final miles of the four-lane Lawrence Expressway that would take him to Snoop Drive, his home and Mad Dash headquarters.

  The driveway in front of the converted old Victorian was a gentle u-shape that cut to within four feet of the front stoop, where Claire was waiting. The ambulance had barely slowed before she grabbed the door handle, tossed in the jump kit, and vaulted into the passenger seat,

  Fastening her harness she said, “Drake’s Drive, half-mile before Smokey Lane turnoff, take the expressway directly to Exit 19.” She then flipped on four sets of toggle switches setting off all the sirens.

  “What’s the call?” Rye asked, keeping his eyes on the traffic.

  She consulted her call sheet. “Motorcycle down, somebody called it in with a cell phone. No details.”

  “So we’ll be solo?”

  “I relayed the call, but we’ll definitely be first on the scene,” Claire yelled over the sound of the sirens.

  The scanner lit up like a Christmas tree, screaming an accident alert on a dozen channels. Rye reached over and cut the volume so he could stay focused on the changing traffic patterns. Vehicles were slowing. “Get me out of here.”

  Claire played co-pilot, enjoying the occasion to issue directions rather than dodge cars that didn’t respond to sirens and lights.

  “Left!” Claire said, pointing.

  Rye scanned the road ahead for a turn lane, there wasn’t one. “Where?”

  Claire’s index finger stabbed the air like a jackhammer. “There, turn now!”

  Trusting his partner completely, Rye cut left across two lanes of on-coming traffic, bracing himself as the ambulance jumped the curb and headed into an open field.

  “Where now?” Rye’s voice stuttered as the two-ton vehicle bounced over uneven ground.

  “Left, there. See that oak? Drake’s Drive opens up just the other side.” As Rye cut left across the field Claire reached for a handhold on the dash and missed.

  When they finally came to a stop on the shoulder of the road Rye was amazed that everything in the back of the ambulance hadn’t shaken loose. He grabbed the backboard; Claire grabbed the jump kit.

  He spotted the squirming figure of Rusty Kidding through the crowd and began to run, Claire right on his heels. They had to weave and elbow their way through the gawkers to reach him.

  She knelt next to Rusty, sliding the jump kit toward Rye who had settled at the victim’s feet.

  “Hey buddy can you hear me? What’s your name?”

  The man attempted to rise up on one arm, but fell back. “Rusty,” the man answered slowly.

  She smiled at him as Rye began cutting away the pant leg from ankle to knee.

  “Sorry about the leathers, Rusty,” Claire said, but he was now unconscious. She slipped a C-collar around his neck and a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, while Rye set his leg where the tibia and fibula were broken. She stared at the cuff in disbelief, re-adjusted it on his upper arm and began pumping the bulb again. She stabbed at his neck for a pulse.

  “We’re losing him!” she cried, as she sliced through the leather jacket.

  Rye looked up from his splinting to see a blood-soaked shirt as Claire tore away Rusty’s jacket and began palpating.

  “We’ve got a bleeder. Lung collapsed, heart compressed,” Claire said as she attempted to re-inflate his lung without success. One rib poked out through his side and when she moved it, blood bubbled out. The pressure pad couldn’t stem the flow. She tried a series of pressure points and still the blood gushed. She watched in frustration as the man’s blood pressure plummeted. Unable to stop his bleeding at the scene, they finally loaded him into the ambulance.

  Claire drove while Rye rode in the back. If he could slow the blood loss there might be a chance once they reached the hospital. Fifteen minutes later, Rusty Kidding was DOA at Medford General Hospital.

  Claire jumped from the cab and ran to the back of the ambulance. She flung open the double doors and looked first at Rusty’s inert body then at Rye who simply shook his head.

  “It would have been a miracle if he’d survived.”

  Together they pulled the corpse from the ambulance. It was covered from head to toe with a blanket and strapped onto the gurney.r />
  “I’ll take him in,” Claire said.

  Rye held onto his end of the gurney for a minute. “Are you sure you’re OK with this?”

  “Yeah fine, the paperwork’s all yours.”

  Rye stayed in the ambulance jotting down notes they’d use later in their report while Claire rolled the gurney up the ramp leading to the front of the hospital. A hundred yards from the entrance the path turned off heading down toward the morgue.

  Normal procedure was for her to be met by two morgue assistants, so she was surprised when a doctor came up to her holding a clipboard. She extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson, Mad Dash Ambulance.”

  The doctor smiled shaking her hand. “Glad to meet you, Claire, I’ll take it from here.” He laid the clipboard on the end of the gurney, pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to Claire. Taking the pen, she signed off on Rusty, then looked up still puzzled at the doctor’s presence.

  He noticed her expression. “You can’t save them all, you know.” He then turned his back on her and guided the gurney down the path. She hesitated, wanting to find out who he was and why a doctor would perform a task normally carried out by staffers. She watched him until he took the next turn, restrained only by Medford General’s no interference policy between EMTs and hospital employees. Sighing, she turned and walked back to the ambulance.

  “That didn’t take long,” Rye said, looking up from his notes. “Why the frown?”

  He knew that losing an accident victim wasn’t supposed to affect an EMT until hours after the event, though Claire often took such losses personally.

  She climbed in, instinctively fastening her harness. “Have you ever turned a DOA over to a doctor before?”

  Rye slid the clipboard with his notes into its slot at the base of the driver’s seat. “No, why?”

  “I just did, and when I introduced myself he didn’t say who he was.”

  “He have a name tag?”

  “No.”

  Rye watched as she settled into her seat, tightening her harness, staring at her feet, deep in thought. The thrum of the engine starting startled her. She looked over at him, “I just don’t feel good about this.”