“Anything?” Sharon said.
“No.” Jim shook his head and continued with compressions. “Nothing.”
He felt the truck come to a stop, jerk, and begin to roll backwards down the ambulance bay incline. He placed the oxygen cylinder on the stretcher between Lance’s legs, pushed the SUMMARY button on the cardiac monitor, and continued compressions. A piece of wide white paper fed from the bottom of the unit. The tracing began as a flat line that slowly grew into a uniform pattern of regular ECG complexes.
“At least we have a rhythm,” Sharon said.
That didn’t make Jim feel any better. All he could think about was Rico. He suddenly realized he had no idea what he was going to tell him. How can I tell my friend his partner is dead? “God,” he murmured. “Help me.”
The truck stopped and the rear doors flew open. Rico Rivetti stood on the concrete pad behind the truck, expectation on his face, his eyes wide with hope. Jim felt his jaw clinch tight.
“How is he?” Rico said. “Is he okay?”
“Rico…” Jim tried to form a response but nothing came. “Help us get him inside. Quick!”
Rico’s eyebrows shot up. He pulled the stretcher from the back of the truck. Jim jumped out, stepped onto the stretcher’s wheel frame, and continued CPR. Sharon climbed down, grabbed the Ambu-bag and gave it a quick squeeze, then grabbed the stretcher with both hands. Jim glanced at Rico. He could see confusion in his eyes. Fear. Doubt.
“Rico,” he said trying his best to maintain a cool appearance. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Rico grabbed the handle on the front of the stretcher and pulled it through the Emergency Room doors. Jim did his best to keep his balance on the side of the stretcher as he did compressions. They rolled him down the hall and into a roomful of nurses and other medical personnel standing by gowned and ready. Trauma Room-1. He spotted a tall, lean man with gray hair and sharp brown eyes standing in the center of the room. His face carried a look of deep concern, but he spoke with cool professionalism. “Is this the Police Officer who was shot?”
“Dr. Young,” Jim said stepping off the stretcher and pushing it up next to the gurney. “Yes sir. Two shots…neck and hip.”
A half a dozen hands reached in and pulled the backboard off the stretcher and onto the gurney.
“The neck wound’s bad,” Jim continued. “The bullet must have hit an artery. He’s dumping blood inside and out. We decompressed his left chest but I’m pretty sure it’s filling up.”
Jim pulled the stretcher out of the way and stepped back to watch. The team went to work. A small mousy man with a round head and oversized ears moved in. He eyeballed the endotracheal tube, listened to breath sounds, and then looked up and gave Dr. Young a quick wink and thumbs up. Sharon handed him the Ambu-bag and left the room.
Someone took over CPR.
Two others removed the backboard straps and then cut and pulled away the remainder of Lance’s clothes. One of the nurses applied new electrodes and hooked up the cardiac monitor. Another removed the bandage from Lance’s neck. A stream of blood squirted out with the next compression. She quickly covered it back up and applied additional dressings.
“How did this happen?” the doctor asked.
“He was on a drug raid,” Jim said handing Young the ECG summary. “He was unconscious when we got there. Lost pulses en route.”
“How much IV fluid did he get?”
“At least two liters.”
“Okay, good job.” Young approached the gurney and took a quick listen to Lance’s chest with his stethoscope. Jim saw him shake his head and point at the crash cart. “Let’s get a chest tube in quick. And get some whole bloods going. Hold CPR for a moment.” Jim glanced at the ECG monitor. Small complexes marched across the screen stimulated, no doubt, by the high doses of epinephrine floating around in Lance’s system. The doctor placed his fingertips at the top of Lance’s leg adjacent to his groin. He tried again on the neck and shook his head. “Keep going.”
Compressions resumed.
“He needs an epi,” the head nurse said. “And an atropine.”
Jim glanced across the trauma room and saw Rico standing in the corner behind the nurse’s desk. A young police officer stood by his side wearing a bulletproof vest, black gloves, and heavy black boots. Two more cops stood in the doorway. Jim glanced at Rico. He looked frightened, anxious, his mouth partially agape as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Jim pushed his own fears aside and walked over to stand beside his friend. “Are you okay?”
Rico shook his head. “He’s not going to make it, is he?”
“Don’t say that, sarge,” the young cop said, stepping up behind his boss as if to guard his back. “Lance is strong. He’ll make it.”
Jim didn’t feel like he should say anything else. Whether or not Lance Albright lived was up to God, and it would be determined within the next few moments. He prayed silently as the trauma code progressed, organized chaos, a well-run code: more drugs, chest compressions, loud talk, and harried activity. Someone hummed a tune. Someone else emitted a curse. Jim watched one of the nurses hang a large bag of dark red blood. She piggybacked it into an IV line and adjusted the flow. The blood coursed down the narrow tube and disappeared into Lance’s arm. Jim imagined it spilling out inside him just as fast as it was going in. The Hemo-Vac unit attached to the end of the chest tube confirmed it. The unit clicked on and sucked a steady stream of bright red blood from Lance’s chest into the clear holding tank.
The code continued for another ten minutes. Jim tried to maintain small talk, to keep Rico busy, to give him hope, but when Dr. Young held up his hand Jim saw Rico’s eyes dim. The blood drained from his face.
“That’s it,” Young said. “Stop CPR.”
Compressions stopped.
Jim held his breath. Young sighed and felt for a pulse. The concentration on his face seemed contagious. All activity in the room ceased. He held his fingers over Lance’s carotid artery for thirty long seconds before shaking his head. Jim glanced at the cardiac monitor. The complexes were still present, but slower, and smaller, tiny blips becoming farther and farther apart. He’d seen it before, too many times, like the final steps of an old dying man—the heart taking its last few beats—but it never did seem to get easier. Jim glanced at Lance’s face. The eyes looked devoid of life. Hazy. Still. It was over.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do, folks.” Young removed his gloves and glanced at his watch. “Record the time of death, please: 10:45 p.m.”
Chapter 30
Jim had a sick feeling in his gut as he walked out of the ER. He found Sharon in the ambulance bay cleaning the stretcher. A pile of bloody sheets lay at her feet. She whistled cheerfully like a young girl at a car wash on a summer day, but Jim could see the lines creasing her face, and he knew her well enough to realize that her whistling was just a defense mechanism. Most paramedics had their own way of dealing with overwhelming stress. Some chain-smoked. Some told jokes. Some, like Jim, internalized everything until one day it all just exploded and their whole life seemed to suddenly fall apart. Sharon Duncan whistled.
Jim walked over and threw his coat into the back of the truck. Sharon stopped whistling and stood up. “He didn’t make it, did he?”
“No, there was too much trauma. They suctioned over two liters of blood from his chest. He must have been torn up inside.”
“How’s Rico taking it?”
“Not well.” Jim sat down on the truck’s bumper and held his head in his hands. His temples hurt. His cheek burned. “I tried talking to him but he wouldn’t listen to me. He’s in there talking with Young right now.”
“He’s probably, like, in shock.”
“I feel so terrible about this, Sharon.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“We did everything right, partner.” Sharon sprayed the stretcher legs with premixed Clorox solution. The congealed blood turned pink and ran slowly d
own the stainless-steel tubes. “If that cop had any chance at all, we just gave it to him.”
“I promised Rico we’d take care of him.”
“And we did.”
“But I prayed for him, Sharon.” Jim shook his head. “I don’t get it. I mean, why would God save one person and let another one go? I don’t understand.”
“Look,” Sharon said, “when are you going to learn that you can’t save everybody?”
Jim felt a lecture coming. He climbed into the back of the truck striking his head on the top of the doorframe as he passed through. The pain was more irritating than anything, just enough to set him off. He suddenly felt the need to kick something. Anything. He slammed his fist against the wall instead.
“I’m so sick of this!”
“Well as long as you’re up there, dear—” Sharon chuckled. “How ‘bout tossing me a sheet.” Jim grabbed a bundle of fresh linens and threw it at her. Sharon chuckled and reached down to pick up the pack. “And while you’re at it,” she added, “how ‘bout getting a grip?” She pulled a fresh towel from the bundle and wiped away the remaining traces of Lance Albright’s blood. “You’re not the only one who feels lousy about this you know.”
Jim watched Sharon work for the next few moments, amazed at how easy it was to simply wipe away the last few moments of someone’s life. He wished memories could be so easy to erase. Sid’s face came to mind. He pushed it away and climbed down to help Sharon unfold a clean sheet. They laid it over the stretcher mattress, pulled it tight, and tucked in its sides. Sharon grabbed the pillow and pulled on a fresh case. Jim lifted the foot end of the stretcher and shoved it into the back of the truck.
“I’ll never pray for anybody again.”
Sharon gave a confident nod. “Yes you will.”
“No—” Jim shook his head. “I won’t.”
“Look, Jim. Rico’s not blaming you. In fact he’s probably in there blaming himself right now. You should go back in there and be with him instead of feeling sorry for yourself.”
Jim felt a sudden burst of anger. He felt his eyebrows rise. He started to say something he knew he’d regret and stopped himself, mainly because he knew she was right. “You’re right.” He kicked the truck tire. “You’re always right. I’ll be right back.”
“Good, just keep your radio on in case we get a call.”
Jim checked the volume on his handheld and started for the ER door, but before he could even make it to the security swipe box his radio crackled. The dispatcher’s voice sounded tired.
“Medic-seven.”
Jim turned around and glared at his partner. He saw her eyes roll. She keyed up and responded, “Go ahead.”
“I have a call waiting, what’s your status?”
“Just getting ready to clear up from Regional.”
“Ten-four. Respond with PD to an attempted suicide at twelve-oh-nine North Maple.”
Chapter 31
Jim had never seen a nicer home than the one sitting atop the ridge at 1209 North Maple Street. It resembled an English estate, three stories of gray stone walls festooned with ivy and spring flowers, and a pair of heavy wooden doors that looked suitable for a castle. Deep green sod surrounded the house like a blanket, cut sharply by a winding stone walkway that led to a grandiose front porch guarded by towering white columns.
“Man,” he said slowing the truck. “Will you look at that? Where do people get the money?”
“What I want to know,” Sharon murmured, “is why anyone so rich would want to commit suicide.”
Jim had no answer for her. He glanced at the mansion wondering what they would find inside. It had to be something bad. An Engine Company, an unmarked Chevy Caprice, and no less than five black and white squad cars sat parked at various angles on the street in front of the house. He drove to the top of the driveway and stopped on a massive concrete pad before a spacious four-car garage. Sharon grabbed the microphone and called on-scene.
The first thing Jim noticed as he climbed down from the truck was the sweet aroma of freshly mown grass. It was a pleasant smell. It reminded him of his childhood, made him feel like removing his boots and walking around barefoot. He grabbed the airway box instead and walked up the sweeping sidewalk and onto the front porch. “Hello,” he shouted, stepping through the front door. His voice echoed off the walls of a palatial, two-story foyer. A grand staircase and what must have been a million-dollar crystal and gold chandelier hung over the polished slate floor. Jim emitted a low whistle. Everywhere he looked he saw expensive looking paintings framed in gold, decorative furniture, massive potted plants. He looked at his partner and saw the same shocked expression in her eyes. “Wow!”
“Yeah,” Sharon repeated. “Like, really wow! But where is everyone?”
“Hello,” Jim repeated. He set down the airway box and stepped to the center of the foyer. “Anybody home?” No answer came. “All right, we’re here. Now what?”
Suddenly a high-pitched scream echoed from somewhere upstairs, followed by the sounds of tumbling and shattering glass and then some of the filthiest cursing Jim had ever heard.
“Well,” Sharon said, “does that answer your question?”
“This sounds more like a psych call than a suicide.”
“Psych call, suicide…who cares? Let’s just get it over with.”
Jim started up the sweeping staircase. The shouting grew louder the higher he climbed. Loud cursing. More people shouting.
He stopped on the landing and glanced about the room, a large foyer that seemed to serve as an upstairs lounge. On one side of the room three cops wrestled a heavyset male. They seemed to have him pretty much under control with his arms and legs pinned and someone’s knee positioned strategically over his sternum, but still, he continued to fight. “Calm down,” one of the cops yelled. “You want your ribs broke too?”
More grunting. More shouting and cursing. Finally Jim heard the clicks of multiple handcuffs being applied. The good guys had won. But not so on the other side of the room. A mad female—dressed in designer jeans and a blue satin blouse—spat and kicked and even tried to bite the cop holding her back. Jim thought she looked rabid. He prayed his vaccines were up to date and walked over.
“What’s going on? I thought this was an attempted suicide.”
“It is. Hey!” The cop shouted twisting the woman’s arm and forcing her to the floor. “Hold still!”
“Let me go!”
“Darlin’, you’re making this a whole lot harder than it has to be.”
Another scream. A curse.
“Um—” Jim paused and waited for the police officer to look at him. “Is one of these two people our patient, or what?”
“No, no, you all’s is down there,” the cop said. “Last bedroom. These two’s going to jail. We caught ‘em with enough Sudafed to start a pharmacy.”
“You mean they’re making meth?”
“Here?” Sharon added.
The cop nodded. “There’s a truckload of it in the other room.”
“Well do you need any help?” Jim bit his lip. “A tranquilizer maybe?”
“No, I can handle this one.” The cop wrestled the woman into a modified half-nelson hold and practically lifted her off the ground. “Out you go, sweetheart.”
Jim glanced at the doorway on the other end of the hall. The frame looked splintered, as if recently kicked open by a pair of heavy boots. . Dim yellow light filtered from within the room. “I wonder what’s going on,” he said glancing at Sharon.
“I don’t know. Let’s go see.”
Jim raised an eyebrow and walked down the hall. He heard quiet talking as he entered the room. A small crowd of firefighters and cops stood around the bed on the far side of the room, amazement, perhaps even a hint of lust in their eyes as they gazed down at the young woman lying on the bed. Jim walked closer and looked down at his patient. Under different circumstances, he thought, she might have been quite beautiful—dirty blonde hair with wide blue eyes, a petite figu
re with long thin legs—but dressed in a white tee sheet and half-covered with bloody sheets, she resembled a tortured manikin. Red gashes covered her wrists and hands—superficial lacerations he was certain—but the pale, almost ghostly appearance of her skin and her overall detached demeanor looked anything but phony to Jim. She had the dazed, remote look of deep depression, and Jim realized it would just be a matter of time before she decided to do it for real—kill herself.
He decided to use a subtle approach. He nodded to the other men standing around the bed and knelt beside Captain David Elder.
“Hey, David.”
“Howdy, Jim, long time no see.”
“What’s up?”
“Yeah, she told the dispatcher she was going to kill herself. The door was locked when we got here. We had to break it in. We found her lying here like this. She hasn’t said a word to us yet.”
“No?” Jim saw no change in the expression on the young woman’s face, no hint of recognition of the conversation going on right beside her…about her. He reached up and touched her arm. It felt cool. Shaky. “Miss,” he said, hoping to evoke some type of response. There was none. “Did she put up a fight?”
“No,” Elder responded. “She’s been as passive as a lamb.”
“Just lying there with that dumb look on her face,” one of the cops added. “She’s whacked out on something.”
“Look at her arms,” Elder said. “It’s gotta be heroin.”
“Yeah.” Jim had already noticed the track marks, tiny dots following the major veins on the girl’s inner arms, some more purple than others indicating long–term IV drug use, but he wasn’t convinced it was just heroin. Her twitchy, Parkinson-like movement suggested another drug. He’d seen it before, and based on the way things were going in East Beach he figured he’d soon be seeing a whole lot more of it. “Sharon—” He waved his partner over. “Can you please get the stretcher?”
“Sure.” Sharon nodded and motioned for two of the firefighters to follow her. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Jim offered a weak grin. “You might want to grab some soft restraints. We may have to tie her down.” Sharon nodded and left the room. “And guys,” Jim glanced up at the cops and then turned and looked at Elder. “Can ya’ll do me a favor and leave the room for just a minute? I’d kind of like to talk to her alone.”
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