Chase, the Bad Baby: A Legal and Medical Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by John Ellsworth

  Dr. Springer studied the fetal heart rate printout. Student nurse Nancy Steinman was lifting Latoya’s head from the pillow and placing a dry towel beneath.

  Dr. Springer measured the dilation. “She’s dilated six centimeters. Not near enough, Mama.”

  “And we’ve got variable decelerations,” said Andrea.

  Latoya looked from doctor to nurse. “Am I having this baby today? Have you called Dr. Payne? What about my husband: is John Staples here yet?”

  Andrea said to Dr. Springer, “Let’s talk in the hall. Be right back, Mama.”

  Andrea and Gerry exited, closing the door behind. Mother’s cries could be heard coming through the door as another contraction set in.

  Andrea cut right to it. “This is bullshit. Where is this fool Payne?”

  “Sue Gartner dialed him. That’s what I know.”

  “So did I. A good fifteen minutes ago. Has he even answered?”

  “Unknown.”

  She already knew the answer, but asked anyway, “So what are we looking at here, Gerry?”

  “Realistically the heart rate strip shows weird decelerations with short-term variability. Someone needs to cut her open stat or we’re going to get a bad baby.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “That baby better be lifted out of her in the next thirty minutes or we’ve got brain damage. Maybe just twenty-five minutes.” His shoulders slumped. “I hate hospitals.”

  “And you’re just getting started. Anyway, I’ll put it in the chart right now, that we discussed C-section.”

  “That’s my call. Put it in the nurse’s notes and I’ll chart it too.”

  “I’m also paging for an OB doctor. They’ll have to get someone here.”

  “Let’s do it. Make the page.”

  4

  At 6:38 p.m. Latoya Staples was still caught up in the violent throes of childbirth. Across town, her OB-GYN was relaxing with his wife in their hot tub. They lived in the Park Ridge neighborhood about twenty minutes from Hudd Family Hospital, even in rush hour traffic. Their home was a modest townhouse, pool and hot tub in the back.

  OB-GYN Phillip Payne had seen Latoya Staples four times before that night. He knew her fairly well and knew her husband, John. Latoya had been sonogrammed and told her baby was a boy.

  When the STAT page arrived from Hudd Family Hospital, Dr. Payne in the hot tub, accompanied by wife Monica, was savoring a Tequila Sunrise. All but blind without his glasses, the OB stood in the tub and groped around on the cool deck for his glasses while the beeper was going off. Across from him in the tub Monica looked tight-lipped and angry. She said, “Must you get that? We’re talking here.”

  He responded with a very poor choice of words, given the moment and the discussion—interrogation—they were having. “It’s my beeper. You know I’m married to the damn thing.”

  “I thought you were married to me. At least I thought you were until you hired Beverly Melendez as your nurse practitioner. Now I’m not so sure.”

  He tried ignoring her as he squinted at the page. She suddenly stood, reached across the water, and plunged the beeper under the hot churning foam. Through the tub’s under-lit water the beeper could be followed as it settled on the Fiberglas bottom.

  “Now what the hell did you do that for?”

  “You know it’s only some heaving cow who felt a twinge and wants to know if she should leave for the hospital.”

  “No, I don’t know that. It could be someone in delivery right now. And I’ll never know, not with my beeper shorted out.”

  “Well, I’ll bet you had time for Beverly today. How about time for me right now? Let the hospital staff tend to the cow. Don’t you get to miss a delivery every now and then just for the hell of it?”

  “I always have time for you.” He frowned playfully. “I suppose there should be two OBs on the unit tonight.”

  An opening! Monica suddenly turned amorous and teasing. “Then let’s have another glass of Love Potion and grope each other. I’m hot.”

  Dr. Payne retrieved the beeper from the tub floor. He studied it for any evidence of the missed page. Nothing.

  “You can call your service and get the page. But first you have to service me.”

  “That can definitely be arranged. You refresh our glasses and I’ll hop out and call the service.”

  “Not so fast. You hold that pose and I’ll go underwater and see what’s what.”

  “Wicked girl.”

  Monica submerged and turned to face her husband. His face relaxed, his arms rose up out of the water in surrender, and the page was temporarily forgotten.

  Later, as he was leaving the house for hospital, she stepped between him and the door. The wife asked, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  She pulled a damp curl of hair from her forehead and looked exasperated. “Tonight’s Franklin’s final Little League game. Under the lights. You haven’t been to one of his games all season. You put in an appearance tonight or you’ll hear from my lawyers.”

  “God, you can be so melodramatic.”

  “Don’t test me. Be there even if it’s only ten minutes. I’m not joking here.”

  “It’s already on my calendar. See you there.”

  * * *

  Andrea and Dr. Springer were poised at the foot of the bed, quietly conferring. Dr. Springer studied the fetal heart rate printout. Student nurse Nancy was lifting Latoya’s head from the pillow and placing a dry towel beneath when Dr. Payne strode into the room, all business.

  Dr. Payne almost shouted, “Latoya! How are we feeling?”

  Despite her agony, a smile came to Latoya’s mouth. “Exhausted. My first two were nothing like this.”

  “It happens. We don’t know why but a third or fourth can be brutal. Maybe it’s the mother’s age.” He laughed. She grimaced.

  Dr. Springer reported, “She’s dilated six centimeters.”

  Andrea added, “And we’ve got variable decelerations.”

  Dr. Payne slipped his hand under the sheet and probed. “I’m getting four centimeters, Doctor. She’s probably four hours from delivery. At least four, I would predict. The strip looks within normal limits so I wouldn’t worry too much about the decels. Just means the baby’s getting tired like his mom.”

  Latoya moaned. “Four hours! Am I having this baby today? Can we just start the Pitocin and get it over with?”

  Dr. Payne ignored her. He said to Dr. Springer, “Let’s talk in the hall.”

  Outside in the hall, Dr. Payne tapped a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket but didn’t light up.

  “Look, Gerry. I’ve got a must-see. My kid’s Little League. Last game of the season. The park’s not twenty minutes. I’ll run over, do the proud father bit, and be back before she hits eight centimeters.”

  Dr. Springer didn’t look convinced. “Well...you’re the expert. But don’t third and fourths come faster sometimes?”

  “No, you’re right, it can happen. But I’m making my four-hour call based on how little she’s dilated since admit four hours ago. She was one then, she’s three or four now. I’ve got another four hours before she hits eight, at least. I’m leaving you in charge of the case. If those decels fall any lower just page me. I’m back here in twenty minutes if necessary.”

  “I can handle it. But I haven’t done a Caesarean, so please eyeball the clock.”

  Dr. Payne exited and Gerry returned inside.

  A half hour passed while the staff attended to Latoya’s needs. Almost unnoticed, Andrea tugged at the doctor’s sleeve. “C’mon in the hall, please.” They left the room and closed the door behind. Mother’s cries could be heard coming through the door.

  “How long did Dr. Payne say he’d be?”

  “Twenty there, twenty back, maybe twenty at the game.”

  “I hate these cases where the damn OB isn’t on top of things.”

  Twenty minutes crept by while the staff tried again an
d again to make mom comfortable, squeezed her hands during contractions, and urged her on. Gerry Springer reviewed the fetal heart monitor almost nonstop.

  Andrea watched him closely for a sign. “You saw the heart rate strip and I saw the frown. What are you seeing?”

  “I’m not positive. But I think I’m reading it right.”

  “So what are we looking at here, Gerry?”

  “As I read it, the heart rate strip shows late decelerations with short-term variability on every contraction. This is new. Someone needs to seriously consider taking the baby out now.”

  “How long do we have, best case?”

  “Stat. I don’t want to cry wolf and get Payne pissed at me. But if I had to give my opinion, I would say the kid should come out now or we’re going to chance a bad baby.”

  “Best guess?”

  “According to the textbook that baby better be lifted out of her in the next thirty minutes or we’ve got brain damage.”

  “I’ll put it in the chart right now, that we called for a C-section within thirty minutes from right”—she checked her men’s wristwatch—“now. Six thirty-five p.m. That baby has to be breathing on it’s own by seven oh-five.”

  Five minutes flew by and they could stand it no longer.

  At six forty p.m., Nurse Andrea, Gerry, two orderlies, and Nancy were rushing Latoya along the hospital corridor leading to the operating room.

  Andrea shouted to the team, “It’s six forty-five. This baby is due out in fifteen minutes.”

  By now they had given up all pretense of speaking truth outside Latoya’s presence. Whatever needed to be said got said right in front of her. Their joint consensus was that things had deteriorated to the most urgent situation possible.

  Nancy smiled down at Latoya. “How you feeling, Mom?”

  “Dear Jesus, just let my baby be OK.”

  Dr. Springer tried to reassure her. “Doctor Payne will be here any minute. He’s probably parking right about now.”

  “He’s paid in full. I don’t know why he isn’t here yet.”

  As they cornered the end of the hall and she found herself squeezed between the bed and the wall, Nancy barked, “Easy! Bring it around easy. All right, we’re off!”

  With that they rushed the bed into the OR. As a team they transferred mother to operating table.

  The gloved anesthesiologist was already syringing his sleep chemical in Latoya’s IV. Her eyes fluttered and closed in an instant. The team stood around, nervously whispering; everyone studied the clock on the OR wall.

  At 7:00 straight up, Dr. Springer paged Sue Gartner. Would she again page the hospital for any other OBs that might be on-site? And where the hell’s Dr. Payne? Moments later they heard Sue’s page, but no one responded to the OR.

  So, they waited.

  5

  The OR clock crawled to 7:16, at which time Dr. Payne floated through the door. Immediately he was gowned and gloved. He straightway moved to the operating table and placed the scalpel against Latoya’s belly. It was noted but not recorded anywhere that he had a strong odor of alcoholic beverage, as the DWI cops would put it. Andrea carefully followed his work, ready to speak up if there was the slightest fault in what he was trying to do. She had had it with him and would risk a disciplinary complaint by him in order to make sure things went correctly from then on.

  At 7:18 Dr. Payne lifted the newborn from the mother’s abdomen. The baby was severely jaundiced and barely moving. It was clear to the attending staff there was something seriously wrong with this baby. They suctioned the infant and handed if off to the newborn unit. Dr. Payne closed the mother’s abdomen and smiled at her as she came to.

  Latoya was very groggy. “How is he? He was stuck in there so long!”

  The doctor opened his mouth but was speechless. He shook his head and quickly closed and began bandaging the wound. “All right, then, I’m off.”

  “Latoya, are you ready to ride up to your room?” It was Andrea and her voice was strangely subdued. It didn’t fool Latoya, who began crying, softly at first, then growing in volume as she reached greater consciousness.

  “Where is he? How come I can’t see him!”

  “He’s being cleaned up. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Her face was wet with tears and her head sweaty. “Where’s my baby, is he coming too? And where the hell is John? Why isn’t my husband here?”

  Dr. Springer said, “Doctor Payne said your baby is with the newborn doctors right now. They’re assessing him and we should have him in to meet you very soon.”

  As they headed out into the hallway, Nurse Andrea asked, “What’s his name?”

  Latoya, quietly crying, managed, “With all this running around and fuss, my baby’s name is going to be Chase. My baby’s name is Chase.”

  6

  Two hours post-delivery, a neonatal team of physicians and nurses was working on Chase Staples. They were chilling him in an effort to avoid further damage.

  Dr. Amelia Henry, head of neonatology, said, “Whose baby is this? Who the hell let this happen?”

  Frank Adamson, M.D., who accompanied the baby from the OR said, “Phillip Payne. It’s one of his.”

  “Not the first one he’s had.”

  “This is the second this year.”

  Dr. Henry softly grasped Chase’s tiny hand and shook his head. “Gentlemen and ladies, we have a bad baby on our hands.”

  “A very bad baby.”

  Dr. Henry looked up. “Someone who prays, this is a great time for a prayer.”

  7

  “You’ll be charged with obstruction of justice.”

  “He kidnapped my little girl. Now she won’t talk. He has to pay for what he’s done.”

  “I knew this would happen.” Special Agent Pauline Pepper was furious. She flicked a yellow lighter and fired up a Salem. She swore softly. Her dark green eyes flashed and she fixed Thaddeus Murfee with her 1000 yard stare. He met her gaze and they locked eyes. She dared him, he dared her.

  They were seated at a twenty-person conference table, papers strewn before them out to the fifty yard line, and more documents on the way as office workers scurried about the Chicago FBI Regional Office, gathering all items demanded by Thaddeus in his Freedom of Information Act request.

  “How about I don’t respond to your written request? How about I make you take me to court?”

  He shrugged. “I can do that. Happy to oblige, Miss Pepper.”

  “Asshole.”

  Their dispute was territorial. The Freedom of Information Act data dump had revealed the identity of his daughter’s kidnapper. The rest of the documents being brought into the room by the FBI’s clerical staff were simply icing on the cake. More would be revealed once he had it all copied and back in his own office where he could silence the phones, kick off his shoes, and spend a couple of days going over each and every document and photograph with a microscope. When he was done, he would have a full and complete picture of Sarai’s kidnapper. He would have the target’s photograph—probably several. He would have his last known address, usual occupation, Social Security number (if there was one—who knew where the guy might be from), and all the rest of the bits and pieces the world’s greatest criminal agency had amassed about the guy.

  The FBI sit-rep room in Chicago was quiet. An HVAC fan could be hear spinning in the ceiling.

  “You’re not hearing me, Thaddeus. You so much as follow this guy around the block and I will personally see to it that you’re charged with obstruction of justice and arrested.

  Thaddeus shook his head. “Funny thing is, the guy didn’t kidnap your daughter. It was mine. Do you know she still won’t speak? And she’s five years old!”

  “Nobody is sorrier to hear that than I am. Trust me.”

  “The doctors don’t know what to do with her, the shrinks can’t drag a word or a facial expression out of her.”

  “God.” Her voice came down an octave. “What do they say it is?”

 
“PTSD is the working diagnosis. Katy thinks she’s autistic. From the kidnapping.”

  “What do you think?”

  Thaddeus grimaced. “I think I’d like five minutes with the guy. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Thaddeus we know your history. We know what you do to bad guys. But this guy is a matter of national security.”

  Thaddeus tilted his head questioningly. “What’s that mean?”

  “We believe he’s part of a cell. That’s all I can say right now. Except do not interfere. Do I have your word?”

  “You have my word that I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family. Fair enough?”

  “Brother, you’ve been warned.”

  “I will promise this. I won’t do anything until after I’ve been through every shred of paper and have had my own security people analyze what you’ve turned over.”

  Pepper slammed her fist against the table. “This FOIA does not entitle you to take the first shot. Ragman belongs to the FBI. We will hunt him down and bring him to justice.”

  Thaddeus could only smile. “You’re starting to sound like your fearless leader, the President now. He’s always about to ‘hunt someone down’ and ‘bring them to justice.’ That’s cop talk for make an arrest, have a trial, Fed Fun Farm for 36 months, then back on the street. That won’t work this time.”

  “Then interfere. You’ll be the one headed to jail.”

  Thaddeus nodded. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me since I sued the mob. Not by far.”

  Agent Pepper crushed the Salem and thoughtfully peeled the paper from the stub. She pushed around the overflowing ashtray, deep in thought.