Fatal Trauma

by Mabry M. D. , Richard L. ; Mabry M D, Richard L ;

  God, I haven’t prayed—really prayed—in so long. I don’t even know if I’m doing it the right way now. But please bring Kelly safely through this experience. And give me a chance to get right . . . with her . . . and with You.

  ***

  As Mark sat in the break room, he wondered if there was someone he should call to let them know Kelly was in surgery. Only recently had she opened up to him about her family, and it made Mark think his own hadn’t been so bad.

  Kelly’s parents divorced about the time she started college. Each had remarried and moved away, one now living in Montana and the other Maine, and Kelly saw her parents perhaps once a year. He remembered her confiding that since she was an only child with essentially absentee parents, she’d come to rely on God as the only constant in her life. Well, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Mark was lost in his thoughts when Eric entered the break room and sat down next to him.

  “How—”

  “Kelly’s on the operating table right now,” Eric said. “One bullet entered the top third of her right lung and is lodged in the anterior chest wall. She has blood in the chest cavity on that side, as well as a pneumothorax. They’ll stop any bleeding, put in a chest tube to re-expand the lung, remove the bullet. You know the drill.”

  “Blood loss?” Mark asked.

  “Pretty significant. They’re replacing it as we speak. Vital signs have stabilized.” He looked at his watch. “She should be in the recovery room in another hour, maybe less. I’ll be sure they let you know.”

  “Who—”

  “Mel Johnson was in the house. He’s a good trauma surgeon. He called Tom Sellers to deal with the chest wound.” Eric patted Mark’s shoulder. “She’s in good hands. Just hang on.”

  Mark patted his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks, Eric.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should have called 911 and let the EMTs handle it. But—”

  “You may have saved her life by what you did. Don’t beat yourself up.” Eric rose and turned toward the door. “Hey, I know what you’re going through. It’s tough. If it hadn’t been for my faith, when I lost Cynthia . . . Well, anyway, I’ll be right out here if you need anything. And in the meantime—”

  “I know. You’ll be praying. Thanks, Eric.”

  Mark had no sooner collapsed back onto the sagging couch than two men appeared in the doorway. I might have known. “Detectives Jackson and Ames. Are you the ones I need to talk with about the shooting?”

  After a perfunctory “Sorry about this,” the two men got down to business. “While we get the information from you, we need to let a couple of people go over your car.”

  Mark told Jackson where he’d left his auto and handed over his keys. The detective stepped to the door, passed the keys to a uniformed officer and relayed the information. “They’ll be a while,” Jackson said to Mark, “But I suspect you’re going to be around.”

  Mark moved to the coffeepot and poured a cup. When he gestured to the two policemen, Ames shook his head while Jackson accepted a Styrofoam cup and added creamer and sugar.

  “I don’t guess we need to ask who could be shooting at you,” Jackson said. He sipped the coffee, made a wry face, but continued to drink.

  “I suppose it was the Zetas,” Mark said. “But there could be others.”

  While Ames maintained his poker face, this seemed to surprise Jackson. “Who?”

  “Suppose the bullets that hit Kelly were meant for me.” Mark paused to let that sink in. “Some police officers seem to still have the idea that I’m responsible for Ed Purvis’s death,” he said. “Matter of fact, you’ve told me his family may be filing suit against me for what I did.” Mark tasted his coffee, then dropped the full cup into the trash. “I went to the Purvis home to express my sympathy, and on my way back I was almost run off the road by an SUV that looked a lot like the cruisers the Drayton police drive.” He grimaced. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Now wait a minute—” Jackson began.

  “Then there’s the matter of Anna King’s shooting,” Mark continued. “Apparently I’m the number one suspect, but suppose what I’m telling you is true, and I’m innocent. If someone kills me, I’m betting your investigation into the attack on Anna stops right there.”

  Neither Jackson nor Ames replied to that.

  “So perhaps the person who fired those shots at my car was the person who really shot Anna King. You might think about that, as well.”

  Jackson flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Dr. Baker, we’re in sort of a difficult position. You and Miss Atkinson are in danger from the Zeta cartel—we know that. And we’re going to try to get them before they get to you. But because you’re also a suspect in the shooting of Dr. Anna King, I’m walking through a legal minefield here. So before we ask any more questions about this attack that has Miss Atkinson in surgery, let me be certain you understand your rights.” He pulled a laminated card from his shirt pocket. “Mind you, you’re not under arrest. But this is simply to be sure. You have the right to remain silent. If you . . .”

  Mark tuned out the rest of the Miranda warning. He’d heard it on TV enough times he could have recited it back to Jackson. Could this situation get any more complex?

  ***

  A sharp pain in the right side of her chest aroused Kelly. She tried to take a deep breath and more pain shot through her. Where was she? What was happening? She tried to open her eyes, but it was as though they were glued shut. She could hear the murmur of voices, superimposed on a background of a mechanical to and fro sound. Kelly tried to cry out, but there was some sort of obstruction in her throat. She summoned up all her strength and finally managed to move her right arm.

  “She’s moving.” The unfamiliar male voice seemed to come from directly above her.

  Another voice from behind her head answered. “I’ve kept her light, but I guess she’s coming around. Let me make an adjustment.”

  Kelly tried to move again, but now it was as though there was some sort of disconnect between her will and her muscles. She felt as though she were wrapped in plastic, unable to move even the tiniest bit. How could she breathe? Panic overcame her. Then she felt her chest move and air rushed into her lungs. In a few seconds, it moved out again with no conscious effort on her part. Weird.

  Now the second voice said, “I’ve given her some Sux and ketamine.” There was a brief pause. “That should keep her still until I can breathe her down.”

  Sux? Succinylcholine, a paralyzing agent used in surgery. Ketamine? That was an anesthetic agent. She was in surgery. But how? What?

  “How’s she doing?” the voice asked.

  Kelly never heard the answer. Blackness enfolded her, and she slipped away.

  ***

  Eric McCray paused at the door to the ER break room. Mark was in earnest conversation with the two detectives, and Eric hated to interrupt. On the other hand, he knew that Mark needed to hear the news he brought. Eric had volunteered to break it to his friend, rather than letting someone else convey it. That was the least he could do.

  The stocky black detective—Eric didn’t recall his name—talked with Mark, while the other policeman, the tall, thin one, stood by and took notes. As soon as Eric stepped into the room, Mark stopped in midsentence. He moved away from the detectives until he stood face to face with Eric.

  “What’s the latest?” Mark asked.

  Eric gestured to the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”

  Mark shook his head. “I’m fine right here. What—” His voice broke and he started over. “What’s the news?”

  There was no easy way to say this. Eric decided to get it over with. “I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

  18

  Mark had played football in his youth, and in one of the games he’d been kicked in the gut. He remembered the sensation, curled up on the ground, unable to breathe, unsure if he would be able to get up. Although he remained upright this time, he had the same sensation. It was as though he�
��d been hit in the midsection by a pile driver.

  “I’m sorry,” Eric said again. “They thought she was going to recover. She wasn’t fully lucid yet, but she could respond to commands, open her eyes, move her fingers. Then suddenly, she just . . . I’m really sorry.”

  Mark shook his head. He’d finally taken an honest look at the three women in his life and come to a decision about which one he truly loved. Now . . .

  “Doctor.” Jackson moved forward. “I think we’ll wait to complete this interview. I’ll contact you later.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The two detectives eased out of the room. Mark dropped onto the sofa, and Eric sat beside him.

  Mark sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, he asked, “Did she say anything at all before she died?”

  “Her surgeon was at her bedside, and he’d asked her if she saw who shot her.”

  “I don’t see how she’d know that,” Mark said.

  “Well, apparently she did, because she said something. But I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

  “Of course I do,” Mark said.

  Eric shrugged. “Okay. When the surgeon said, ‘Did you see who shot you?’ she managed to choke out one syllable: ‘Mar—’. Then she died.”

  ***

  “Are you going to stop questioning him?” Detective Ames asked.

  Jackson didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he jerked his head toward the exit from the emergency room. They walked outside, and Jackson stopped to stretch. The mercury lights around the entrance made the area bright as day. He yawned and turned to face his partner. “About the time that other doctor came into the break room, my cell phone buzzed. I’m expecting a text from Rodgers, the patrolman assigned to stay with the surgeon who got shot, Dr. King. I thought we’d give Dr. Baker a little time to grieve while I check on what Rodgers has for us.”

  “But we’re going back.”

  Jackson grinned. “Oh, you bet. We’re going to talk some more with Dr. Baker. His story is that someone took a shot at him and the nurse, and her injuries and the bullet holes in his car back him up on that. On the other hand, I don’t want to lose sight that he’s one of our prime suspects in the shooting of Dr. King.” He moved toward a quiet area of the parking lot. “Let me call Rodgers and see what he has for us. After that, we can decide how we want to approach Baker.”

  ***

  Mark sat with his head in his hands. “I can’t believe that Kelly is dead.” He stifled a sob. “And apparently the last thing she did was try to call my name. I should have been there with her.”

  Eric pulled back and held up his hands. “Wait a minute. I think you have this all wrong. I don’t mean that Kelly is dead.” He looked at his watch. “She’s probably out of surgery and in the recovery room by now. We can check in a few minutes to find out when you can see her.”

  Hope burned through the confusion in Mark’s mind. “That’s wonderful. But if Kelly isn’t the one who died . . .” Mark thought for a second, and the obvious answer came to him. “You mean Anna King, don’t you? Anna’s dead.”

  Eric nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “But you said the doctor asked her who shot her, and she said, ‘Mar—.’ Right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And they had a police officer standing by in case Anna regained consciousness. So I guess either he heard or the doctor told him—”

  “Right. So I suspect you’ll see those two detectives again real soon.”

  ***

  Mark stood by the bed and looked down at the body of Anna King. The nurses had removed the tubes and electrodes from the corpse, but still she looked anything but natural. Her head had been shaved and surgical staples outlined the craniotomy incision. Mark bent and brushed her cold forehead with his lips. I’m going to find out who did this to you, Anna. You deserve that.

  “Do you need any information from me? I suppose her ex-husband will have the contact information for her parents and her brother,” Mark said.

  Dr. Troy Michaels put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “If there are any questions, I’ll ask the chaplain to page you.” He cleared his throat. “I wish we could have saved her. Actually, I thought we had. The surgery seemed to go well. We got the bullet out without a hiccup. I don’t know if she threw a pulmonary embolus or had some kind of arrhythmia or—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mark said. “She shouldn’t have been here in the first place. Sure, Anna made some mistakes in her life, but why would anyone shoot her?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know.”

  Mark flinched at the voice. It was easy enough to recognize Detective Ames. It was just like him to intrude on this brief quiet time. “Please. Can you wait outside? I wanted a few moments alone with . . . .” His voice gave way to a choked sob.

  The detective didn’t question whether Mark was talking about time with the body of Anna King or a chance to discuss the case with Dr. Michaels. He simply said, “Sure. We’ll be right outside.”

  Troy looked around to be certain they were alone before he continued. “Look, Mark. I’m not sure the policeman stationed outside the ICU room heard what Anna said, but—”

  “I know. You saw that she seemed to be regaining consciousness, so you asked her if she knew who shot her.”

  Troy nodded. “She said, ‘Mar—’, then she died.”

  “I didn’t shoot her, Troy. Maybe she was calling for me. I don’t know. But I didn’t shoot her.”

  Troy yawned. “I wish I could stick around to support you, but I’ve got a leaking cerebral aneurysm I have to look in on. It may be a long night for me.”

  Mark nodded and followed Troy from the room. The detectives were waiting right outside, and fell in with Mark, one on either side. It looked like a long night for him, as well.

  ***

  Kelly heard sounds. Some were mechanical—whooshes and clicks and beeps. Others were voices, mostly muted although occasionally raised a bit, but never to the level of a shout. She tried to open her eyes and was frustrated when they didn’t respond. Kelly moved the fingers of her right hand and was pleased to note that they wiggled at her command. She got the same result on the left. But when she tried to raise her arms, the motion was restricted.

  Gradually, struggling past a nightmare-like feeling of helplessness, she emerged into a hazy sort of consciousness. She was in a hospital. Her arms were restrained. Attempts at speaking resulted in only a strangled grunt, so she probably had a tube in her trachea.

  She forced herself to relax. Easy. Don’t panic. You know this situation. You’ve been on the other end of it before. Like a spider crawling over the sheets, she moved her right hand on the covers—down, back, right, left. There it was! She felt the familiar cold plastic of the control button.

  Kelly tried to recall the configuration of the devices used in this hospital, but her memory came up blank. She punched one, and heard the click and thrum of the TV set at the foot of her bed turning on, followed by a disembodied voice saying “We’ll be right back after these messages.” She moved her finger to another button and the sound died.

  Move your fingers downward. But which way was down and which was up? She fumbled until she found the largest button, located toward the center of the device. She pressed it and was rewarded with the sound of a faint buzzing in the distance. That was followed by the rapid squeak of rubber soles on vinyl tile, then a voice above her. “Are you awake?”

  That seemed a silly question, but Kelly answered with a nod.

  “Let me get a warm washcloth and wipe your eyes. Generally the anesthesiologists use sterile ointment to hold the lids closed and protect your corneas. Sometimes enough remains to make it difficult to open them.”

  Kelly heard water running. In a moment, she felt a wonderfully soothing sensation as the nurse wiped her eyes with the warm, moist cloth.

  “Try that.”

  She opened her eyes, blinked twice, and as the haze cleared from her vision she cou
ld see that she appeared to be in a room in either ICU or recovery. Kelly had been in many of these before, but never as a patient. Nevertheless, the familiarity helped her relax a bit.

  She moved her arms, and the nurse responded by removing Kelly’s restraints. “Careful. You have IVs in both arms. And there’s a chest tube on your right side.”

  Kelly nodded. She tried to speak, but again her efforts produced only the strangled grunt.

  “Let me get the doctor. We’ll see if he’ll remove your endotracheal tube.” The nurse, an older woman with steel-gray hair, patted Kelly’s hand. “Hang on. You’re doing fine.”

  Kelly forced herself to relax. She hoped the nurse was right. Bits and pieces of her shooting came back to her. Then she had a thought that sent her heart into free fall. What about Mark?

  ***

  “Do you want to find someplace that’s quiet, where we can talk?” Mark asked.

  The look that passed between Jackson and Ames was brief, but apparently they had been partners long enough for such silent communication to be effective.

  “I think it would be better if we went down to the station,” Jackson said.

  Mark tried to keep his voice even. Don’t make them mad—especially not now. “What if I don’t want to go?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist,” Ames said, grabbing Mark’s arm in a viselike grip. “You have the right—”