Fatal Trauma

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

  Ames made no move to leave. Instead, he looked down at Mark and continued. “I sat in on the interrogation of the guy we picked up last night. He didn’t want to talk at first, but eventually he gave us some information.” His facial expression started out as a smile, but quickly turned to a smirk. “Actually, quite a bit of information.”

  This time Ames did turn and take a couple of steps away from Mark. Then he stopped and said over his shoulder, “What he told us didn’t clear you for Dr. King’s murder. I hope you still have your lawyer’s phone number on speed dial.”

  23

  Mark, in a back office of the Drayton Police Station, tried without success to find a comfortable position in the hard folding chair across the desk from Abe Nunez. The DEA agent leaned back in a swivel chair, his feet on the scarred surface of the desk next to a phone and computer monitor. He wore the same clothes Mark had seen him in twenty hours ago, but now his tie was pulled down, his collar was open, and the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt were rolled to just below his elbows.

  “You’re sure nobody in that lineup looked familiar?” Nunez said.

  Mark shook his head. “A bunch of young Hispanic males? No, I could make some guesses, but I’d probably pick out one of your detectives or a guy who came down here to deliver a pizza.” He sighed. “Sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay. I figured you didn’t get a look at the shooter last night, but it was worth checking to see if maybe you’d seen him sometime in the recent past. You know, it’s likely he followed you around trying to pick the best spot to hit you.”

  “So what do you know about the guy?”

  “Name’s Alejandro Rojas.” Nunez’s feet thudded onto the floor as he leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “When the officer that stopped him approached the car, he saw the driver trying to jam something between the seats.” Nunez looked at the ceiling and recited, as though reading from a card. “In fear of his safety, the policeman ordered the man to raise his hands. When he did, the officer saw a weapon still in the driver’s left hand.”

  “And—”

  “It was a gun—a Beretta Bobcat.”

  “How did Rojas explain that?”

  “He claimed to speak no English, or at least only a few words, so the patrolman brought him here, which was the idea anyway. I talked with him in Spanish, but initially he refused to answer my questions.” Nunez leaned back again and smiled. “While that was going on, the Drayton detectives who were helping us checked your car at the Toyota dealership where the wrecker took it. There were two bullet holes in the passenger seat back, but only one bullet went through and hit Miss Atkinson. The other was still lodged in the back of the passenger seat. It was a .25 caliber round, exactly what that Bobcat is chambered for.”

  “Have they fired a comparison from the pistol?”

  “Earlier today . . . and they match. When I confronted Alejandro with that, he finally admitted to shooting at your car.”

  “All the shots? The shot that hit Kelly and the others aimed at me?”

  Nunez nodded.

  “So . . .” Mark said.

  Nunez spread his hands. “So the charge has escalated from possession of an unregistered firearm with no permit to assault with a deadly weapon. When we get the slug the surgeon removed from Ms. Atkinson, it probably goes to attempted murder.”

  “What about Anna King and Buddy Cane? What about those bullets?”

  Nunez rose and moved toward the door. “Sorry. The rounds that killed both of them came from the same gun, but it was a .22, not a .25 like Alejandro was carrying. Close, but not the same.” He opened the door. Detectives Ames and Jackson were standing in the hallway. “That’s why these men want to talk with you some more.”

  ***

  Gwen Woodruff had her wine glass halfway to her lips when her cell phone rang.

  Her dining companion frowned and leaned across the linen-covered table, careful to avoid the candle burning in the center. He looked around to be certain that the diners at adjoining tables weren’t listening. “Gwen, can’t you turn that thing off? We’re supposed to be having a quiet dinner, and frankly, I don’t want to have to share your attention with whoever’s on the other end of that call.”

  Gwen put down her glass and shook her head. She’d deal with Roger in a moment. The only people who had her cell number were people whose calls she needed to take, no matter the time of day or the circumstances. She lifted the phone to her face. “Gwen Woodruff.”

  “Gwen, it’s Mark. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “What’s the problem?”

  She listened, ignoring the frowns Roger threw her way. When Mark finished, she said, “So they want your permission to search your home. Right?”

  “They say they can get a search warrant, but it would be easier if I just let them do it.”

  “That’s right,” Gwen said. “Are you willing to let them search?” What she meant, but didn’t want to say, was, “Will they find anything incriminating?”

  “I don’t have a problem with it, but thought I’d better check with you first.”

  “Go ahead. Stay with them, though. Make sure they don’t split up. I doubt they’d plant anything, but like one of our presidents said, ‘Trust, but verify.’”

  After asking Mark if he wanted her to be present and receiving assurance that he didn’t feel it was necessary, she ended the conversation with, “Call me when it’s over. And don’t hesitate to phone before then if there’s a problem.”

  She stowed her cell phone in her purse and looked up to meet her date’s frown. “Roger, I’m sorry. But I’m an attorney, which means that sometimes my clients have to reach me at inconvenient times—just like a doctor.”

  After more soothing words from her, he seemed to calm down, but Gwen was certain that this first date with Roger would probably also be her last with him. She didn’t really care. The man didn’t understand her situation, and she wasn’t about to give up her professional life to be the significant other of a CPA—or almost anyone else, she supposed. I still wish it could be Mark across the table from me.

  ***

  “Satisfied?” Mark asked the two detectives as they stood in the doorway of his home.

  “I’m not sure satisfied is the right word,” Jackson said. He stripped off his latex gloves and shoved them into the pocket of his rumpled suit. “We’ve done what we came to do. Just because we didn’t find a gun doesn’t mean you’re innocent. It’s simply one more step in our investigation.”

  Ames frowned, but didn’t add to the conversation.

  “Look,” Mark said. “I’ve answered every question you asked me. My attorney has pointed out that all you have are suspicions, yet it seems the only thing you’ve done is stay right on my heels, waiting for me to make a mistake. Why aren’t you investigating other explanations for Anna’s shooting?”

  Jackson stepped through the door, and once everyone was outside, Mark closed and locked it. The three men started down the walk to the street where their cars sat.

  “I asked you a question,” Mark said. “Why aren’t you looking elsewhere for Anna’s killer?”

  Jackson paused with the door of the unmarked squad car open and said, “Doctor, I can’t go into detail, but I can assure you we’re looking in other directions as well.”

  “Where?” Mark asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

  Ames and Jackson looked at each other and shrugged. Then Ames ducked into the car and slammed his door. Jackson followed suit.

  Mark stood at the curb and watched the car disappear down the block. He pulled his phone from his pocket, intending to call Gwen. But what could he tell her? The police searched his home and didn’t find a gun. He knew going in that they wouldn’t. Although they had assured him the investigation of Anna’s death wasn’t totally centered on him, where else were they looking? And what did it mean that both Anna and Buddy Cane were killed with the same caliber weapon, but not the one used to wou
nd Kelly and almost kill him?

  He hoped Gwen had some answers, because he certainly didn’t.

  ***

  The windshield of the silver Lexus parked down the street was tinted just enough to catch the last rays of summer sun and reflect them back into the eyes of anyone who might be looking at the car. On the other hand, sunglasses and the windshield tint made it relatively easy to see Baker as he stood next to his car, talking on his cell phone.

  The detectives had already left. They should have taken Baker with them, preferably in handcuffs. Incarceration by the police wasn’t as satisfying as his death, but it seemed to be an appropriate alternative. With Baker behind bars, the nurse in the ICU (where anything could still happen), and both Buddy Cane and Anna King dead, the planned scenario would be almost complete.

  But apparently the police weren’t going to cooperate. This called for more direct action. It was a shame, but things didn’t always go as planned. The mark of a good manager was to adjust, and that was what would happen next.

  Baker ended his call and drove off in his car. The Lexus followed at a discreet distance, the driver steering almost without conscious thought while working out the details of the next phase.

  ***

  Kelly’s eyes were closed, but she knew—knew of a certainty—that someone was standing at her bedside. She didn’t think they’d made a sound. Perhaps there’d been the faintest disturbance in the air circulation in the room, maybe a whiff of aftershave, but whatever the signal, she knew there was an intrusion into her space. Suddenly she was wide awake, her heart beating a trip-hammer rhythm as she eased her lids apart to peer at the intruder.

  It was dark in her ICU room—or, at least, as dark as it ever got. True, the nurse’s station right outside was brightly lit, but the blinds on the plate glass window of her room were drawn. A nightlight burned in the bathroom only steps away, but most of her room was bathed in shadows.

  Through slitted lids, Kelly could discern that the person at her bedside was a man. Maybe this was a nurse—a male nurse—who’d come to check her IV and chest tube. But when you’ve come within a few inches of having your life snuffed out, she supposed it was okay to have heightened suspicions of anyone who stole into her room in the dark.

  Finally, Kelly said in what she hoped was a reasonably normal tone of voice, “Can I help you?”

  “Kelly? I didn’t want to wake you.” The voice was familiar, but it took her a moment to identify it as belonging to Eric McCray.

  She took a deep breath, then regretted the action as her lungs and chest muscles reminded her forcefully that she’d been shot recently. “Eric, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m about to go on duty in the ER and wanted to check on you. I hoped you’d be awake, but since you weren’t I was going to pray over you before I left.”

  Kelly, you’re getting paranoid. This is Eric. You work with him every day. “That’s so thoughtful. I’d like that,” she said.

  There was a commotion outside and two nurses hurried by. Probably something going on elsewhere on the unit—maybe a code. With everyone occupied, Kelly felt more vulnerable. She found the switch and turned on the light above her bed. At least she wasn’t alone in the dark now.

  Eric frowned at the action, but maybe it was only a reaction to the light. He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that went with his next words. “Shall we pray?”

  Kelly said, “Certainly.” But during Eric’s prayer, her half-open eyes darted here and there, constantly on the alert for danger.

  ***

  Allen Goodrich was sitting in his living room when the phone rang. He put his coffee cup on the end table next to the overstuffed chair where he sat. The administrative intern was on call this weekend and had strict instructions not to bother Goodrich at home unless the situation was catastrophic. Other than a telephone solicitor, he had no idea who could be calling him on a Saturday evening. Well, whoever it was, he’d soon give them a message they wouldn’t forget.

  He lifted the receiver. “Doctor Goodrich,” he said, emphasizing—as he always did—the first of the two words.

  “Usted sabe que es esto.”

  Goodrich translated the phrase easily. “You know who this is.” Not a question—a statement. He understood the words. Moreover, he recognized the voice, and his resolve melted. He wasn’t going to give this person an earful. He hoped he wasn’t going to get one, but in his heart he knew that hope was groundless.

  He dropped back into his chair, the receiver in a death grip. “Yes.”

  The voice continued in Spanish. “Can you talk freely?”

  “Yes, Mildred is visiting her parents this weekend. I’m alone in the house.”

  “The attempts to remove Dr. Baker have been unsuccessful. The goal was to sever his association with the hospital and the police attention that came with it. The best you’ve been able to achieve is to get him temporarily out of your hospital’s emergency room. Something more permanent must be arranged. And it should not bring any more attention to Memorial.”

  “Pero—”

  “No ‘buts.’ At this point, it’s up to you,” the caller continued. “By Monday, I want him out of the picture.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “He is to be terminated! His body isn’t to be found near the hospital. And it’s to look like he took his own life in remorse.” The speaker allowed a moment for the words to sink in. “¿Es que claro?”

  Was it clear? He wished it weren’t. Goodrich opened his mouth, but apparently the question had been rhetorical. Before he could respond a click told him the person on the other end had hung up.

  He leaned back in his chair, the phone still in his hand, his coffee forgotten. Dr. Mark Baker’s death sentence had just been pronounced. It came from the highest level. And it appeared that Goodrich was to be the executioner.

  24

  The rattle of a large cart, announcing the arrival of breakfast trays on the unit, jolted Kelly out of a half-sleep. She yawned, brought her bed to a sitting position, and swiveled the rolling table next to her across her lap.

  There was movement in the door of her ICU room, but when she looked up she didn’t see a dietary worker bearing her breakfast. Instead, Dr. Tom Sellers, her thoracic surgeon, stood smiling at her. “Are you up to receiving company?”

  “Of course,” Kelly said. “You’re a little later than usual making rounds today.”

  “That’s because it’s Sunday.” He pulled a stethoscope from the pocket of his suit and Kelly went through the routine of lean forward/take a deep breath/cough. After a few moments, Sellers told her to lie back and relax. “Sounds good. You seem to be healing well. No fever. No drainage from your chest tube.”

  “They took me downstairs for a chest X-ray early this morning. Have you seen it?”

  Sellers nodded. “You’ve expanded that lung quicker than most patients do. Usually chest tubes have to stay in four or five days. We only put it in—” He did a quick calculation. “It’s been in place less than sixty hours.”

  Kelly crossed her fingers. She knew things were going well. What she wanted to know was when she could get out of here.

  “Let’s get another chest film tomorrow morning. If it looks good, I may pull the tube then.” He stuffed the stethoscope back into his pocket, but before he left the room, he surprised Kelly one more time. “Oh, and after you’ve had your chest film tomorrow, they’ll be taking you to a regular room.” Sellers smiled. “We need that bed for some people who are a lot sicker than you. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but you’re going to make it, young lady.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The familiar voice made Kelly smile. Mark stepped into the room and shook hands with Sellers. “Tom, I only caught the tail end of what you said. Are you going to move her out of ICU?”

  Kelly relaxed back onto the bed while the two doctors spoke briefly. When Sellers was gone, Mark walked over and used his foot to hook a chair and pull it to her bedside. “You must be even tougher than you loo
k,” he said with a grin.

  “I had good care . . . beginning with a doctor who got me to the emergency room quickly, without regard to his own safety.”

  Mark shrugged that off. “I guess I should bring you up to date on events since I was here last.”

  She listened silently as he explained that, although the cartel shooter had indeed targeted both Kelly and him, a different gun was used to shoot Buddy Cane and Anna King. “The police searched my home, but, of course, there was no gun.”

  “So you’re still under suspicion for those shootings?”

  “For some reason, the police don’t seem to want to turn loose of that idea,” Mark said. “But Gwen thinks they’re reaching and I have nothing to worry about.”

  Kelly felt another visit from the little green monster of jealousy coming on. “When did you talk with Gwen again?”

  “I called her last night before I let the police search my house.” Mark frowned. “Kelly, she’s still my attorney, and I have to trust her. But believe me, there’s absolutely nothing between us. That ship has sailed.”

  That’s okay if the ship keeps going in the other direction. Frankly, Kelly wondered if Gwen Woodruff might still have ideas of getting back together with Mark. If that was the case, it was going to put the two women on a collision course. And Kelly intended to win that battle.

  ***

  Mark slid into the back row of the Drayton Community Church as the choir entered the loft. Pastor Steve Farrington was already in his chair on the platform, his Bible open on his lap.

  Mark’s church attendance had been hit-and-miss since coming to Drayton, with few hits. But somehow, he felt right being here now. Maybe Eric had been right. If Mark put God in charge of his life, things would take the right course. He hoped so.