Fatal Trauma

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

  He’d spent a little time in the record room during his sleepless night, reviewing the ER visits for Addison Ames Jr. There had been three visits in the past twelve months, all because of injuries due to trauma of some sort. Because none of the injuries was serious, and a different doctor was involved each time, there was no mention in any of the emergency room records of a contact with Child Protective Services to rule out child abuse. Mark wondered if the child’s private pediatrician had any knowledge that would shed more light on the situation.

  Searching the most recent emergency room record, Mark jotted down the name of the Ames’s pediatrician, one of the partners in a respected practice in this part of town. He found a copy of the county medical society directory on one of the tables in the record room and got a phone number for the group. Now it was time to make the call.

  After he’d polished off a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, Mark shoved the plate aside, consulted his watch, and punched in the number scribbled on a scrap of paper.

  “Drayton Pediatrics Group, this is Carolyn. How may I help you?”

  “Is this the office or the answering service?” Mark asked.

  “This is the office, sir. How may I help you?”

  “This is Dr. Mark Baker. I need to speak with Dr. Krempin. It’s about one of his patients. Is he available?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. Krempin is still making rounds. If you’ll give me the child’s name, I’ll pull that chart. Are you currently treating the patient?”

  “Not presently, but I’m an ER doctor who’s treated the child in the recent past. I need to discuss the case with Dr. Krempin.”

  “If you’ll give me your number, I’ll ask the doctor to call you.”

  Mark left his cell phone number. He knew he might be walking close to the edge of acceptable practice according to the federal regulations aimed at protecting patient privacy. Then he remembered something one of his mentors had told him early in his medical career. Do what’s best for the patient and worry about regulations later. This was probably a case of it being better to get forgiveness than permission. At least, he hoped so.

  ***

  Mark arrived at Kelly’s room almost simultaneously with her return from radiology. He stuck his head through the door and caught a look from Kelly’s nurse, a look that said, “Give us a minute.” He nodded and moved down the hall toward the waiting room for the unit.

  The room was empty at that hour of the morning, and the TV set on the wall had been muted. Other than the faint clatter of the carts doling out breakfast trays on the ward, this was an oasis of silence, something Mark appreciated right now.

  He’d no more than settled into a chair in the corner of the waiting room than his cell phone buzzed. Was Dr. Krempin calling back so quickly? Without checking caller ID, he answered.

  “Is this Dr. Mark Baker?” The woman’s voice wasn’t one he recognized.

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Clara Purvis.”

  Wow. With everything else going on, Mark had totally forgotten the possible malpractice suit from Sergeant Purvis’s widow. He still thought any such action was groundless, but on the other hand this was modern America, where anyone could sue anyone else, especially if a doctor was on the receiving end. Was that what this was about? His pulse quickened, and he had to swallow twice before he responded.

  “What can I do for you?”

  The pause on the line seemed to go on forever. Just when Mark was about to take the phone from his ear to see if the connection had been dropped, he heard, “I’ve been wondering how to do this. Finally, I got your cell number from a colleague of . . . a friend of Ed’s.” She stifled a sob. “I only now found out you were given the impression we were considering a suit against you for failing to save Ed’s life. That’s not going to happen. It wasn’t even my idea—it all came from T.R. I think he was simply lashing out—reacting to the death of his friend.”

  “Who?”

  “I guess you know him as Detective Jackson. His full name is Tyrell Rashard Jackson, but don’t ever call him that.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice. “He and Ed went through the police academy together, and they stayed close friends. Didn’t T.R. say anything about that?”

  “No, but it explains some of his attitude.”

  “I’m glad that my husband was able to save you . . . and that he shot the man holding you prisoner. I know that’s not very Christian, but I’m feeling very Old Testament about the whole thing. Maybe when the pain lessens, I can be more forgiving.”

  “If it helps any, the authorities are working to roll up the entire local network of the cartel those men were part of,” Mark said.

  “I hope they do,” she said. “Would you let me know if that happens? I think it might help bring a bit of closure.”

  Mark didn’t know what else to say. Apparently neither did she, and in a few moments the conversation ended. I need to call Abe Nunez or Carl Ortiz to see if they’ve learned anything more from the gunman they captured. He sighed and added that call to his mental list. Meanwhile, it was time to get back to Kelly’s room.

  ***

  Kelly hated that she had to be in a wheelchair, pushed like an invalid to the car where Mark waited under the hospital portico. Then again, she was familiar with hospital regulations that specified such a procedure for discharge of a patient. According to her doctor, so long as she took things easy, there was no reason she couldn’t recuperate outside the hospital. Now she was on her way.

  Mark hurried around to open the passenger door of his red Toyota Corolla. He and the nurse helped Kelly into the car.

  After several exchanges of “thank you” and “take care of yourself,” the nurse headed back inside, trundling the empty wheelchair, while Kelly settled into the passenger seat of Mark’s car.

  She fastened her safety belt and sniffed. “It even has a new car smell. You may not want your old car back.”

  “I may not get it back. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s totaled.” He buckled in and turned toward her. “The insurance adjustor should be looking at it soon, but meanwhile this is your magic carriage.” Mark’s voice took on a serious tone. “Are you sure you want to be alone in your house?”

  Kelly had thought of this. To tell the truth, she was concerned about being out of the relative safety of the hospital. “Honestly, I have mixed emotions. I guess, since the Zeta shooter is in custody, you and I are safe for now.”

  “Yes and no.” Mark started the car but didn’t move forward. “There’s nothing to say that the Zetas won’t send someone else.”

  “So we have no way of knowing if there’s another shooter out there.”

  “No. Besides which, someone else beside that shooter—Rojas, I think his name is—someone else apparently shot Buddy Cane and Anna King. And they’re definitely still running around loose.”

  Kelly turned this over in her mind. “I’m capable of taking care of myself at home, so long as I don’t do any straining or heavy lifting. Maybe if I lock the doors and keep the blinds closed . . .”

  “You could stay at my house.” Mark apparently saw the look on Kelly’s face. “I have two bedrooms, two baths. I assure you, it’s only to give you protection, as well as having someone around to help until you recover fully.”

  Kelly was saved from answering by a tap on the window of the car. It was Carl, the surgical technician. She felt ashamed that she’d suspected him of being a shooter sent by the Zetas, when actually he was a DEA agent, trying to protect her. She rolled down her window.

  “I see you’re breaking out of this place,” he said with a smile.

  “I want to tell you how grateful I am for all you tried to do,” Kelly said.

  He grinned. “Just doing my job. And, speaking of that, I guess it goes without saying that you can’t tell anyone who I really am. I’m still undercover here at the hospital.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Mark said.

  A honk from behind
them made Kelly look around. “We’d better move. Can we talk later?”

  Mark started the car’s engine and put his hand on the gearshift lever. “I’ll give you a call later this morning,” he told Carl.

  “Sure,” Carl said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to nose around and see if I can find out what’s going on with Dr. Goodrich.”

  Kelly gave him a puzzled look. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, I guess you haven’t heard. Dr. Goodrich didn’t show up for an appointment this morning. Evidently, he’s gone missing.”

  26

  Responding to another honk from behind his car, Mark stuck his arm out his side window and waved the driver around. Then he leaned toward the open passenger window where Carl still stood. “What? Tell me about that.”

  Carl opened the back door and climbed into the car. “You’re blocking traffic, and I feel sort of vulnerable standing out here. Let’s drive.”

  Mark put the car in gear and edged into the street. “Okay, we’re moving. Now what’s this about Goodrich?”

  “His secretary got concerned this morning when he didn’t show up for a ten o’clock appointment. Sometimes he comes in late, especially when Mildred—that’s his wife—when she’s gone. But he’s never late for an appointment.”

  Mark wove through traffic and got in the turn lane. “So what did his secretary do?”

  “She called the head of hospital security, Bill Wilkinson. Actually, she wanted to call the police, but Goodrich had made her absolutely paranoid about keeping the police away from the hospital. Finally, Bill told her to hold off until after lunch. If Goodrich is still gone with no explanation by then, he’ll notify the police.”

  Mark looked at the clock that was a part of the car’s display. “It’s about noon now.”

  “Head back for the hospital and let me out. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  As they approached the hospital, Mark said, “What about the cartel shooter the police picked up? Anything more from him?”

  As soon as the car stopped, Carl had one foot out the door. He turned back and said, “Lawyered up. I don’t think we’ll get any more out of him, but Abe’s still trying.”

  Mark looked at Kelly, who’d sat silent throughout his exchange with Carl. “You look sort of pale. Are you worried about your safety?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Maybe a little. But mainly I feel like I could throw up at any moment.”

  Immediately Mark’s doctor brain kicked into gear. “Are you in pain? Short of breath? Do you feel—”

  “I’m weak, that’s all. I just got out of the hospital, and I’ve been sitting here in the car for a half hour or so. I want to go home and lie down. That’s all.”

  Mark waved to the departing Carl, then put the car in gear. “For now, I’m taking you to my house. You can lie down on the bed in the guest room.”

  “That may not—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, but you need someone to take care of you for a day or two until you start getting your strength back.” He reached over and touched her lips with a finger. “No arguments.”

  ***

  Kelly pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to relax. Mark had given her one of his scrub suits, which now served her as pajamas. Her brain still whirled with thoughts of shooting and disappearances and police investigations, but for now she was safe. She should put those thoughts aside and concentrate on her convalescence.

  Mark’s voice from outside the bedroom startled her. “Are you okay in there?”

  “I’m fine. You can come in now.”

  He opened the door and stood in the doorway. “I’ll let you rest, but if you need anything just sing out.”

  “No, come in for a minute. I need to ask some questions.”

  Mark sat on the side of her bed. “I may not have the answers, but ask away.”

  “Carl and Abe told you they thought the Zetas were using the hospital in a drug scheme. Do you think this has anything to do with Goodrich’s disappearance?”

  “It’s possible. That might even explain some of his recent actions.”

  Kelly started to scoot up in the bed, but before she could move, Mark was up and bending over to help her adjust her position. She looked him in the eye. “Thank you . . . but you have to stop treating me like I’m made of china and might break at any moment.” She tried to think of the best way to phrase it. “You and I worked together for quite a while. We respected each other as professionals. Now we’re in a totally different relationship. If you try to take over doing everything—”

  “I get it,” Mark said. “I need to let you be independent. It’s just that—”

  “You want to do things for me, and I appreciate it. Tell you what. If I need anything, if there’s something I can’t do for myself, I’ll ask. Fair enough?”

  Before Kelly could answer, Mark’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. “I have to take this.”

  He started to leave, but she signaled him to stay. He sat in a chair in the corner of the room and answered the call. Kelly could only hear one side of the conversation, but it wasn’t hard for her to put the pieces together.

  “Dr. Krempin,” Mark said. “Thanks for calling back. I’m an ER doctor at Drayton General, and I recently had occasion to see Mr. and Mrs. Ames’s son, Addison, Jr. with an apparent injury to his right arm. There was no real damage, but I noticed some old bruises at that time.”

  Apparently Krempin made some remark, after which Mark said, “Oh, I agree. Every two-year-old falls and gets the usual number of lumps and bumps. But I believe there’s a pattern here. Just a few days later, Mr. Ames brought Junior to the ER with a possible head injury.”

  The person on the other end of the line said something, to which Mark replied, “No, I didn’t go through all the ER records, but I found a total of three such visits in the past year.”

  Another burst of conversation.

  “No,” Mark said. “No one has notified Child Protective Services. I thought I’d start by giving you a call to see if you’d—”

  Mark stopped to listen, nodding occasionally. Finally, he said, “I see. Well, I’m glad you’re on top of this. If there’s anything we can do, you have my number.”

  He ended the call and turned back to Kelly, who said, “Sounds like he was aware of the situation.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mark said. “He’s seen a couple of instances that could be child abuse. After the last one, he sat the parents down for a talk. They initially denied anything was going on, but finally one of them confessed to taking out their anger on Junior.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He got them both to agree to counseling. In addition, the parent who’d been hitting Junior is now enrolled in anger management classes.”

  “And . . .”

  “And Dr. Krempin thinks Mrs. Ames is making progress.”

  ***

  Mark pushed back from the kitchen table. He’d warmed some chicken noodle soup for Kelly, who assured him she wasn’t really hungry. There was a bit left over, and he’d finished it off. He was already worrying that it might have been a mistake to insist that Kelly come here to convalesce for the first day or so—not because he minded taking care of her. No, what worried him was the tape of his mother’s voice playing in a constant loop in his brain: “What will people say?”

  Maybe he could call Kelly’s friend, Tracy. If Tracy would stay with Kelly . . . No, Tracy had to work. More than that, her shift in the operating room would probably coincide with time when Kelly needed someone with her. Maybe if he stayed with Kelly from midafternoon to midnight . . . no, that probably wouldn’t work either.

  He needed to find a female who wouldn’t mind taking care of Kelly as well as offering a safe environment in which she could recuperate. Mark’s own sphere of friends was woefully lacking in such a person. And if he mentioned it to Kelly, she’d insist on going home, where she’d be by herself.

  The ring of his
phone interrupted Mark’s thoughts. He sighed and answered.

  “Mark, this is Margaret. . . Margaret Cane.”

  “Oh, yes.” He’d already forgotten the way he’d crossed paths with Margaret at church yesterday. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going through some of Buddy’s papers, and I need your advice. Could you come over this afternoon?”

  “Margaret, I can’t leave right now,” Mark said. He was about to ask if there wasn’t someone else who could help with going through his colleague’s papers, but then it hit him. Margaret had a house to herself. The cartel certainly wouldn’t think of looking for Kelly there. Maybe she’d be the person to ask. “Perhaps you could come over here. I’d be happy to help if I can.”

  “Let’s see,” Margaret said. “It’s two o’clock now. I’ll see you in about half an hour. Okay?”

  “Make it forty-five minutes. I need to shower and change.” Mark ended the call, thinking that he might have just solved a major problem.

  ***

  After a quick shave and shower, Mark, dressed in a clean tee shirt and jeans, headed for his living room. If he could intercept Margaret before she rang the doorbell, maybe Kelly wouldn’t wake up. He’d just checked on her, and she was dead to the world in the guest room. Poor thing, he wished once more he could have prevented her being shot. He hoped Abe Nunez and Carl Ortiz would be successful in their efforts to put an end to the Zeta operation in this area. Maybe then he and Kelly would feel safe once more.

  He heard a car stop at the curb. That must be Marge. Mark hurried into the living room, noting a stack of unopened mail on the end table. He reached the door and flung it open, then turned back and scanned through the letters in the pile. When he’d assured himself there was nothing important, he looked again toward the open door. Mark had his mouth open, but the words, “Margaret, come in” never escaped.