HARMED - Book 1: First Do No Harm

by L Jan Eira

  He stopped the descent and sat down on a stair. Using his blood as ink, he began writing on the wall. A few moments later, suddenly he developed dizziness and vertigo. His chest thumped hard inside his ribcage. He noticed his reasoning was becoming imprecise and dull. He stumbled erratically down the stairs. The disorienting effects of the poison were becoming increasingly prominent, surfacing sporadically in waves.

  Where am I going? Where am I supposed to be? he wondered, gradually more confused. He looked around wildly to get his bearings, not quite sure of what to do.

  He kept climbing down the stairway. Ah, yes, the emergency department. I must get there fast! He reached the second floor. Suddenly, he stopped, giant waves of nausea and dizziness percolating. I’m getting worse. At this rate, I won’t reach the ED. He sat on a step and procured the drug vials again. He managed to inject another round of the medications, this time having more difficulty obtaining venous access and deciphering the necessary dosing. He put all medical instruments back into his pockets and took off running again down the stairs. He felt a little better. He had to reach the emergency department.

  When he arrived on the first floor, a swell of confusion and disorientation struck him again, more intense this time than ever before. Perplexed, Jack had the distinct impression that there was somebody or something running after him. From nowhere. From everywhere. He felt threatened. He could swear somebody was hunting him, trying to kill him. A deep-down sentiment he could barely explain told him he had to fight the assailant. He frantically looked all around him for the anticipated threat. Moving in all directions rapidly caused him to feel dizzy and nauseated once again, this time more intensely. He sat back down on the steps. A large, heavy door at the bottom of the steps and now in front of him was labeled Exit. He pushed past that door, winding up in the doctors’ parking lot. The cool breeze on his face helped him feel better physically but increased his confusion and unsettlement.

  He had a deep need to escape. Run far and fast. He pushed past several parked cars and came to an open area in the parking lot. Where am I going?

  He stopped for a moment and looked around dazed. He tossed his white jacket carelessly on the ground of the doctors’ parking lot. Over the left breast pocket of his jacket, his nametag read Jack Norris, MD, Department of Cardiology, Section of Electrophysiology, Chief of Fellows. The coat pockets were full of accoutrements, including a stethoscope, personal digital assistant, and a couple of pens. There were also syringes, needles, a tourniquet, and three large drug vials. The vials were nearly empty.

  Wild-eyed, Jack looked side to side and then kept on running.

  CHAPTER 54

  It was a beautiful twilight in October—a perfect end to a perfect day—not too hot, not too cold. Everything was just right in Evansville. The moon was a crescent sliver. Around it, a million stars hung high with a perfectly painted, deep-blue sky as the background. All seemed in place and at peace.

  Jack’s erratic footsteps and loud, chaotic breathing suddenly assaulted the calm of the serene autumn evening. At this time, Jack wasn’t sure of anything—he knew not who he was, where he was, or even what he was doing. He wore an expression of utter panic and fear. His hair was disheveled, and he looked awful. And felt even worse. His heart hammered powerfully inside his ribs, and he had a colossal headache. He walked rapidly, occasionally looking back. Then he ran for several yards.

  He scampered away from the hospital’s main building, unpredictably changing from a rapid walk to a mad dash. His vision was cloudy at best; for short periods, it would become exceedingly focused. He was sweating profusely and panting ferociously. Weary. Wild. His brain had become nebulous and incapable of logical reasoning. There were horrible images in his mind, but he couldn’t explain or understand any of them.

  He zigzagged aimlessly through the meandering streets of the affluent neighborhood that surrounded the Newton Memorial Hospital. As he ran, confusion, thundering palpitations, breathlessness, and the headache became exacerbated exponentially. Occasionally, he had to stop, but this made him feel dizzy and faint. He developed intermittent, increasingly severe, bouts of abdominal cramping, causing him to bend at the waist. As these symptoms would wax and wane, a heightened feeling that he needed to run would overcome him. He would scurry again. Stumbling faster and faster.

  He knew he had to escape, but he had no idea where he should head. Primitive feelings of self-preservation persuaded him that something or someone was trying to find him. And kill him. It was imperative that he start planning an attack strategy. He had to strike first or he would die. And soon. He was now totally incapable of thinking rationally, and only instinct ruled his actions. Deep down, Jack just knew his life was imminently in danger, and he had to strike first. And he would. He intended to fight. He would fight to kill.

  He ran straight into a driveway as the street meandered to the right, then left. He skirted around the beautiful house. The almost palatial domicile was one of many luxurious homes in the area. It was dark out. As Jack stumbled forward, a motion detector was activated, and a spotlight automatically came on, dumping bright light onto the driveway. Jack’s eyes stung with the sensation of a thousand prickles. The sudden brightness heightened his confusion and disorientation.

  Jack heard a barking dog nearby. He looked around frantically, attempting to hone in on the origins of the growls. Was that his attacker? Jack ran pointlessly and nervously, unpredictably gazing in different directions as he contemplated the question. By now, he had turned the corner of the ornate home, submerging him back into the darkness of the night. Just like the sudden bright lights a few seconds earlier, the sudden dimness augmented his befuddlement. His breath grew increasingly short and labored. He knew he couldn’t continue this way for long, now staggering unhurriedly in the dark.

  Jack suddenly and unexpectedly felt a sharp pain across his forehead as he struck a tree limb. He fell backward and lay prone on the grass beneath the tree, grunting in pain.

  “Who’s there?” said an old man’s voice coming from the back of the house.

  “Close the door, Harold. I’m calling the police,” whispered an old woman, her voice anxious but determined.

  “I think someone might be hurt in the backyard…” the man said as the door slammed shut followed by the sound of a loud bolt solidly locking the entry.

  Jack tried to stand up but found it hard to do. He was too weak to bear his own weight, his chest heaving in and out furiously. With difficulty, he struggled to roll over. Gathering all the effort and resolve he could muster, he managed to get on his knees. Sapless, he fell again, sprawled facedown on the lawn. As he did so, he felt an uncomfortable feeling, as his left thigh area hit the ground. It was his cell phone, deep in his pocket. He managed to get back on his knees and extract the mobile device. Mesmerized, he hypnotically gawked at the Treo 650 like a clown waiting for the pie to smack his face. He examined the strange contraption, turning it side to side, until he accidentally pushed one of the keys. The keypad illuminated. Startled, Jack dropped the device. As he picked it up, he fortuitously pressed the Send button. A moment later, a voice emanated from the small device.

  “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice. That voice sounded ever so vaguely familiar to him. “Jack, are you there? Hello!” The woman’s voice persisted. “Jack, are you OK?” No reply. Silence. “Jack, are you hurt? It’s Claire. Are you there?”

  Disconnected from reality, Jack articulated deep guttural sounds into the cell phone. The words were incomprehensible, but the message was meaningful to Claire—Jack was in trouble.

  Drops of blood from Jack’s forehead wound dripped onto the lit cellphone pad, causing him to grunt and again drop the device.

  “Jack, I’m calling Susan. I’ll get help!” Her words fell on deaf ears.

  CHAPTER 55

  The Evansville Police Department Central Dispatch received a call from an elderly woman requesting immediate help. The 911 operator, Nicole, was a jolly, overweight, acne-ridden woman
in her early twenties, with dark hair and big brown eyes. Her voice was pleasant, calm, and soothing, the result of both her personality as well as training for this position.

  “A man is trespassing on my property. I’m afraid he’ll try to get into my home and hurt my husband and me. Please come quickly,” begged the old lady.

  Nicole instructed the woman to stay inside and lock all doors. She promised the caller that help was on the way. She knew the address. It was displayed on the screen in front of her, obtained from the caller ID database. She typed in some notes in her computer logbook and radioed for all available police cars with instructions to proceed immediately to 3076 Bell Road, giving them the details of the call. Three police cars replied, stating they were available and on their way to the scene.

  • • •

  A few moments later, Detective Susan Quentin’s cell phone rang. She was sitting on her couch with Agent Ganz, a glass of merlot nearly empty. The TV was on, but the sound was hushed, allowing for conversation. Quentin remained uncertain as to what to think about Ganz. Part of her felt amazingly good in his arms, an envelope of trust in his embrace. But part of her couldn’t help her stop entertaining Jack and Claire’s assertions about this man on her sofa. So for now, the conversation continued—pleasant, funny at times, and certainly congenial.

  Surprised to get a call this late in the evening, Quentin looked at Ganz, who gave a sympathetic nod. With an intrigued look on her face, she got up and began pacing around the room as she answered the call.

  “Susan?” exclaimed an excited woman’s voice even before she could speak.

  “Yes. Who am I talking to?” she replied.

  “This is Claire Norris.”

  “I didn’t recognize your voice,” she said, “or your number.” Quentin took a deep breath, feelings of despair and irritation surfacing, just as they had when she left Claire’s hospital room hours earlier. “What is it?”

  “I received a call from Jack’s phone. I think something awful has happened to him. I think he’s hurt. I heard him grunt in pain; he couldn’t talk—”

  “OK, calm down. Let me see what I can find out and call you right back.” Quentin felt her jaw muscles tighten.

  “Susan, are you with Mike? Agent Ganz?” she heard Claire whisper into the receiver.

  “Yes,” said Quentin.

  “Please be careful,” said Claire. “I fear for your safety.”

  “I know you do,” said Quentin. She hung up, and her gaze met Ganz’s. “Have to make this call. Work.” And with these words, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  She dialed Police Central Dispatch Station. “Hey, Nicole, it’s Susan Quentin. Anything exciting going on?”

  “It must be a full moon. All the crazies are out this evening. What can I do you for, Suzy Q?” said Nicole.

  “I’m looking for a man, a young doctor.”

  Quentin heard Nicole giggle. “So am I, but I’d take a lawyer or engineer, or—”

  “Dr. Jack Norris. He’s helping us with a case,” said Quentin, refusing to acknowledge the joke. “Word is that he’s been hurt. Have you had to dispatch EMS recently?”

  “Yes, I dispatched an ambulance to the scene of a fight with injuries and to a home for what appears to be a heart attack,” Nicole said, a professional tone now in her voice.

  “Hang on. Tell me more about the fight with injuries. How old a man?” interrupted Quentin.

  “Teenagers down by the train tracks, both taken to the hospital,” said Nicole, her fingers typing quickly on the keyboard.

  “That doesn’t sound like the man I’m looking for. What about the heart attack? How old?”

  “Seventies.”

  “That’s not him, either,” said Quentin. “The man I’m looking for is in his thirties. What else?”

  “Car accident, but the only injury was a woman from Ohio.”

  “OK. What else and more recently?” persisted Quentin.

  “That’s it for this evening,” said Nicole. “Tell me more about what you’re looking for. Maybe I can—” her voice was interrupted by a radio communication from the officers at the scene on Bell Road.

  “Delta three-five to dispatch.”

  “Hang on a sec, Suzy,” said Nicole. “Delta three-five, go ahead.”

  “Yeah, Delta three-five. We’re at the scene behind the address you gave. Delta two-four and Delta one-five are out here also; we have a male, white, appears to be drunk and on some kind of—” he searched momentarily for the right word—“superhigh. He’s totally out of his mind and out of control. We’re trying to place him in protective custody, but he’s a fighter. Call an ambulance; he’ll have to go to Memorial.”

  “Standby, Delta three-five, I will dispatch an ambulance to your location.”

  Quentin heard Nicole pick up the red phone. “Rescue one, you have an emergency at three-zero-seven-six Bell Road. Male, apparently under the influence. Delta three-five at the scene requesting your presence.” A moment later, she hung up the phone and made a quick entry into the logbook, her fingers pecking away at the keyboard. Then Quentin heard, “Delta three-five, EMS on the way.”

  Soon afterward, Nicole was back on the landline with Quentin. “Back at ya, Suzy Q! So, where were we?”

  “What was that all about?” said Quentin.

  “A drunk on crack,” replied Nicole.

  “Did I hear Bell Road? Isn’t that by Newton Memorial Hospital? Find out his name, please. And get more info on the man,” solicited Susan.

  “Hang on,” said Nicole, and again she used her dispatcher voice. “Delta three-five, I have a detective on the landline requesting a name on the subject.”

  “Negative on ID, dispatch,” replied the cop at the scene. As the officer communicated with the dispatcher on the radio, the background was filled with a cacophony of loud babble of unintelligible words, as the confused and highly combative man fought the cops with all his might. The radio went silent.

  “Suzy, I’m watching the scene through a camera mounted on one of the cruisers,” said Nicole. “They definitely have their hands full with this one.”

  And then the radio crackled again, followed by the officer’s voice, clearly short of breath. “This man is unrelenting. Probably crack or meth.” The background noise was again permeated with grunts and yells. “We’re attempting to place him in a protective vest.” The radio hushed again.

  “This guy is young, strong, aggressive, and highly combative,” said Nicole. “He’s pretty confused.”

  “We have him wrapped in the protective vest,” said the radio again.

  “Ten-four, Delta three-five. Can you give a description of the man?” said Nicole.

  “This guy is in his midthirties, clean shaven, well dressed, with clean, baby-smooth hands. He’s stoned out of his mind on some superspeed drug, but he’s not seen a minute of hard work all his life. He has a few fresh needle marks on his left arm; it looks like he’s been shooting up!”

  “Nicole, I heard all that. That’s him. Tell them I’m on my way. I only live a few minutes away,” Susan spoke hurriedly. The phone line went dead.

  CHAPTER 56

  The trees, bushes, and flowers around 3076 Bell Road glowed intermittently with the multiple blinking red, blue, and white lights and strobes over the three police cars parked in disarray. Though restrained, the assailant continued to wrestle with the officers. The two older police officers, Sergeants Pedro Sanchez and Penny Newman, held up flashlights, provided radio communication as necessary, and gave general directions to the other four cops. Among them was a rookie named Alfred Smyth, who had joined the force five weeks earlier. He was well built and quite capable of contributing to the might required to subdue the assailant.

  But Officer Smyth was nervous about the whole affair. This was his first real situation, as he would later call it. He had taken the time to release the safety strap holding his handgun in the holster. As he attempted to subjugate the agitated man, Al mentally rehearsed the steps required t
o put two bullets between the perp’s eyeballs, should the restraining process suddenly prove inadequate. For now, the crazed man was on his stomach, his movements restrained. He groaned like a furious animal. Three of the officers held him down, while a fourth attempted to secure the belts of the protective vest. Until this was completed, the madman’s movements were only partially restricted. An attempt to handcuff the man was unproductive, as the thug fought like a big fish out of water. The goon could not be reasoned with, no way, no how. He was fighting as if his life depended on it. He wanted to kill or be killed. It didn’t seem to matter to him.

  As the ambulance sirens swelled over the dead of night, the aggressor suddenly hyped up, his energy unexpectedly heightened. This occurred at the unfortunate exact time that the officers let up for a split second, their attention drawn to the approaching EMS vehicle. This allowed the man to jerk free and get up on his feet. He groaned loudly and prepared to attack, a rush of madness seemingly entering his body out of nowhere.

  As the others prepared to reengage in the restraining process, Officer Alfred Smyth stood back, straight, feet comfortably apart, his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum drawn with the madman’s forehead inside his front and rear sights, safety latch released. As he had done so often at the police academy only a few weeks earlier, Officer Smyth took a deep, steadying breath and prepared to gently squeeze the trigger.