“I thought we should all get together so everyone knows what happened and why,” Sarah said. She turned to Larson. “Do you want to start the explanation?”
The detective tapped the folder that lay unopened in front of him. “Cal Johnson and I spent a couple of hours questioning Tom Oliver after I arrested him. I gave him the standard Miranda warning, but he said he didn’t want a lawyer. I told him he had the right to remain silent, but it seemed he couldn’t wait to tell us what he was doing. He seemed proud of the way he managed to fool everyone.”
“The man’s insane,” Hunter said.
“Of course, it’s going to be up to a psychiatrist to determine whether he knew what he was doing was wrong, but Oliver laid it out like it made perfect sense to him.”
“I can’t believe he’d do something like this,” Sarah said.
“No one did,” Larson said. “He put on a great act for everyone. I’m sure he seemed like a perfectly nice guy. He did to me.”
“He had me fooled, and I probably knew him as well as anyone . . . or thought I did,” Kyle said.
“Why didn’t he go after me while he and his crew were working in the house?” Sarah asked.
“His scheme involved inflicting as much emotional pain on you as possible,” Larson said. “If he simply shot you without making you suffer first, his whole idea of revenge went out the window.”
“Revenge for what?” Sarah asked. “I still haven’t figured out that one.”
“The revenge was for the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.”
“I don’t understand,” Sarah said. “Harry didn’t kill Mrs. Hawkins. She killed him . . . and Jenny. And Mr. Hawkins committed suicide.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Hunter said.
“What was his connection with those people?” Sarah asked. “I thought you said the Hawkinses didn’t have any family.”
“According to Tom Oliver, his father died when he was in junior high. Because his mother worked long hours, Tom went home from school each day to the home of their neighbors, the Hawkins family,” Larson said. “Rena Hawkins fed him supper. John Hawkins helped him with his homework while they waited for his mother to pick him up. Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins were like family to him. He even called them Aunt Rena and Uncle John.”
“I still don’t see the reason behind all this,” Sarah said.
“I can hazard a guess,” Kyle said. “It probably began when Tommy was killed. Oliver’s son enlisted in the Marines after I got him out of that scrape where his friend was driving drunk. Tommy had just finished a tour in Afghanistan and was about ready to come back to the States when an improvised explosive device—an IED—killed him. Oliver had figured his son would carry on the family name. His death was a terrible blow to the man. I think that loss left him a bit unhinged.”
“So that was what set him off?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Larson said. “That set the stage, but then something else happened that made things worse for Oliver. His wife died of ovarian cancer. After that, he was alone in the world except for Aunt Rena and Uncle John. He leaned heavily on them. Then, after they died—first Rena in the car crash that killed Harry, then John, who committed suicide—Oliver had no one. That’s when he decided to take his own life. But first he wanted to exact revenge.”
“But the accident wasn’t Harry’s fault,” Hunter said.
“For some reason, Oliver decided it was. And since Harry was dead, he decided to get revenge on Harry’s widow.” Larson looked at Sarah. “After he’d made you suffer, he was going to kill you, then take his own life.” He looked at Kyle. “When you came on the scene, Oliver simply decided it would be easy enough to kill you as well.”
“What will happen to him?” Hunter asked.
Kyle looked at Larson. “I presume he’s already had an arraignment.”
“Yes, and he’s been remanded for psychiatric evaluation,” the detective said.
“Part of this depends on the outcome of that evaluation,” Kyle said, “But I can assure you all that he’ll be in some sort of confinement, either in a psychiatric hospital or in prison, for a long time.”
Hunter Gordon looked at his watch. “Well, I think I’d better be heading back to the farm.” He looked at Sarah. “You’ve had Prince here for a few days. Do you still want me to take him with me?”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s been good to have him with me . . . to know there’s another beating heart in the house.”
“What about your work schedule?” Hunter asked.
“I think he and I can make enough adjustments for things to work,” she said. “And thanks for training him so well. Those German commands were tough to memorize, but I’m glad I knew them.”
“Well, it all came out okay,” Larson said. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go, too.”
“Work?” Hunter asked.
“No, I need to make a phone call—one that’s long overdue.”
Kyle stood up. “And I guess I’ll go to the office and work a bit,” he said.
“Now that I won’t be calling on you for help, you should get out of that office more,” Sarah said. “Enjoy life a bit.”
Kyle nodded and shrugged. “I’ll try.”
Hunter Gordon was the last out the door. He hugged Sarah and said, “I’m glad you’re safe. Now you can get on with your life.”
“I’m going to do just that. Thanks.” And I’ll start this evening.
* * *
When she heard the knock at the door, Sarah rose from her chair and put down the magazine she was holding but not reading. She paused in front of the mirror in the front room and touched her raven hair. Sarah smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt she wore—a red-and-white print that contrasted nicely with her white blouse. Here goes.
She opened the door and stepped aside. “I tried the doorbell, but it doesn’t seem to be working,” Brad said.
“No, it’s been out of commission for several months.” She wondered why she didn’t say Harry had never gotten around to repairing it . . . and why she didn’t tear up at the memory. Maybe what friends told her was right. Maybe the pain did get better with the passage of time.
“I can’t believe we’re doing something besides hurrying off for a quick lunch,” Brad said. “I have reservations at a nice place for dinner.”
“Sounds great,” Sarah said. “It will give us a chance to talk . . . to get to know each other better.”
“That’s what we both need,” Brad said. “I realize it’s going to take some time, but I’m willing to spend it if you are.”
Sarah nodded, but before she could say anything, Prince ambled in from the kitchen.
Brad stooped and ran his hand over the dog’s head, being careful to avoid the shoulder where the animal had been wounded. “Prince, it’s good to see you. You’re not used to seeing me in this place, are you?”
Prince moved beside Sarah and nudged her. Brad stood still until Prince repeated the maneuver with him. After a couple more nudges, the two stood side by side. Then Prince moved back a few feet and settled into a comfortable position on the floor facing them.
“Can dogs smile?” Sarah asked Brad.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “But if they can, that’s exactly what Prince is doing.” He put one arm across her shoulder. “And I must say I agree. Because I am, too.”
Group Discussion Guide
1. Dr. Sarah Gordon was an intelligent, capable physician until the death of her husband and daughter changed her. What changes do you see from the person she apparently used to be? Do you understand them? Why do you think she felt that way?
2. Kyle Andrews is fighting a battle within himself. What forces are pulling him? What do you think will happen next in his life?
3. Detective Bill Larson is a recovering alcoholic. How does this affect his professional and personal life?
4. We can only infer what caused the break-up of Detective Cal John
son’s first marriage. What do you think might have been done differently to save it? Do you think this one will be different?
5. Pastor Steve Farber is also a recovering alcoholic. What are the good and bad points about that? Do you think people with such an addiction should be in the pastorate? Why?
6. Is there a chance Bill Larson will be reunited with his family? Are there things he can do to enhance his chances?
7. What do you think of Connie’s approach to witnessing? Would you do it differently? If so, how?
8. What was your take-away message from this novel?
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We hope you enjoyed Medical Judgment by Richard L. Mabry, M.D. and will continue to read his novels of medical suspense. Here’s a sample of Fatal Trauma, also available from Abingdon Press.
1
Dr. Mark Baker swept his straw-colored hair away from his eyes, then wiped his forearm across his brow. He wished the air-conditioning in the emergency room was better. Patients might complain that it was cool, but if you were hurrying from case to case for eight hours or more, it was easy to work up a sweat.
“Nobody move!”
Mark spun toward the doors leading to the ER, where a wild-eyed man pressed a pistol against a nurse’s head. She pushed a wheelchair in which another man sat slumped forward, his eyes closed, his arms crossed against his bloody chest. Dark blood oozed from beneath his splayed fingers and dropped in a slow stream, leaving a trail of red droplets on the cream-colored tile.
Behind them, Mark could see a hospital security guard sprawled facedown and motionless on the floor, his gun still in its holster, a crimson worm of blood oozing from his head. Mark’s doctor’s mind automatically catalogued the injury as a basilar skull fracture. Probably hit him behind the ear with the gun barrel.
The gunman was in his late twenties. His caramel-colored skin was dotted with sweat. A scraggly moustache and beard framed lips compressed almost to invisibility. Straight black hair, parted in the middle, topped a face that displayed both fear and distrust. Every few seconds he moved the barrel of the gun away from his hostage’s temple long enough to wave it around, almost daring anyone to come near him.
The wounded man was a few years older than the gunman—maybe in his thirties. His swarthy complexion was shading into pallor. Greasy black hair fell helter-skelter over his forehead. His face bore the stubble of several days’ worth of beard.
“I mean it,” the gunman said. “Nobody move a muscle. My brother needs help, and I’ll kill anyone who gets in the way.”
Mark’s immediate reaction was to look around for the nearest exit, but the gunman’s next words made him freeze before he could act.
“You the doc?”
Now the gun was pointed at him. Mark thought furiously of ways to escape without being shot, but he discarded each plan as fast as it crossed his mind. “Yeah, I’m the doc.”
The gunman inclined his head toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s . . .he’s been shot.” He snatched two ragged breaths. “I want you to fix him, pull him through.” He punctuated his words with rapid gestures from the pistol. “If he dies . . .if he dies, I’m going to kill everyone in here.” The gunman turned back toward his hostage. “Starting with her.”
Mark’s eyes followed the gun as it traversed once more from him to the nurse pushing the wheelchair. To this point his attention had been focused on the gunman, but now that he recognized the hostage, he knew the stakes were even higher. Although her red hair was disheveled, her normally fair skin flushed, there was no mistaking the identity of the woman against whose head the gunman’s pistol lay. The nurse was Kelly Atkinson—the woman Mark was dating.
* * *
Kelly gritted her teeth against the pain of the gun barrel boring into her temple. Her stomach clenched and churned with the realization that her life was in the hands of this crazed gunman. Her lips barely moved in silent prayer.
Mark’s voice seemed remarkably steady to her, considering the circumstances. “I can see that he needs help, and I’ll give it, but stop waving that gun around.” He nodded toward Kelly. “First of all, I’m going to need some assistance, and the nurse certainly can’t help me with you holding that pistol against her head. Why don’t you put it down and step away? You can wait over there, and I’ll let you know—”
“Shut up!”
Suddenly the pressure on Kelly’s temple was gone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gunman turn his weapon and his attention once more to Mark. If she was going to act, now was the time. She looked down at the man in the wheelchair and put all the urgency she could muster into her words, “Doctor, I’m not sure he’s breathing! He may be in arrest.”
Ignoring the gunman, Mark took several steps forward and squatted in front of the wheelchair. He touched the wounded man’s neck with two fingers, then placed his stethoscope on the man’s chest. In a few seconds, Mark pulled back his bloody hand, straightened and said, “We need to get him into one of the trauma rooms. Right now!”
Ignoring the gunman, Kelly started pushing the wheelchair toward trauma room 2. “What will you need?” she asked over her shoulder.
She hoped Mark’s reply would communicate the urgency of the situation and further distract the gunman’s attention. He didn’t disappoint her. “I need to intubate him and start CPR. Start a couple of IVs with large bore needles so we can push some Lactated Ringer’s into him until the blood bank can cross-match him for half a dozen units.”
After an emphatic gesture from her, Bob, one of the ER aides reluctantly fell in behind Kelly. Bob’s ebony skin couldn’t show pallor, but he was sweating profusely. As he followed Kelly, he murmured under his breath, “What does the doctor think he’s doing?”
Kelly’s answer was a hoarse whisper. “I think he’s trying to save everyone’s life.”
* * *
“Hold it right there, Doc,” the man with the pistol said. “You don’t move unless I tell you to.”
Mark watched as the gunman’s finger tensed on the trigger of his weapon. He fought to keep his voice steady. “Every second you keep me standing here makes it less likely I can save your brother’s life.”
The gunman gestured at the door through which Kelly was disappearing with the wounded man. “Okay, but I’ll be right behind you.” He glared, his brown eyes seeming to bore a hole through Mark. “And remember—if my brother dies, everyone in that room dies—the nurse, you, the aide—everyone.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw the curtains flutter at the ER cubicle he’d recently left, and a faint spark of hope arose in him. To set this up, he had to move. After a split-second’s hesitation, he strode swiftly to the open door of the trauma room where Kelly and the aide were already moving the wounded man onto the treatment table.
Despite the sweat that poured out of him a few minutes ago, now Mark felt a chill that went deep into his bones. He probably had one chance to make this end well, but to make that happen, everything had to work perfectly. Otherwise, he and several other people would die.
“Start some oxygen,” Kelly said to the aide. “I’ll get IVs going.”
“Help him, Doc,” the gunman snapped.
Mark, at a shade over six feet and a hundred seventy pounds, was larger than the gunman. But the pistol in the man’s hand was a great equalizer. Besides, when he looked into the brown eyes of the man holding the gun, Mark saw a fire that was due to zeal for a cause or the effect of drugs or maybe both. It took every bit of courage he had to keep his own eyes from showing the emotion he felt—fe
ar.
Mark turned to the gunman and said, “I’ll help him, but we need some space. If you’re determined to watch, at least step back.” He jerked his head to the side. “Stand there by the door. You can see everything, but you’ll be out of the way. I need to start CPR on this man.”
“But—”
Mark’s voice carried all the authority he could muster. “Move! Now!”
The pistol came up, and Mark felt his heart drop as he waited for that trigger finger to tighten one last time. Then the gunman shrugged and backed up until he was against the door. “Okay, but remember—I’m watching.” His pistol traced a circuit from Kelly to Mark and back. “Get cracking.”
Mark reached down even further for courage he didn’t know he had. “Okay.” He moved to the side of the wounded man, where his fingers felt the neck for the carotid pulse. He took a deep breath and looked up at Kelly. “Got those IV lines in yet?”
“Just finished one,” she said. “About to start on the second.”
“No time. Let it go,” Mark said. “When you started the IV, did you get some blood to send to the bank for T&C?”
She patted the pocket of her scrub dress, producing a glassy tinkle. “T&C for six units, stat hemoglobin and hematocrit, everything. Got the tubes right here.”
“Bob, take these to the lab—”
“Nobody leaves the room!” the gunman snapped.
Mark started to argue, but decided it would be fruitless. “I’m going to start chest compressions now.” He glanced at Kelly. “Hook him up to the EKG so I can see if there’s any activity. We may have to shock him.”
Mark looked down at the man on the treatment table. The aide had cut away the patient’s shirt, revealing three puckered entrance wounds where bullets had pierced his chest. They were grouped tightly right above the man’s left nipple, close enough together that a playing card could cover them all. Now the bleeding had completely stopped.
Why wasn’t he here by now? How long would it take? Mark had to keep going. “I’m going to start CPR now.” He put one hand over the other, centering them on the patient’s breastbone. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up, though. Come on. What are you waiting for?
Medical Judgment Page 25