Fatal Trauma Read online

  “For now, the best I can offer are those.” Mark pointed over his shoulder to a bulky package in the back seat of the car. “I got them on my way over to pick you up. They’re Kevlar vests. I figure that if we wear them when we’re out, we’re protected against—”

  “Stop right there. It’s June in Texas. Wearing one of those would be worse than getting shot. Besides, if a shooter thought we were wearing a bulletproof vest, why not go for a head shot? And there’s no guarantee even Kevlar would stop a high-powered round anyway. I think—”

  Mark took one hand off the wheel long enough to hold it toward Kelly, palm out, a gesture of surrender. “I see your point. Maybe you’re right.”

  “While you were concocting all those schemes, I was doing the one thing that made me feel a bit better about this whole mess.”

  The look Mark gave her was equal parts puzzlement and disbelief. “And that is . . .”

  “I read the Bible and prayed.”

  She expected to hear Mark pooh-pooh her actions, but was surprised by his next words. “Is this part of that peace you were telling me about?”

  “It is. I read one of the Psalms, one where King David was being pursued, and it made me realize God knows when we’re in danger. So I prayed for protection . . . for both of us.”

  Mark wheeled into the parking lot of the Daily Grind. “Maybe it would be good if we talked about this some more. But can we do it inside, where we’re not so much of a target?”

  As Kelly exited the car, she realized that a lot of things had changed since her conversation with her pastor, but the bottom line remained the same. She needed to have this conversation with Mark.

  Then, as they walked toward the door, Mark did something that told her things were already changing: he reached down and took her hand.

  ***

  Mark got two cups of coffee and brought them to the table. For Kelly’s sake, he hoped the coffee was good. He hardly tasted it. He kept looking around the coffee shop, silently assessing each person who came and went as a potential threat.

  “So what did you want to discuss?” Kelly asked.

  “You keep talking about peace—the peace your faith brings you.” He shook his head. “I have faith in God . . . at least, I thought I did. But if that brings peace, maybe I don’t.”

  Kelly stirred her coffee. “Why don’t we start with this? What do you mean by faith in God?”

  “I was raised in a Christian home. When I was thirteen, I heard a preacher talk about what it meant to be a Christian, and I accepted that . . . did it publicly. Not a lot changed after that, though, except maybe I hung out with a different crowd.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “When I left home for college, I sort of decided that I didn’t have to do things just because my parents expected me to. And the busier I got—first with college, then with med school—the less I thought about God. And eventually, I guess I stopped thinking about Him at all.”

  “You’re a believer, but you got too busy for God,” Kelly said.

  Mark flinched. It was hard to hear, but Kelly was right. “Yes.”

  “I’m not saying that being a Christian guarantees an easy life—far from it. In fact, generally it’s not easy at all,” she said. “Look at where we are right now. What I’m saying is there’s peace in knowing God’s in charge.”

  Mark slowly nodded. He realized he, like most doctors, wanted to be in control. That was the way he was wired. Maybe he couldn’t give control of his life to God. Not right now—maybe not ever.

  He looked at his watch. Mark decided he needed to think about all this—not just what Kelly had said, but how it could affect their relationship. In the meantime there was something else he had to do. “I need to see Anna.”

  Kelly seemed to recoil at this pronouncement. “Mark, I don’t want to go to the morgue. Besides, what would we learn there?”

  “Who said anything about the morgue?” Mark shoved his coffee cup away. “The police wanted me to think she was dead. After questioning me over and over, they finally admitted that Anna was shot in the head, but she’s still alive. I need to go see her.”

  11

  It took a moment for Kelly to wrap her mind around this news. Anna wasn’t dead! Why had she jumped to the conclusion that she was? Had the police said it? No, they said that she’d been shot. Kelly’s imagination supplied all the rest.

  Even though she knew she had nothing to do with Anna’s shooting, the visit of the police had unnerved her. After all, their mention of a possible murder charge was hard to ignore. Now she could relax a bit, although she still might consult an attorney.

  Mark seemed to read the expression crossing Kelly’s face correctly. “You didn’t know she was still alive? Didn’t the police tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “I guess they thought that, if you really were the shooter, they’d save that little tidbit of information for later—put a bit more pressure on you.” He stood up. “Well, I need to see Anna. Shall I drop you at your house?” He paused. “Would you like to go to the hospital with me?”

  “Why do you need to see her?” Kelly asked.

  “She was going to tell me something just before she was shot. I have the feeling it was important, so I want to ask her.” He paused a moment. “Besides, she’s lying there in the hospital by herself. I want her to know there’s someone who wants her to pull through.”

  Kelly shook her head. “There’s a police officer outside her door. Do you think you have a chance of seeing Anna?”

  “If we went up to the guard outside her room and asked for permission, probably not,” Mark said. “But what if a doctor and nurse, both wearing scrubs covered by white coats, both with their hospital ID badges prominently displayed, went straight to her door? Do you think he’s going to stop them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m willing to take my chances. What about you?”

  Kelly wasn’t sure why she was agreeing with his idea, but she reached for her purse. “I guess so.” She rose. “Is one reason you want to see Anna because you care for her?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “But not the way I care for you.” There. He’d said it.

  “We need to explore what you mean, but I don’t think we should do it while your mind is still on Anna,” Kelly said. She turned and started toward the door.

  Mark followed a step behind her. I probably didn’t handle that very well. Matter of fact, I know I didn’t.

  ***

  At first, Allen Goodrich didn’t recognize the noise. Then he realized that the buzzing from his desk drawer indicated an incoming call on his personal cell phone. Only a few people had the number: his wife, his son who was away at college, a few key people on the hospital staff. He pulled out the phone and consulted the screen, only to find that the incoming number was blocked. It was probably a robo-dialing telephone solicitor. He’d answer it and give the person on the other end an earful.

  “This is Dr. Goodrich. Who’s this?”

  The answer came in Spanish, a language in which Goodrich had worked to become fluent. “Who do you think? We still have unfinished business,” the voice said.

  Goodrich felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He answered in the same language. “I thought we were through.”

  “We’re through when I say we’re through. I told you there’s a situation that needs your attention. You said you’d handle it, but you didn’t make it go away. I don’t like that.”

  Suddenly the button-down collar of Goodrich’s blue Oxford cloth shirt felt too tight. He ran his finger around the neck band. “I tried to take care of it, but—”

  “I don’t care how you do it, but this has to end, right here, right now. After you do that, you won’t hear from me again.”

  You mean I won’t hear from you until the next time you need something. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Yes. Here’s what you should do . . .”

  Goodrich pulled a pad toward him and
actually had his pen in his hand when he realized that he couldn’t commit any of this to paper. If anyone found out about this . . . no, he could remember. He wasn’t sure how he’d make this work, but somehow he’d find a way. He had to. If he didn’t, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

  ***

  Mark returned his cell phone to his pocket and grimaced. He looked at Kelly, seated beside him in the front seat of his car, and shook his head.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I guess it was a good thing I called the neurosurgeon taking care of Anna King before we trekked off to the hospital to see her.”

  “Problems?”

  He shrugged. “I had no idea how bad the gunshot wound was. All the police told me was that they found her on the floor in her bedroom, her cell phone beside her, obviously shot in the head. Somehow, I imagined the bullet creasing her skull, plowing a furrow in her scalp, the force of the gunshot causing a concussion.” He shook his head again.

  “Worse than that? She’s not dead, is she? I’d resigned myself once to her being killed. I don’t know if I can go through that again.”

  “No, she’s alive, but she may not wake up anytime soon.”

  Kelly scooted a bit closer to Mark and turned so she was facing him. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in serious condition. They did bore holes to relieve the epidural hematoma that formed, but her condition was too rocky for them to do more until she stabilizes. The bullet is still in her brain.”

  Mark felt Kelly’s hand touch his. He covered it with his other hand. “I talked with Troy Michaels, who’s taking care of her. He thinks it’s too dangerous to go after the bullet until she stabilizes. They’ve drained the blood that was pressing on the surface of the brain. They have her on steroids and mannitol to reduce the swelling. Now we wait.”

  “And pray,” Kelly said quietly.

  A flippant remark danced on the tip of Mark’s tongue, but he swallowed it. “Yeah. And pray,” he echoed.

  ***

  Kelly looked around. Most of the people in the hospital food court were at tables near the service area: McDonald’s, Burger King, Seattle’s Best Coffee, Subway, Taco Bell, and Hunan Palace. She’d found a spot in the far corner, far enough away from anyone else to ensure privacy.

  While Mark got coffee for both of them, Kelly decided to make the phone call she’d been putting off.

  “Tracy, this is Kelly. I need to tell you something.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I won’t need a ride to work today. I’m already at the hospital.”

  “How did you manage that?” Tracy said.

  “I . . . I rode with Mark.”

  “I thought you said the two of you together made too good a target. What changed?”

  “Mark thought that we might be safer if we watch each other’s backs. Some things have happened since I last saw you.” Kelly told it all to Tracy—the police at her door, the news that Anna King had been shot, meeting Mark to discuss the situation. “After we got together and talked, Mark took me back home, waited while I changed, then brought me here to the hospital. I’ll ride home with him after our shifts end.”

  “I’m not sure I understand all of this,” Tracy said, “but I’ll keep you in my prayers. Meanwhile, I’d better call Carl. I’m off tonight, and he was going to give you a ride to and from the hospital.”

  “Enjoy your night off,” Kelly said. “And I appreciate your arranging my transportation with Carl. Please thank him for me.”

  “I’ll be fine. And as for Carl, he was happy to offer. As soon as I gave him your address, he said he’d take care of everything.”

  ***

  Mark stretched and heard the bones in his neck pop. He caught Kelly’s eye as she hurried by and gave her a reassuring nod. One might think they were safe here in the ER, in the midst of so many people. Then again, he’d felt safe Saturday night until the Garcia brothers showed up, with Nacho holding a pistol to Kelly’s head. Now, he wasn’t certain anyplace was safe.

  He parted the curtains and entered the next cubicle, where a mother held a crying toddler, trying without success to quiet him. Mark glanced at the clipboard. “Mrs. Ames, how can I help you?”

  The woman freed one arm for a brief moment and swiped at a lock of dark auburn hair. She wore a red tank top that stopped short of her low-rider jeans, exposing a band of pasty white skin. “I . . . I wanted you to look at my son. He’s been crying for over an hour. I think he must have fallen down and hurt himself.”

  Mark looked up as Kelly eased into the cubicle. “I figured you might need some help examining the child.”

  He nodded his thanks. “Mrs. Ames, will you let the nurse hold . . .” He looked at the papers in his hand. “May she hold Junior? You can stand right there, so he’ll be able to see you.”

  Junior was a chubby, red-cheeked little boy who looked to be about two. His hair, like his mother’s, was light brown bordering on red. His crying had slowly subsided, but he still sniffled and sobbed intermittently. Kelly held out her arms and Junior grudgingly gave up his death grip on his mother and allowed the transfer.

  It didn’t take Mark long to see that Junior was holding his right arm against his chest, resisting any attempt to move it. There were old bruises on both arms at the wrists and one on Junior’s forehead. Mark did the usual exam—head, eyes, ears, nose, throat, chest, abdomen, extremities—and found nothing particularly wrong. Other than the bruises, the only abnormality evident was an apparently tender right shoulder. Finally, with patience and reassurance, Mark was able to move the affected limb, noting no crepitus—the crunching sensation that marked a fracture—and a full range of motion.

  “Mrs. Ames, you say you think your child might have fallen down and hurt himself. Did you see it?”

  “No, I . . . I just guessed that’s what must have happened.”

  “Where were you at the time? Were you in the house, out in the park, shopping?”

  She took a moment to answer, raising one more red flag in Mark’s mind. “We were in the house.”

  “Anyone else there with you? Is there someone who might have seen the incident?”

  “My . . . my husband was at home. He was in the living room, trying to watch TV. I’m sure he didn’t see anything.”

  Mark nodded. “It appears that Junior has a tender shoulder. I don’t think it’s worth sedating him to get X-rays this evening, but I want you to follow up with your pediatrician. Do you have one?”

  Mrs. Ames nodded. “Yes, Dr. Krempin.”

  “I’ll see that he gets a copy of our note,” Mark said. “Some ibuprofen should be enough to relieve Junior’s discomfort tonight, but call Dr. Krempin’s office first thing in the morning. And if anything changes tonight, come right back here.”

  After a few moments’ silence, Mrs. Ames said, “So he’s okay?”

  “I don’t find any evidence that anything’s broken or dislocated,” Mark said. “But I think a follow-up visit would be a good idea.”

  ***

  The shooter picked up the pistol and examined it carefully in the light of a bedside lamp. The clip of the Smith & Wesson semiautomatic normally held ten .22 caliber bullets, another in the chamber. Now the chamber was empty and eight rounds remained in the clip. The others had done their job, dispatching two people. Well, one was dead. The other was clinging to life, but there was no doubt in the mind of the shooter that the job would ultimately be finished.

  Now it was time to dispose of the weapon. The piece retailed for about $800 and, bought in a dark alley for cash, it might have cost almost twice that. In this case, though, no money had changed hands. There was probably no need for the gun in the future, and if there were, all it took to acquire a replacement was money, if you knew the right place to go. It was a beautiful piece—walnut grips and a blue carbon steel finish, a six-inch barrel unmarred by a single scratch. It seemed a shame to get rid of it, but it had served its purpose.

  Tomorrow, the pis
tol would disappear, hidden away where no one would ever find it . . . would never even think to look for it. And the shooter would move on.

  ***

  After Kelly gave Junior a dose of pediatric ibuprofen and the toddler quieted down, Mrs. Ames left the ER with a promise to call the pediatrician’s office in the morning. It was almost an hour later before Mark and Kelly had a chance to talk, and when they did, they both voiced the same suspicion.

  “I think we’ve got a case of child abuse,” Kelly said. “Why didn’t you notify the authorities?”

  “I’m not sure we have enough to go on right now,” Mark said. “I’ll call Dr. Krempin’s office in the morning. If he’s Junior’s pediatrician, he’s probably had the same suspicions we did. I’ll tell him about what we saw tonight and encourage him to report it to the authorities.”

  “So you’re punting the responsibility to him?”

  “No, I’m gathering corroborative evidence. If he thinks everything is on the up-and-up and declines to make the report, I may contact Child Protective Services myself. But I’d prefer that the first move come from him.”

  “Why not make the call now? You won’t be subject to any action so long as you make the report in good faith.”

  Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I guess I’m trying to stay out of this because of the possible repercussions.”

  “But I just said you’re safe from any suit against you.”

  “I’m not worried about a lawsuit,” Mark said. “Think about this. In the situation we saw tonight, what is the most likely scenario?”

  “The father is trying to watch TV. The child wants to play. Daddy gets angry, loses his temper. He grabs the child by one arm and flings him to one side. This probably isn’t the first time this has happened, which explains the old bruises. This time he yanks too hard, stretching the shoulder muscles and ligaments. Sometimes this can even dislocate the arm, although that’s unlikely in kids this young. But to answer your question—the father is most likely the aggressor.”