Fatal Trauma Read online

  “Did you notice the first name of the father . . . and his employer?”

  Kelly shook her head. “No. But I’ve heard you say that you treat everyone the same way. What’s different about this one?”

  “The father is Addison Ames. Employer is City of Drayton.” He paused a moment until he saw Kelly’s expression change. She’d connected the dots.

  “So, he’s—”

  “Right. He’s one of the two detectives working the shooting of Anna King. In case you’ve forgotten,” he said with a wry smile, “that’s the one in which we’re both apparently suspected of attempted murder.”

  12

  When Mark walked with Kelly to his car, it was almost midnight. Although they were only two of the dozens of people moving through the well-lit parking area after their shift, he kept his eyes open and his senses on high alert. He had one hand on Kelly’s arm, and he felt her shiver despite the warm, muggy night.

  “Want something to eat?” he asked as he buckled his seat belt.

  Kelly shook her head. “No, I just want to go home, lock all the doors, and try to forget the mess we’re in.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She punched a couple of buttons, and the face of the instrument lit up.

  “Making a call?” Mark asked.

  “No, just checking for text messages.” She shoved the phone back into her purse. “Nothing.”

  Mark pulled out his own phone, the process made more difficult by the seat belt stretching across him and blocking the pocket of the white coat that covered his scrubs. Unlike many of his friends, he preferred to communicate by making a call, rather than sending a text. As a result he sometimes forgot to check for them. His phone had been locked away in the pocket of his white coat while he was in the ER, so he hadn’t looked at it for over eight hours. He took his eyes off the road long enough to see the number 1 superimposed on the message icon.

  “Got a message?”

  “Yeah.” Mark said, “I’ll have a look at it after I drop you off and head home.”

  “Don’t you think it might be important?”

  He shrugged. “I doubt it.” Mark handed the phone to Kelly. “Here, you can read it to me.”

  At first she protested about invading his privacy, but eventually she punched the right buttons. “It says, ‘Call me ASAP, no matter how late. Leo Murphy.’ And there’s a number—not a local area code, though.” She handed the phone back to Mark. “Who’s Leo Murphy?”

  Mark shook his head. “I have no idea. Probably got a wrong number.”

  “Aren’t you going to call?”

  Mark sighed. “Ordinarily, I’d ignore a text from somebody I don’t know, but . . . Yeah, I guess I should. I’ll do it after I get home.”

  Kelly turned her face toward the passenger window and rode in silence for a moment before she spoke again. “You can call him from my house.”

  “Okay, I give up. You’re curious, and you’d like to know what this is about.”

  “No comment,” Kelly said. Mark couldn’t see her expression in the darkness of the car interior, but he was willing to bet he was right.

  ***

  Mark looked at his watch. It was well after midnight. He should head home.

  Kelly pointed Mark to the sofa, and said. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee? Or would it keep you awake?”

  “There’s no danger of that,” Mark said. “I drink this stuff all day, but it never keeps me from sleeping.”

  “Let me put some on, while you make that phone call.” And she disappeared through the door into the kitchen.

  Well, it seemed that Kelly wasn’t going to let this rest, so he might as well call the mysterious Mr. Murphy. Mark pulled out his phone, noted the number from the message, and punched it in. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered. “Leo Murphy.”

  “Mr. Murphy, this is Dr. Mark Baker. You sent me a text this evening, but—”

  “Thanks for calling back. We haven’t met, but I’m Buddy Cane’s half-brother. Buddy’s death has hit Marge pretty hard, and it’s been left to me to make most of the arrangements for his funeral tomorrow. I received word tonight that one of the men we’d asked to serve as a pallbearer was taken to the hospital with appendicitis, and I wonder if you’d fill in.”

  Mark had made a deliberate decision not to go to the services for Ed Purvis. He’d paid his respects to the widow and the son and gotten only a withering look from the younger Purvis for his trouble. Buddy Cane’s funeral was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon—just hours away. He was still struggling with his conscience about attending that service. Now it appeared the decision was going to be made for him.

  “I know you didn’t know Buddy very well,” Murphy said, as though he sensed Mark’s hesitation, “but I was hoping you’d consent to serve. I know Margaret would appreciate it.”

  Mark ran through possible excuses. Work? No, actually he was scheduled to be off tomorrow. A conflict? He couldn’t think of one. How about not liking funerals? That was true enough, but he didn’t think that would fly.

  He knew he should do the right thing. And he knew what his answer should be. “I’ll be honored to serve,” Mark said. “Just give me the details.”

  ***

  Mark’s sleep that night was filled with wild dreams. Interspersed with scenes where he was a mourner at a funeral were others where he lay in a casket. Then came the dreams in which faceless detectives pummeled him with clubs and fists. He awoke in a cold sweat amid tangled sheets. The bedside clock told him he’d been asleep for only a few hours, but he couldn’t stand the thought of returning to those dreams. He stumbled out of bed, splashed some water on his face, and headed for the kitchen and coffee.

  An hour later, fresh from a shower and shave, dressed in clean jeans and a golf shirt, Mark sat at the breakfast table, hunched over the morning paper. He forced himself to eat a piece of buttered toast, washed down with his third cup of coffee.

  Mark had a few hours before he needed to be at the funeral home where Buddy’s memorial service was scheduled. He hoped it would be a small ceremony, mercifully brief, and that he could get away quickly afterward. When his brother’s funeral was over, Mark had vowed never to attend another. But here he was.

  Why did he say yes? He knew it was the right thing to do, of course. Besides, it would be a nice gesture for Buddy’s family. Mark tried to picture Buddy Cane’s wife. Initially he drew a blank before he finally remembered that he’d met her once, at some kind of hospital function—a plain woman with muddy brown hair. Did they have children? He didn’t recall any mention of them.

  Mark realized he barely knew Buddy Cane, yet here he was, about to carry the man’s casket to its last resting place. And how, exactly, was he going to do that? Murphy had told him that the funeral director would guide Mark and the other pallbearers through the accomplishment of their duties today. How hard could it be?

  In a few hours, all this would be over and Mark could concentrate on his other problems: he was the target of a drug cartel, there was no doubt he was a suspect in a murder, and he’d obviously acquired the enmity of his hospital administrator, who wanted him removed from duty. And he had no idea how he might resolve any of those situations.

  In the meantime, he had to help bury a colleague.

  ***

  Mark paced the length of his living room, cell phone in hand, one eye on the clock. According to Dr. Troy Michaels’s office, the neurosurgeon was scheduled to be in the operating room most of the day. The nurse who answered in the OR was pleasant. Yes, Dr. Michaels was between cases. She’d offered to call him to the phone, but if Troy didn’t hurry—

  “Mark, what’s up?” Troy’s voice was upbeat. For the life of him, Mark couldn’t figure out how someone who dealt day after day with life and death surgical situations could be so chipper. But he was, each time the two men talked and today was no exception.

  “Troy, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’ve just finished a long case—”

&n
bsp; “And another one to follow, but I’m happy for the break. How can I help you?”

  “You’re taking care of Anna King. What can you tell me about her situation?”

  There was a pause, and Mark knew what caused it. Troy was figuring how much he could legally share without violating HIPAA. The Health Insurance Portability and Accounting Act was designed to protect patient privacy, but the restrictions sometimes made communication with a colleague—even a so-called “curbstone consultation”—difficult.

  “What do you need to know?” Troy said.

  “Is Anna waking up any?”

  “She reacts to pain now, but there are no voluntary movements,” Troy said. “If she wakes up more, I may need to sedate her.”

  “I guess you know about her alcoholism,” Mark said. “But she’s been dry for about six weeks.”

  “We found the SCRAM unit strapped to her ankle, but I haven’t heard back from the people whose phone number was on it.”

  “That’s because Anna told me she’d tried to call him the night she was shot, and he was on his way to the hospital with a possible heart attack. I’m guessing his was pretty much a one-man operation.”

  “If she gets any lighter, I’ll give her Toradol,” Troy said. “That should be safe for an alcoholic. But I think we’re going to be taking her back to the OR before she wakes up very much.”

  “So she’s stabilized?”

  “She’s as stable as she’s going to get. And we can’t leave that bullet in there. If it shifts the least bit, she’ll die. Of course, she may die with the surgery. Or it may leave her paralyzed or unable to speak or—”

  “I get the picture,” Mark said, his heart sinking. He tugged at his collar, vowing to get out of the tie he was wearing as soon as the service was over.

  “Anything else?” Troy asked.

  “No. I guess we both need to get on with it.” Mark sighed. “I’ve got to leave for Buddy Cane’s funeral—I have to go be a pallbearer. Would you mind—”

  “I know what you’re going to ask. Yeah, I’ll call your cell after we come out of surgery.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Mark asked.

  “Just pray,” Troy said and ended the call.

  ***

  Kelly had wondered about driving alone to the funeral, but finally decided it was a risk she was willing to take. At the funeral home, she beeped her car locked and joined the people filing into the chapel. It looked to be a small crowd, and what she could see so far confirmed her guess that the attendees would be mainly doctors, some with their wives, some unaccompanied. To her left, Mark, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and maroon-and-gold striped tie, stood under the porte cochere of the building, partially hidden by a black hearse. Around him were five other men, similarly dressed. A couple of them were smoking, puffing as though this were their last cigarette before the blindfold and firing squad. One was talking on a cell phone. Mark stood gazing out at the parking lot, and when he saw her, he strode in her direction.

  He grabbed her hand in both of his. “Thanks for coming.”

  “This isn’t just for you. This is for a coworker and his family.” She scanned the people walking into the chapel. “How’s it looking?”

  “Pretty small crowd. Margaret and Buddy’s half-brother, the one I talked with on the phone, are the only family. Both parents are dead. No other living relatives.”

  “What about Margaret’s parents?”

  “Apparently she’s estranged from them. They’re retired and live in Mexico somewhere. So basically . . .” He turned and indicated the few people entering the chapel. “What you see is what you get.”

  “How’s Margaret taking all this?”

  Mark shrugged. “Hard to read her. The pallbearers were in the room where they had Buddy’s body in an open coffin when Margaret came in to thank us for what we’re doing. Then she asked us all to step out and give her a few minutes alone with her husband before the funeral directors closed the casket for the final time.” He pointed to the other men around him. “That’s why we’re out here.”

  Kelly looked at her watch. “Isn’t it time for you to be in the chapel?”

  “They’ll call when they’re ready for us. One of the funeral directors told us what we do. We ride in a limo to the cemetery and carry the casket to the graveside. When it’s over, we throw our boutonnieres into the grave, extend our sympathies to the widow, and we’re done.”

  “You should be able to handle that. I’ll be at the cemetery, and you can ride back with me,” Kelly said.

  Mark took a deep breath, and she could see that he wanted to say something. “What’s on your mind?” she asked.

  “I’ll be sitting in the front of the church, with my back to everyone else. Would you take a seat in the rear and keep an eye out for someone with a gun?”

  Kelly’s first impulse was to laugh, but Mark appeared to be dead serious. She started to argue, but realized that she, too, had been more attentive than usual to her surroundings. Maybe they both were paranoid. And it was certainly possible that a Zeta gunman would use this occasion to exact revenge on one or both of them. She nodded. “Sure.”

  A man appeared in the doorway and motioned to the group of pallbearers. “Looks like it’s time for me to go,” Mark said. He turned, but before he had taken two steps he stopped and reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone. Kelly saw him start to hit a button to send the call to voicemail, then do a double take as he saw the caller ID.

  He answered. The conversation was short and one-sided. As Mark returned the phone to the inside pocket of his coat, he grimaced at Kelly. “That was Eric McCray. The hospital administrator is threatening to fire the whole ER physician group if Eric doesn’t suspend me until the Garcia malpractice suit is settled.”

  13

  Mark felt the muscles in his neck relax as Kelly pulled away from the cemetery. He felt better, now that the funeral was behind him. He’d carried out the unfamiliar duty without incident, so he no longer was troubled by visions of dropping Buddy’s coffin or doing something equally embarrassing. He was still alive—no one had taken a shot at him as he sat, vulnerable and unprotected, at the front of the chapel. Now it was time to turn his attention to his other problems.

  “What was your reaction to the service?” Kelly asked as she turned onto the main road.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was it the kind of funeral you’d want for yourself?”

  “I’m no expert on funerals. The last one I attended was for my brother, and I’ve sort of blocked out that memory.” Mark furrowed his brow, trying to recall the service that just ended. “Honestly, I guess this one was sort of generic. I think the clergyman—at least, I suppose he was a clergyman—the man who did most of the talking was someone the funeral home brought in. He apparently didn’t know Buddy, didn’t know Margaret. Then again, maybe there wasn’t much to be said about Buddy Cane’s life.”

  Mark turned toward the window and watched the scenery pass. If his funeral were held tomorrow, what could be said about him? Sure, he was a good doctor. He would readily admit that. But surely there was more to life than one’s profession. Aside from his medical practice, had he contributed to the lives of others? Would there be anecdotes at his funeral, stories of how he’d changed the lives of those with whom he came in contact? Sadly, he didn’t think so. Well, now was the time to change all that.

  Kelly stopped the car and shifted into park. “Here’s the funeral home, and there’s your car. What’s next for you?”

  “I’m going to the hospital.”

  “To talk with Goodrich? I thought Eric was going to do that.”

  “I may eventually try to talk with the hospital administrator, but not now.” Mark paused with his hand on the door handle. “Troy Michaels was going to take Anna King back to surgery this afternoon. I want to see her first, to tell her someone cares.”

  Kelly frowned. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

  “Don’t ge
t the wrong idea,” Mark said. “Anna was a friend, nothing more. But before she goes to surgery she deserves to know there’s someone who cares about her.” He climbed out and spoke through the open door. “You talked about changing my life. Well, that’s what I’m going to do, and this is where I’ll start.”

  “You mean, by praying for her while she’s in surgery?”

  “I mean by finding out who shot her.”

  “Isn’t that the job of the police?” Kelly said.

  “I don’t know if they’re looking at anyone else but me.” He opened his car door. “Anna deserves for the person who shot her to be brought to justice. I don’t want this to be like everything else in my life—all about me—but if I uncover the real shooter it would clear me.”

  “Mark, if they see you hanging around Dr. King’s bedside, what’s to stop them from thinking you’re trying to finish the job so she can’t identify you?”

  Mark hadn’t thought of that. If he went ahead with his plan, it might very well tighten the noose the police had already tried on him for size. The smart thing to do would be to hold off. But he’d been doing that most of his life. It was time to change.

  He looked directly at Kelly. “Whether it puts me in a bad light or not, I’m going to go ahead.” He closed the car door behind him and headed toward the hospital.

  ***

  Kelly rinsed her dishes and stowed them in the dishwasher. Buddy’s funeral and her discussion with Mark had blunted any appetite she might have had. But she knew she had to eat, so she managed an early supper of most of a sandwich washed down with half a glass of iced tea.