Fatal Trauma Read online

  The subject of the hospital made Kelly think about tomorrow’s shift in the ER. She considered the pros and cons of driving herself to work. The trip to the hospital in broad daylight didn’t worry her. It was coming back late at night that presented the greatest danger. Don’t be silly. Just lock the car doors. You’ll be safe.

  As she thought about it, though, Kelly could picture half a dozen scenarios in which a Zeta assassin could get to her, all of them more likely if she were alone. No, for now she was better off being with someone else, especially late at night. She’d see if she could ride once more with Tracy.

  She punched in Tracy’s number, but when her friend answered, Kelly knew the answer to her question before she asked it. Tracy’s “hello” was preceded by several dry coughs and followed by a series of sneezes.

  “You sound terrible,” Kelly said.

  “Unfortunately, I feel pretty much the way I sound,” Tracy replied. “Are you at work? And how did you get there?”

  “I took the day off to attend Dr. Cane’s funeral. But I have to work tomorrow and I was wondering—”

  Another paroxysm of coughs from Tracy stopped the conversation for a moment. “Sorry. I think this is more than a simple cold,” Tracy said. “I’ve already told my supervisor I’d be out the rest of the week. And I’ll bet you’re going to need a ride tomorrow.”

  Kelly was already rethinking her decision. Maybe she could go alone. After all—

  “Stop trying to think up excuses,” Tracy said, as though reading Kelly’s mind. “I’ll call Carl. He has your address, and he’ll be happy to do this. How does two o’clock tomorrow sound?”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with Auntie Tracy.” Another round of coughing followed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk. But don’t worry. Carl is glad to help. I think he’s looking forward to it.”

  ***

  At the hospital, Mark traded his suit coat for the white coat hanging in his locker, made sure his hospital ID badge was clipped onto his lapel, and headed for the ICU.

  Outside Anna King’s room were three people, one whom he wanted to see, the other two he definitely didn’t.

  “Mark, I’m about to take Anna to the OR,” Troy Michaels said. “Her vital signs are deteriorating. The catheter we left in her brain to drain blood accumulation isn’t putting out much, and her brain swelling seems to be stable. If we’re going to get that bullet out, now’s the time.”

  “Doctor, if you’ll wait here, as soon as I’ve finished talking with Dr. Michaels I need some time with you.” Detective Jackson said.

  “Sorry, but I need a couple of minutes with Anna before she goes to the OR,” Mark said, turning away from Jackson and his partner, Ames.

  Jackson put a hand on Mark’s sleeve. “I don’t think Dr. King can hear you,” he said. “Let me finish with Dr. Michaels and I’ll get to you.”

  Mark very deliberately moved the hand. “For your information, detective, it’s quite possible that people in coma can hear. If you’ll excuse me, I want to pray with my friend before she goes to surgery.”

  If Troy Michaels was surprised at Mark’s words, he didn’t show it. Instead, he moved aside and gestured Mark into the room, then turned back to Jackson and said, “Now what else can I tell you? I need to get Dr. King to the OR.”

  The Anna who lay in the bed looked nothing like the woman with whom Mark had lunch just twenty-four hours earlier. Her head was swathed in bandages from which a clear plastic tube issued, a scant amount of bloody fluid within it. This was the EVD, the external ventricular drain to which Troy had referred. The apparatus to which it led showed a fairly stable intracranial pressure. This was critical in patients such as Anna. If the pressure went up, there was a danger the spinal fluid would push the brain downward against the bony bottom limit of the skull, causing vital functions to cease.

  A larger plastic tube, securely taped to the corner of her mouth, connected her to a respirator that maintained her breathing at a uniform level. Occasionally Anna would take a deep breath, overbreathing the setting, but most of the time her respirations were mechanically driven.

  Mark scanned the machines that monitored Anna’s blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen saturation. As Troy had said, the readings were truly “all over the place.” None were critical, but they could go in that direction at any moment. If the neurosurgeon was going to remove the bullet still lodged in her brain, this was the time.

  Mark put his lips close to Anna’s ear. “Anna,” he whispered, “It’s Mark. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want you to know I’m here. Troy Michaels is going to take you to surgery and remove the bullet from your brain. When you wake up—and you are going to wake up—I want you to tell us who shot you. And I swear I’ll do everything in my power to see that they’re brought to justice.”

  He moved back and watched for some movement, some outward sign Anna heard, but there was none. Once more he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be here when you come back to the recovery room. You need to know there’s someone here who cares. I’ll be praying for you while you’re in the OR.”

  Mark straightened up, thought a minute, then bent over and kissed Anna’s cheek. Dear God, bring her through. Please.

  ***

  Mark stood outside Anna King’s ICU room, ignoring the two detectives who stood on either side of him. His eyes were focused on Anna, still in her ICU bed and attached to various tubes and wires, as she was wheeled away toward the OR.

  “I’ll call you when she’s in recovery,” Troy Michaels said to Mark before turning to join the procession.

  Detective Jackson gripped Mark’s arm lightly—not so firmly as to imply restraint, but certainly with enough force to get his attention. “Doctor, we need a few minutes of your time.”

  Mark started to resist. He was tempted to tell the detective that he had more important things to do than talk with him, but then he realized that for the next few hours he’d be waiting for a call from Troy. He might as well get this over with while he waited.

  Other than talking with the detectives, his next objective would be talking with the administrator. He’d confront Goodrich face to face and see why the man was dead set on getting rid of him.

  He pulled his arm away from Jackson’s grip and said, “Okay, let’s talk.”

  Ames spoke. “Is there somewhere we can have a little privacy?”

  This, from the other detective, reminded Mark that he still needed to call the pediatrician caring for Ames’s son. Until he did that, although he still had a strong suspicion that Ames was abusing the child, maybe taking out his frustrations on the toddler, Mark decided to keep his opinions to himself.

  “Let’s see if we can find a table in a quiet corner of the food court,” Mark said. “I could use some coffee.”

  Jackson gestured for Mark to lead the way. “I guess you doctors drink about as much coffee as we do at the police station.”

  “And I suspect the coffee’s equally as bad there as here,” Mark replied, surprised at the spark of humanity Jackson showed. “But it keeps us running.”

  Ames trailed silently behind the other two men. When they reached the food court, he said, “That table in the corner looks like it would be good. I’ll get the coffee. Doctor, how do you take yours?”

  As they sat waiting for Ames, Jackson said, “I didn’t see you at Ed Purvis’s funeral, doctor.”

  Mark wondered if he’d hear about that decision, and here it was already. He could have attended the Purvis funeral, but at the last minute, he decided . . . no, to be honest, he chickened out. “I . . . I had already paid my respects to the family,” Mark said. “I don’t like funerals.”

  “But you were at Dr. Cane’s service today,” Jackson said. He paused a beat to let that sink in.

  “How did you—?”

  “We had someone there. Surely you’ve read enough mysteries to know the police always cover funeral services for people who were murdered. You’d be surprised how often the person we’re loo
king for actually shows up.”

  “If you know I was there, you know I was serving as a pallbearer. I wasn’t planning to attend this one, either. I—”

  Mark stopped when he saw Ames approaching. The detective held three Styrofoam cups clustered in his two hands. He set them on the table, dealt them out, and eased into the chair between Jackson and Mark.

  Jackson looked at his partner. “I guess it’s time to let the doctor in on our news.” He turned toward Mark. “We have a couple of things for you. First of all, let me remind you that you’re still a suspect in the shooting of Dr. King.”

  “I told you, I was at home when that happened. She called me. We were talking when she was shot.”

  “That’s not an alibi. I’ve already explained what we think could have happened, doctor. If I were you, I’d start looking for a very good lawyer. Then I’d put them on notice, so that when you make that one phone call you’re allowed after your arrest you’ll have the number handy.”

  Mark decided it was wasted effort to argue. “You said you had two things to tell me. What’s the other?”

  “Oh, it’s another heads-up. The Purvis family is going to consult an attorney. They’re thinking about suing you for being complicit in Ed’s death. There’s some concern that you deliberately put Sergeant Purvis in harm’s way and then failed to save his life after he was shot.” He pushed his untouched coffee away and stood. “Have a good day, doctor.”

  14

  Dr. Goodrich, Dr. Mark Baker is here to see you.”

  Allen Goodrich hit the “talk” button on the intercom. “Ask him to wait for a moment, please.”

  He rose slowly, walked to his closed office door, and retrieved his suit coat from a wooden hanger on the hook there. Normally, he preferred the comfort of working in his shirtsleeves, but since he was about to face Baker, who didn’t seem impressed with the power a hospital administrator could wield, Goodrich wanted everything possible in his favor.

  Goodrich kept the doctor waiting for fifteen minutes by his watch before he punched the intercom. “You can show Dr. Baker in.”

  The office door opened, and Baker came through. He nodded once, took a chair without being asked, and crossed his legs. “I can’t believe you’d go this far just to get me out of the way.”

  It’s almost like he heard my earlier conversation. No, he’s simply using that as a figure of speech. Goodrich looked down his nose over the top of his reading glasses. “I don’t know what you mean. I suppose you mean my desire to keep you out of the emergency room until this situation blows over.”

  “Exactly.”

  Goodrich leaned back in his specially designed desk chair. He knew the chair across his desk where Baker sat wasn’t particularly comfortable. It had been chosen for that very reason. “I simply think that the less attention that’s directed toward this hospital, either by the police or during malpractice litigation, the better off we’ll be.” He pulled a folder toward him. “As you may know, we’re in the midst of a building campaign. In this folder are pledges from a number of sources, pledges that will help defray most of the cost of adding to our maternity and emergency departments. Can you imagine how many of them would be withdrawn if Memorial Hospital becomes the favorite subject of some investigative reporter who’s trying to win a Pulitzer?”

  Baker made a wry face. “First of all, I’m betting that the autopsy results on Hector Garcia will confirm a mortal injury, one that would have caused his death long before he reached the emergency room. Second, there’s no doubt in my mind that any talk of a malpractice suit against me or the hospital centered on this case is merely a ploy by some lawyer looking for a quick settlement.”

  “Are you willing to stake your reputation on that?”

  “If necessary, yes. I’ve notified my malpractice carrier, I’ve talked with Dr. McCray, and so far as I’m concerned, I’m now ready to move on with my professional life,” Baker said.

  Goodrich took a deep breath. Time to play the other card. “What about the fact that you and Dr. King may be the subject of a malpractice suit filed by the family of the policeman who died on the operating table under your care?”

  There was silence for a moment, and when Baker answered, his voice was softer. “I’m not sure where you heard that, but again, I don’t think there’s any merit to such a suit. If it were filed, and I’m not saying it will be, it would simply be the first step toward negotiating some kind of settlement.”

  “But how do you think it would play out if the case came to court. Dr. King has been shot. She may never recover. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Cane, is dead. The nurses in the OR can’t give expert testimony about your medical decisions. It would come down to your word against whatever witnesses the Purvis family’s lawyer engages. Have you discussed this one with your insurer?”

  Baker shook his head. “No, I just heard about it less than an hour ago. But Anna King might recover. And even if she doesn’t . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment. “If she doesn’t, I’m confident that I’d prevail.”

  Goodrich was acutely aware of the phone call he’d received. Make it happen. He had one more arrow in his quiver, and this one had to find its mark. “As I understand it, you’re the prime suspect in the shooting of Dr. King. If she doesn’t recover, that means a charge of murder. You’d be arrested, probably denied bond. Do you think you’d be able to work in the emergency room while you were in police custody?”

  He could see by the expression on the doctor’s face that these points were beginning to hit home. Maybe, if he continued to hammer Baker . . . no, to tell him repeatedly that it would be best for him to step away from his job, the stubborn doctor would eventually give in.

  “Let me talk with Dr. McCray and my insurance carrier . . . and with a lawyer,” Baker said. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  As the door closed behind the doctor, Goodrich leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath for the first time since he received the phone call with his orders. He thought that, with that last argument, he’d broken through Baker’s defenses. If he hadn’t— No, better not to consider that. This had to work.

  ***

  Mark sat in his car in the physician’s parking lot, his cell phone pressed to his ear, as Troy Michaels brought him up to date on Anna King’s surgery. “It was touch and go, but I got the bullet out. She’s in the recovery room now.”

  “Can I see her?” Mark asked. “She may not seem to hear me, but—”

  “Mark, think about this as a doctor, not a friend. She’s not conscious. Her condition is rocky at best. Let us do our work. If she wakes up—and mind you, I said if, not when—I’ll call you immediately. In the meantime, at least give us a day.”

  “Thinking of a medically induced coma?”

  “Not necessary. I plan to let her wake up on her own—if she will.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and look in on her, if that’s okay.”

  After Mark ended that conversation, he dialed another number. He’d been putting this one off, but he needed to make the call in time for Eric McCray to arrange coverage for Mark’s shift tomorrow in the ER.

  Eric was surprised at Mark’s call. “Hey, Mark. Want to come in tonight and work alongside me?”

  “Eric, I’m afraid you’re going to need to arrange coverage for my shifts starting tomorrow.”

  “I—” Mark heard a faint murmur. “Sorry. I’m working, and I had to tell the nurse something. Now what’s this about your not coming in tomorrow.”

  Mark explained his most recent conversation with Goodrich.

  “I told you not to let Goodrich worry you,” Eric said. “I’ve got your back on this, buddy. Don’t back down now.”

  “Eric, maybe he’s right. Maybe it would be better if I took a leave of absence from my ER duties.”

  “This is quite a reversal since we talked last,” Eric McCray said. “What happened to change your mind?”

  “The malpractice threats are bo
gus. We both know that,” Mark said. “And I didn’t shoot Anna. I hope you believe me.”

  “Sure.”

  “But the police have made it pretty clear that I’m high on their list of suspects for the shooting. I don’t know if Jackson and Ames are just toying with me like a cat playing with a mouse, or if they’re serious. Either way, I’m going to engage the services of a lawyer and prepare to defend myself. And it might be best not to try that while working full-time.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a long minute. Then Eric said, “Tell you what. You have some vacation time coming. Why don’t you take a week off? I can rearrange the schedule to handle that. Then we’ll look at the situation again.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Mark said.

  “And Mark—I believe you’re innocent. If there’s anything else I can do . . .”

  Mark hesitated for a second. Then he took the plunge. “Eric, are you a man of faith?”

  If Eric was surprised, his voice didn’t reflect it. “Of course I am. If it hadn’t been for my faith, I don’t know how I’d have made it when Cynthia died. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “Can I see you this evening after you finish your shift? We need to talk.”

  ***

  Kelly sat in front of the TV set, although she was sure that ten minutes from now she wouldn’t be able to name the program, the actors, or the plot. Her thoughts ranged back and forth like rabbits running through a field with neither pattern nor destination. A gunshot from the TV followed by the ring of her cell phone made her jump. She thumbed the remote to silence the TV. “Hello?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? Did I call too late?”

  “No, just sitting in front of the TV. Don’t even know what I was watching.” She tucked her feet under her. “Want to bring me up to date on your adventures at the hospital?”