Fatal Trauma Read online

  The policeman nodded, and while Mark rummaged in his pocket, the officer said, “We’ll need the name and contact information for the friend.” He looked at his partner, who pulled a notebook of his own from his pocket and clicked a ballpoint pen open.

  Mark showed them the receipt, then gave the second patrolman Kelly’s name and phone number. “What’s this about?” Mark asked again.

  “We’re investigating the death of Dr. Cane. He was mowing his lawn this afternoon when someone shot him.”

  Mark felt his stomach in free fall and fought against the bile edging into his throat, knowing that the cookie on which he’d nibbled would be next.

  Patrolman number two edged up next to his partner before speaking for the first time. “Do you have a gun, either pistol or rifle, doctor?”

  “No.” Mark was sweating, and it wasn’t just the Texas summer heat.

  “Would you mind if we search your vehicle and your house to verify that?” The second policeman’s eyes were fixed on Mark, apparently observing his every expression. “We can get a search warrant if we need to.”

  Mark shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He held out his key ring. “I have nothing to hide.”

  He hoped that was true. He knew he hadn’t shot Buddy. What worried him was whether his life was in danger now. Because he thought he knew who killed Buddy . . . and why.

  ***

  Kelly read the caller ID and almost didn’t answer the call. The truth was that Mark had hurt her deeply last night. She wanted to stand beside him, talk with him, help him through this period of doubt and searching. Instead, he’d pushed her away.

  After three rings, Kelly decided she was being childish. Maybe Mark had a change of heart. Maybe he needed her. She pushed the button to answer the call. “I’m surprised to hear from you,” she said in as neutral a voice as she could manage.

  “I know. But this call is important. I thought you should know this so you can take precautions.”

  At the word, precautions Kelly’s first thought was that she’d been exposed to some disease or other. Infectious diseases were always present in ER patients, but her mind went straight to the big one. Although she’d put on gloves as soon as she got the gunshot victim into the trauma room, she still had some blood exposure. Had he been found to be HIV positive?

  “Yes?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this.” Mark paused. “Buddy Cane is dead,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “That’s terrible,” Kelly said, immediately relieved that the news didn’t mean she’d been exposed to some disease, yet guilty that her first thought had been of herself. Maybe she should share that with Mark—let him know that he wasn’t alone in having such thoughts.

  “It’s more than terrible. It means that you and I and some other people are in danger. I think the Zetas shot Buddy. I think they’re out to execute everyone who was involved in treating the Garcia brothers.”

  “Who?”

  It took Mark a few minutes to explain to Kelly the identity of the two men at the center of the drama in the ER only a few hours ago. “And, according to the detective who called me this morning, the Zeta’s idea of revenge is to go after everyone involved—sometimes even the families.”

  “I don’t see how Buddy figures in this. I’d imagine that we might be in danger, but not the people in the OR who tried to save the policeman.”

  “Maybe they’re going about it backward, getting the people in the OR first,” Mark said. “But I think you should be cautious.”

  Kelly noticed she was holding the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. She switched it to her other hand. “So, do we get police protection?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said. “I didn’t go into that when I talked with Detective Jackson this morning. I have his number, though. I’ll check with him and call you back. In the meantime, keep your doors locked.”

  After she hung up, Kelly paced back and forth in her bedroom, occasionally walking to the front of the house and peering between the slats of the blinds. She knew she couldn’t stay in her house forever. They were expecting her in the ER in—she looked at her watch—in less than twenty-four hours.

  Maybe she should get a gun, learn how to use it, carry it to protect herself. She shook her head, as though to dislodge the idea. No, she knew she’d never do that. She’d often told others glibly that God protected her. But right now her faith had never felt so weak.

  ***

  Mark paused with his cell phone in his hand. He needed to call Detective Jackson to see if this killing would change the plans of the police. Would they now protect everyone who’d been active in the shoot-out with the Zetas last night? Did the police have any evidence that Buddy’s murder was a part of the Zeta’s revenge? If the cartel appeared to be going after the OR staff first, Mark needed to warn Anna King. What about the scrub nurse—and the circulating nurse? There were too many variables, and Mark’s head hurt trying to decide what he should do first.

  While Mark was still pondering, the phone in his hand rang. He checked the caller ID: Anonymous Caller. Could it be a reporter? Maybe one of the cartel, calling to tell him his days were numbered? No, he’d better answer. It was better than missing the call and worrying later about who had tried to reach him. “Dr. Baker.”

  “Doctor, this is Detective Jackson. We spoke earlier today.”

  “Yes. I was just about to call you with more questions.”

  “Well, I have one or two of my own,” the detective said. “I’d like to ask them face-to-face, though. Are you at home?”

  Mark wondered what the detective wanted to say that couldn’t be said on the phone? Was he coming with reinforcements to arrest Mark? Should I call an attorney? Mark remembered Kelly laughing at him once when inadvertently running a red light had him looking in his rearview mirror for hours.

  “The Bible says, ‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” she told him.

  Well, in this case, his conscience was clear . . . or, at least, should be. Why would he fear a visit from the detective?

  “Sure, I’m home,” Mark said. “Come on over.”

  ***

  Mark had almost given up on Jackson showing when he heard the doorbell. He punched the remote to turn off the television and was surprised to find he had no particular memory of the program he’d been watching for almost an hour. As he moved to the front door, Mark decided that golf on TV on a late Sunday afternoon was nothing more than an invitation to nap in front of the set.

  Mark checked the peephole and saw Jackson on the step. Detective T. R. Jackson was about six inches shorter than Mark’s own six feet plus, but he probably packed two hundred fifty pounds into that frame, enough of it muscle to make him a formidable opponent in a scuffle. His tie was at half-mast, and the wrinkles in his shirt were evidence of a long day in the Texas heat. Mark was surprised to see the detective without a coat, and even more startled by the absence of a shoulder holster and pistol. Weren’t detectives supposed to carry a weapon, even when off duty?

  “Come in,” Mark said. He gestured toward the living room. “Can I get you something? Water? A soft drink?”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

  When they were seated, Mark asked, “Where’s your partner? I thought detectives always did interviews in pairs.”

  “I imagine Addison is home by now.” He leaned forward. “As you may have guessed, this isn’t an official interview. It’s more . . . sort of an unofficial inquiry. A favor for a friend, you might say.”

  The detective crossed his legs, and Mark realized that his earlier assessment was wrong. Jackson was armed. A snub-nose pistol sat in an ankle holster on his right leg.

  If Jackson saw Mark’s gaze stray to the gun, he didn’t react. Maybe he was used to people’s eyes gravitating to his gun. Still, for some reason knowing his visitor was carrying a pistol made Mark a bit uncomfortable, despite his having nothing to feel guilty about.

  “You said you h
ad some questions. Why don’t we see if I can answer them for you?”

  Jackson crossed his legs the other way, and the ankle holster disappeared under the leg of his wrinkled pants. “Okay, let’s start with this one. How drunk was Dr. Anna King when she operated on Ed Purvis?”

  6

  How drunk was Dr. Anna King when she operated on Ed Purvis?”

  The words hung in the air while Mark scrambled for a response. During his premed days, he’d played a bit of poker and been pretty successful. He hoped the neutral expression he pasted on his face would work as well now as it had when he was bluffing with only a pair of fives in his hand. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said.

  Jackson jiggled his free foot. “Look, let’s not dance around this. I interviewed quite a few staff members the night of the shooting, and it was pretty evident that Dr. King has had an alcohol problem in the past. Matter of fact, the consensus seems to be that’s what broke up her marriage.”

  “I’m not—”

  Jackson brought both feet down flat on the floor and leaned forward until he was eye-to-eye with Mark. “I read the divorce proceedings, doctor. You might think they were sealed because of the little girl involved, but this is part of a criminal investigation. I even got a clerk out on Sunday to get me the records. It’s a proven fact that Dr. King had a history of alcoholism. That’s why her husband got full custody of Hannah.” He leaned back slightly. “Let me put it another way. Was King drunk when she operated on Ed Purvis?”

  Then it began to make sense to Mark. “Unofficial inquiry . . . favor for a friend.” This was a man who had known Ed Purvis, probably knew the whole family, and now he was looking into the circumstances of his friend’s death. Maybe he was only doing it as a friend, but he was still a police officer. Mark realized that, although there was no doubt about who shot Purvis, another question remained unanswered: Did the doctors do everything they could to save him? The word that jumped unbidden into Mark’s mind made him shiver inside: malpractice.

  Even though he wanted to be cautious, Mark decided there was no sense lying. Sure, he’d gone out with Anna a few times, but it had never been serious. He remembered Mark Twain’s admonition: “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember what you said.”

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” Jackson said.

  “I honestly can’t say if she’d been drinking,” Mark replied. “I knew about Anna’s history, of course. And when she was the surgeon who showed up in response to our call for help, I’ll admit I was worried. But she and I were both wearing masks. There were the usual smells of the operating room that would have overpowered any alcohol on her breath. I can’t criticize anything she did during the surgery. So if she’d been drinking—and I said if—it didn’t seem to affect her surgical judgment or ability.”

  “And you’d swear to that, if it came to it?”

  “Why would it?” Mark blurted out.

  Jackson shook his head. “You never know.” He rose slowly, shook his pants legs to settle the cuffs and make sure his ankle holster was hidden, and said, “No need to show me out. Thank you for your time.”

  Despite Jackson’s words, Mark followed him to the door, mainly to make certain it was double-locked after the detective left. Then he wandered back into the living room, sank onto the sofa, and tried to convince himself nothing was going to come of this. Much as he’d like to believe that, the truth of the matter was that Mark was in it up to his neck. After all, he’d been the other doctor scrubbed in on the operation. If the Purvis family decided to bring some sort of malpractice suit, there was no doubt he’d be involved in the case in some way, either as a defendant or a witness.

  He turned on the TV, but after fifteen minutes he snapped off the set, deciding that his life had a lot more drama in it than any soap opera the networks could put together.

  ***

  Kelly turned down the burner under the soup she was heating before she pulled her ringing cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. Mark was calling again. “Yes?”

  “I promise this will be my last call to you this evening, but I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  Did he think she’d gone out jogging? Maybe shopping or at a movie? Ever since Mark had told her about the possible revenge sought by the Zetas, she’d been in her house, all the doors and windows locked, the blinds closed. Kelly took a deep breath and tried to make her voice calm, despite the emotions seething inside her. “I’m fine. I’m sure I’ll be a bit twitchy when I drive to work tomorrow, but I’ll be okay.” She stirred the soup and turned off the heat. “Did you find out anything more about police protection for those of us involved in the incident in the ER last night?”

  The silence on the line lasted a few seconds too long. Had he forgotten? Surely not. That wasn’t the Mark she knew. If anything, he was obsessive about never forgetting anything. She’d heard him say, on more than one occasion, “A doctor can’t make mistakes and can’t forget. That’s why it’s so stressful.”

  Finally he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know. I talked with the lead detective on the case, but he had some questions for me, and by the time I remembered what I wanted to ask him, he was gone.”

  Kelly felt the same sensation in the pit of her stomach that she experienced on a glass elevator during rapid descent. Although her air conditioner was working perfectly, she felt drops of sweat crawl downward between her shoulder blades. “So you don’t know if the police are going to watch our backs? We’re on our own?” She made no attempt to hide the bitterness behind her words.

  “I’ll check with him in the morning. But for now, I guess you’re right. We have to be extra careful.”

  “Yes, you might say that,” Kelly said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

  “Look, I’m working the same shift as you tomorrow. Why don’t I come by and pick you up?”

  “What good would that do? That would be perfect for the Zetas if they wanted to hit us. Can you imagine? Both of us in one vehicle, so that however they wanted to do it—a well-placed firebomb, a crash with a stolen truck, a few rounds into the windows of the car—we’d be gone.” She moved to the kitchen table and dropped into a chair. “No, I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

  “How does this sound? I’ve been thinking about it anyway. Why don’t I go out tomorrow morning and buy a handgun? If I keep it in my car I won’t need a carry permit. Until the danger is past, ride with me and I can protect us both.”

  And won’t that be nice? First, the man she thought she’d fallen in love with tells her he can’t date her right now. Then, in just a few hours, he offers to be her gun-toting protector. Not that being together that much would be awkward or anything. Oh, no.

  Kelly discarded several responses before framing her reply. Then she had to unclench her teeth to speak. “I don’t think so, Mark. But thank you.”

  After she ended the call, she sat with her head in her hands, her meager supper forgotten. God, I have no idea where I’m going. Can you help me out here?

  ***

  Mark didn’t sleep well Sunday night. He awoke frequently from whatever light slumber he managed, startled by every noise, both real and imagined. Finally, he rolled out of bed at daybreak on Monday and padded to the kitchen. He turned on the coffeemaker, certain that he’d need it to get through the day.

  At seven, a bit more awake after a shower and a cup of coffee, Mark sent a text message to Eric, thanking him for stepping in to finish his shift Saturday night and work for him Sunday, but saying that he’d take his normal shift today. If Mark stayed around the house with nothing to do, he would almost certainly go crazy. Sure, it was dangerous to drive to the hospital, but he’d take his chances against the Zetas. Anything was better than cowering in a darkened room, waiting for something that might or might not be coming.

  Mark poured another cup of coffee, toasted an English muffin, and retrieved the morning paper from his front steps. He’d been intending to cancel his subscription for months, but had ne
ver gotten around to it. Now he was glad he hadn’t.

  The shooting in the Memorial Hospital ER had already been pushed off the front page by a crisis somewhere else in the world. Mark rarely paid attention to these. Instead, he turned to page 3, where a follow-up story confirmed that the police believed the men involved in the shooting were members of a drug cartel. According to the paper, the police were “following up several promising leads.” In other words, they were working the case, but had nothing solid yet.

  The obituary for Ed Purvis said arrangements were still pending. Mark remained undecided about whether or not he’d attend a memorial service. The response he’d received from Purvis’s son when he visited yesterday had been somewhere between cool and angry, but Mark understood. He recalled how he’d felt when people came to pay their respects following his brother’s death. Undoubtedly they were trying to be helpful, but some people just wanted to be left alone with their grief. He guessed that was the way Purvis’s son felt.

  Mark swept the crumbs from the table into his palm and threw them into the sink, then loaded his dishes into the dishwasher. He had at least six hours before he needed to leave for the hospital. Meanwhile, there were several calls he should make.

  His first call was to the detective bureau, using the number on Jackson’s card. Whoever answered said Jackson was due to be in court all day. Would Mark like to speak to his partner, Detective Ames?

  Jackson had put his cell number on the back of the card he’d given Mark, but if he was in court there was no need to call him there. Might as well try Ames, who’d seemed like a reasonable person. Maybe he could help. “Yes, please.”

  Mark held for what seemed like forever until the voice came back on the line to say that Ames wasn’t in yet. “Is there a message?”