J.T. Ellison - Edge of Black

Running away from Nashville had been the smartest move she’d ever made.

D.C. greeted her with warm, sunny days, white marble-columned buildings, grassy expanses and gray-blue waters flowing quickly under the majestic bridges. Xander greeted her with himself. The city paled in comparison.

She realized heads were cocked, awaiting her next bit of wisdom. Anytime Xander got into her thoughts, she got distracted. She figured that was a good thing.

With a smile, she apologized, then ran the class through a typical homicide crime scene, from the job of the death investigator to investigation and collection of the body to the postmortem. A few faces pinched when she started with the autopsy slides, but most hung on her every word.

She was nearly to the last slide when a low murmur began in the back of the room.

She turned to see what the issue was. No one was looking her way. Instead, they were staring at one of the students, a slight blonde who was clearly not paying attention.

“Are my slides boring you?” Sam asked.

The girl didn’t look Sam’s way. She was slumped in her chair. Sam could immediately see something was wrong, though her first thought was, Wow, she’s completely hungover. Hope she doesn’t puke.

A brunette four rows back raised her hand. “Um, Dr. Owens? I think she’s really sick.”

The room began to titter. Sam glanced at her teacher’s assistant. “Reggie, hit the lights.”

The room brightened immediately, and she could see concern written on the students’ faces.

She walked up the stairs to the student and started to take inventory.

Her eyes were glassy. She was shivering, a fine tremor that moved on a loop through her body. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and a sheen of sweat glistened across her face. Her lips were even tinged blue.

Respiratory distress. Hypoxia. Fever.

Shit.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

Sam felt terrible that she didn’t already know the answer to the question; she’d only learned a few names so far. The students had a month of different classes, and this group had only rotated in a couple of days before. The girl didn’t answer, just stared at the floor and coughed a bit.

“Her name is Brooke Wasserstrom. She’s in my dorm.” The brunette who’d alerted Sam was standing over her friend, worry etched on her face.

Sam put her fingers on the girl’s pulse, which was weak and thready. Her skin was terribly warm.

“Was she drinking last night?”

“Yeah, maybe a little bit. She left early—she was going home to spend the night and the Metro closes at midnight. She came back this morning, I saw her come out of Foggy Bottom when I went for coffee.”

“Do you know if she has any preexisting conditions? Is she diabetic?”

“Not that I know of. I’ve never seen her take anything other than, like, Advil. I don’t know her that well, she lives on my hall is all.”

Brooke’s breathing was getting worse. She needed medical attention immediately. And thankfully, there was a hospital less than half a block away. It would be faster to take her there than call EMS to come to the school.

Decision made, Sam stood up and announced, “I need someone to carry her.”

Reggie came to her side. “I’ll carry her. What’s wrong? Do we need to alert the school?”

“We need to get her over to the emergency room. She needs oxygen. We can worry about the school after she’s stabilized. Let’s go. Kids, class is dismissed.”

The students poured forth from the room, quiet and somber. A few were crying, including Brooke’s dorm mate, who stood frozen on the steps. Sam reached back and touched her arm.

“You need to come with us. Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth. I know you’re concerned. But we need your information about Brooke’s activities over the past few days. So tag along, okay?”

“Yes, Dr. Owens.”

Reggie lifted Brooke into his arms. She folded into him, lethargic and coughing, and Sam grew even more concerned. Elizabeth grabbed the girl’s backpack.

Sam led the way, out the doors, down the hallway and out onto the street. The thin wail of sirens rose in the background, and she felt a chill crawl down her spine. Premonition. Déjà vu. Something.

They exited the building on 22nd and crossed the street to the GW Medical Center. Sam walked them directly into the emergency room entrance, and right up to the triage window. There was a lot of activity behind the glass. Sam glanced around and realized the emergency room was full. Strange for this time of day—they usually filled up at night, when people were ill and couldn’t see their primary doctor, or got themselves involved in a brawl or had too much to drink or took too many drugs. Ten on a Tuesday morning wasn’t exactly peak time.

She pounded on the glass until she got the attention of the harried triage nurse, who flung the glass window open and said, “Have a seat, we’ll be with you in a minute.”

“I have a hypoxic teenager here in acute respiratory distress. She needs oxygen immediately.”

“Jesus, another one?” The nurse slammed the window closed and came around the desk to open the door. “Bring her in.”

Another one? What the hell?

They brought Brooke into the triage station. The nurse took one look at her, opened the door to the back and yelled, “Stretcher, oxygen, STAT.”

Two seconds later a gurney rolled up to the door. Reggie deposited Brooke on the white sheet. She was looking even worse, her eyes closed, her breath coming in little pants. Sam could hear the laboring breath, wheezing in and out, knew the girl was most likely developing rales, the first steps to pulmonary edema. But without a stethoscope, she couldn’t be sure.

This was maddening.

“You may need to intubate her. What do you mean, another one?”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“We’re getting slammed with people with breathing issues this morning. From all over town.” The nurse glanced furtively at Reggie and Elizabeth, whose faces were strained with shock. “We don’t know the cause yet. You two wait out here. You, Doc, come with me.”

Sam narrowed her eyes at the nurse. She turned to Reggie and Elizabeth. “I’ll take it from here. You guys don’t leave without me, okay?”

“Yes, Dr. Owens,” they chimed.

Sam followed the nurse as she pushed Brooke’s stretcher back into the bowels of the emergency room. Obviously she was trying to keep from alarming everyone, but it was clear something major was happening. This was an emergency room in crisis.

The nurse slammed an oxygen mask on Brooke’s face and shouted, “Dr. Evans, we have another one.”

A doctor, bald on top, with a tonsure of curly gray hair circling his skull, approached the stretcher as they pushed.

The nurse ran through the symptom list quickly as the doctor examined Brooke. Brooke’s breathing was declining, and as they pulled the stretcher into an open bay, he called for an intubation tray. A team of doctors and nurses leaped into action, swarming the girl, cutting off her clothes, putting the breathing tube down her throat, getting IVs started in both arms, taking blood. Brooke didn’t even whimper, or fight. She was just lying there, almost comatose.

Sam stepped back out of the way and let them do their work, but couldn’t help noticing that Brooke’s clothes were being handled with extreme care, and all the people working on her were in level-two special protective clothing.

Not good.

The doctor, who Sam surmised was a supervisor, turned to her.

“Are you exhibiting symptoms, too?”

“No.”

“Name?”

“Dr. Samantha Owens.”

“I’m just going to have a quick look.” He shone a light in her eyes, felt her pulse. “Ph.D.?”