Catherine Lanigan - California Moon

After injecting the proper meds into the IV, Shannon prepared to intubate.

“What’s over here?” Dr. Scanlon asked as he turned toward the second gurney coming into the room.

“Again, unidentified. Richard Doe has been shot, Doc. BP is 80 over 60.”

“I want an EKG and echocardiogram,” he said as he swabbed the blood from the gunshot wound to the man’s stomach. Without glancing at the paramedic, he asked, “Any idea what all these burn marks are?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “The police were there nearly at the same time as we were. They think he was tortured. I heard one of ’em say it coulda been a cigar.”

Dr. Scanlon continued groping into Richard Doe’s gunshot wound without further comment. “I can’t see dick. It’s buried pretty deep. Nurse, suction.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“What else did the police tell you?” Dr. Scanlon asked the paramedic.

“That the front end of the car hit the riverbed, squishing it like an accordian. The steering wheel rammed into that one’s chest,” he said, nodding toward the other patient. “It shoulda killed him. He must be tough. We had to cut the steering wheel away in order to lift him out of the car. Only thing is, I couldn’t figure where he got the blow to his head.”

“From the same person who shot this man would be my guess,” Shannon said.

“Retractor.” Dr. Scanlon glared back at Shannon as he held out his hand to her. She properly placed the instrument handle side toward his thumb and fore-finger. Using a clamp to clear his view into the interior, Dr. Scanlon dug for the bullet. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I’ll need a cross-match.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Shannon replied. But as she cast a sidelong glance at his patient’s chalky color and at the readout on the monitors, she mumbled to herself, “Richard Doe won’t last that long.”

“He needs Methahexol, morphine and valium intravenously, if he doesn’t defib,” she said.

Just then the heart monitor went off.

“Flat line!” the paramedic shouted anxiously.

“Damn!” Dr. Scanlon blanched.

Shannon grabbed the epinephrine, filled the syringe and handed the hypodermic to the doctor while she automatically spun around and jelled the paddles.

Quickly injecting the epinephrine into the patient’s heart, the doctor took the paddles from Shannon and placed them on either side of Richard Doe’s chest.

“Clear!”

Shannon held her breath as she watched the patient’s lifeless body jerk on the gurney. “Nothing!”

“Clear!” Dr. Scanlon zapped him again.

Shannon didn’t wait for results. There was still a chance to save the other patient. “John Doe is still alive and needs to be intubated.”

With the chilling sound of the monotone heart monitor behind her, Shannon turned to the bloody, dark-haired man on the first gurney. She looked at his face. Glass from the windshield had shattered throughout his dark hair, cutting his scalp and forehead. Though his clothes were spattered with blood from hundreds of cuts, she noticed numerous hematomas.

“He’s been beaten.”

She lifted his arm, moving it forward and back while resting her hand on the man’s clavicle. Depressing her fingers into his rib cage, she rolled the pads of her fingers back and forth, pressing them into the flesh until they nearly disappeared. She counted seven broken ribs. Then she lifted his side and looked at his back.

“Kick marks. Especially around the kidneys.”

Gently pressing her fingers to his kidney area, she felt for lumps or signs of detachment. There were none.

“I’ve lost him!” Dr. Scanlon said, handing the paddles to the paramedic.

Shannon glanced at the young doctor’s ashen face, and realized there was no way he could handle another death tonight.

He stepped next to Shannon. Eyes vacant, he looked at her patient. “Good job, Riley.”

“I’ll take him up to X ray myself,” she said, glancing at the paramedic behind her as he pulled a sheet over the dead man’s face.

Police and state troopers scurried in the hallway as Shannon and the paramedics wheeled their patient out of ER.

Brushing past a holstered gun, she shivered. How ironic. Guns and lifesaving equipment in the same room.

Police officers jammed the doorway, forming a blockade against the approaching local news-station reporters who couldn’t wait to film gruesome live shots of bloody bodies for their early-morning newscasts.

Minicam lights blasted Shannon in the face. She froze. “What the—” Shielding her eyes with her hand, half covering her face, she turned away and quickly pushed the gurney toward the elevator. Accidentally, she bumped into one of the reporters.

“Hey, watch it,” he growled.

Her mouth went dry. “Sorry,” she said tensely. She avoided eye contact with the man by keeping her head down.

“Hey, is that one of them?” He turned on his camera.

Shannon felt the blood drain from her face. Though her hands were shaking and her knees quivered, she pulled the sheet over her patient’s head. “Please don’t,” she said meekly.

“I was only doing my job,” the heavyset young man said defensively.

“Me, too,” she mumbled, hurrying past him.

Grumbling, the cameraman turned away.

Shannon made it to the elevator in a flash and impatiently depressed the button twice. She could hear the barrage of questions and the distinct voice of the chief of police, Jimmy Joe Bremen, talking to Dr. Scanlon as they emerged from the ER.

“Did he say anything before he died?” Jimmy Joe asked, pushing aside his underlings.

“No.”

“Did you remove the bullet?”

“Yes,” Dr. Scanlon said wearily.

“Forensics will want it. The body as well.”

“I understand.”

Jimmy Joe’s large belly heaved up and down when he spoke and his lungs rattled, reminding Shannon of the pneumonia he’d had last winter when he’d been admitted to the ER with a high fever. He was the most demanding and stubborn patient she’d ever attended.

She hit the elevator button again.

She realized now that Chief Bremen had lied to Dr. Timmons when he said he hadn’t touched a cigar for over a year. What bothered her most at the time was that he lied so effortlessly and convincingly. She didn’t trust him and it gave her the jitters to be anywhere near him.

Jimmy Joe pressed past the reporters into the hall and Dr. Scanlon followed.

The reporters swarmed.

“What about the other John Doe? Did he say anything? Did you find anything on him we might have overlooked?”

“No, nothing. Should I have?”

Jimmy Joe scratched his head. “Hell, I don’t know. These two fellas were in a bunch o’ trouble, but without any identification and no witnesses, we’re at a loss.”

A brash young female reporter stuck a small microphone in Dr. Scanlon’s face. “What have you got, Doctor?”

“Other than the fact that I place the gunshot wound at around midnight since he hadn’t yet bled to death, the only other medical specifics I can give you at this time is that one man is dead and the other barely alive.”

Jimmy Joe pressed his index finger in Dr. Scanlon’s bony chest. “When the other one comes around, I want to know about it.”

Dr. Scanlon frowned, rubbing the sore spot. “Of course, but it won’t be any time soon. He’s comatose.”

Jimmy Joe slapped his gray hat against his trousers as he walked toward the elevators. “I’ll check on him in the morning.”

“It is morning, Chief,” Dr. Scanlon said wearily.

Jimmy Joe smiled wanly. “Then I’ll call you later,” he said and ordered his men back to the station.

The elevator doors opened. Shannon secured the gurney, IV and respirator on the elevator.