Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lee Goldberg
over Mark's foot again.
Mark gave the man a quick visual examination. His legs were crushed, his clothes were covered in blood, and he was in full cardiac arrest. One paramedic was giving him CPR while the other pushed the gurney. The situation was bleak.
"He's still in v-fib," said the paramedic who was giving CPR.
"This way," Mark said, leading the gurney to the trauma room, where Dr. Jesse Travis was already waiting, pulling a pair of rubber gloves on with a loud snap. The X-ray and lab techs were there, too, ready to do their work.
Jesse's boundless enthusiasm and boyish eagerness often made patients wonder if he was old enough, and experienced enough, to be their doctor. But here in the trauma room he was a different person. He projected a natural confidence and authority that eluded him in every other aspect of his life, including his long-term relationship with Susan Hilliard. He immediately started giving orders to the team of nurses who streamed in behind Mark, the patient, and the paramedics.
"We need five units of 0-negative, lidocaine, an amp of bicarb, and an amp of calcium gluconate," Jesse said, taking over the CPR from the paramedics as they transferred the patient from the gurney to the trauma table.
Susan had anticipated Jesse's order and was already rushing up to Mark with the ampoules, which were standard doses of medication in glass tubes, prepackaged with needles at the tip to save time in emergencies.
Mark removed the needle covers, inserted the ampoules into the IV line and injected the drugs while he ordered X rays and the standard labs, though he knew this patient's fate would be decided long before tests could be done.
He kept his eyes on the EKG monitors. Flatline. "Asystole," Mark said, turning to Susan. "One milligram of atropine."
Jesse took the defibrillator paddles and prepared to shock the patient. Susan administered the atropine and stepped back.
"Clear!" Jesse said and applied the paddles. The man's body jerked as the electricity coursed through him. Life, however, did not.
The round of drugs was repeated and more shocks were given, but the patient's heart simply refused to beat. Mark and Jesse shared a look without saying a word to one another. Jesse dropped the paddles back on the crash cart and peeled off his gloves, declaring defeat.
'Time of death, one twenty-two p.m.," Jesse tossed his gloves in the biohazard can. "The poor guy was as good as dead when he came in."
Mark couldn't argue with that. He studied the patient for the first time and noticed a white name patch on the man's bloody work shirt. The patch read: Lowell.
He looked up and saw his son, Steve, in the corridor, watching them through the glass of the trauma room doors.
Jesse followed Mark's gaze. "The only thing worse than a homicide detective outside your door is a mortician. It's like having the Grim Reaper peering in your window. It doesn't exactly make a patient feel good about his prospects for recovery."
"I don't think this gentleman had much of a chance to worry," Mark said.
The two doctors went out and met Steve in the hall. He was holding a large manila envelope in his hands.
"He looked dead to me before the paramedics even left the scene," Steve said. "But I'm no doctor."
"Have you ever thought about carrying a scythe?" Jesse asked.
"A what?" Steve said.
"Did you catch the guy who ran him over?" Mark asked, ignoring Jesse's comment.
Steve nodded. "It was a woman. Mr. Hobbes here was walking across the street when she plowed into him, lost control of her car, and slammed into a light pole. Not a scratch on her, thanks to her seat belt and the airbag. Some Good Samaritans yanked her from the car and were restraining her when I arrived."
"Why?" Jesse asked. "Did she try to drive away?"
"No," Steve said. "She tried to back up and run over her husband again."
Mark and Jesse both looked at the body in the trauma room, then back at Steve.
"That's her husband?" Mark asked.
Steve nodded. "Isn't
Mark gave the man a quick visual examination. His legs were crushed, his clothes were covered in blood, and he was in full cardiac arrest. One paramedic was giving him CPR while the other pushed the gurney. The situation was bleak.
"He's still in v-fib," said the paramedic who was giving CPR.
"This way," Mark said, leading the gurney to the trauma room, where Dr. Jesse Travis was already waiting, pulling a pair of rubber gloves on with a loud snap. The X-ray and lab techs were there, too, ready to do their work.
Jesse's boundless enthusiasm and boyish eagerness often made patients wonder if he was old enough, and experienced enough, to be their doctor. But here in the trauma room he was a different person. He projected a natural confidence and authority that eluded him in every other aspect of his life, including his long-term relationship with Susan Hilliard. He immediately started giving orders to the team of nurses who streamed in behind Mark, the patient, and the paramedics.
"We need five units of 0-negative, lidocaine, an amp of bicarb, and an amp of calcium gluconate," Jesse said, taking over the CPR from the paramedics as they transferred the patient from the gurney to the trauma table.
Susan had anticipated Jesse's order and was already rushing up to Mark with the ampoules, which were standard doses of medication in glass tubes, prepackaged with needles at the tip to save time in emergencies.
Mark removed the needle covers, inserted the ampoules into the IV line and injected the drugs while he ordered X rays and the standard labs, though he knew this patient's fate would be decided long before tests could be done.
He kept his eyes on the EKG monitors. Flatline. "Asystole," Mark said, turning to Susan. "One milligram of atropine."
Jesse took the defibrillator paddles and prepared to shock the patient. Susan administered the atropine and stepped back.
"Clear!" Jesse said and applied the paddles. The man's body jerked as the electricity coursed through him. Life, however, did not.
The round of drugs was repeated and more shocks were given, but the patient's heart simply refused to beat. Mark and Jesse shared a look without saying a word to one another. Jesse dropped the paddles back on the crash cart and peeled off his gloves, declaring defeat.
'Time of death, one twenty-two p.m.," Jesse tossed his gloves in the biohazard can. "The poor guy was as good as dead when he came in."
Mark couldn't argue with that. He studied the patient for the first time and noticed a white name patch on the man's bloody work shirt. The patch read: Lowell.
He looked up and saw his son, Steve, in the corridor, watching them through the glass of the trauma room doors.
Jesse followed Mark's gaze. "The only thing worse than a homicide detective outside your door is a mortician. It's like having the Grim Reaper peering in your window. It doesn't exactly make a patient feel good about his prospects for recovery."
"I don't think this gentleman had much of a chance to worry," Mark said.
The two doctors went out and met Steve in the hall. He was holding a large manila envelope in his hands.
"He looked dead to me before the paramedics even left the scene," Steve said. "But I'm no doctor."
"Have you ever thought about carrying a scythe?" Jesse asked.
"A what?" Steve said.
"Did you catch the guy who ran him over?" Mark asked, ignoring Jesse's comment.
Steve nodded. "It was a woman. Mr. Hobbes here was walking across the street when she plowed into him, lost control of her car, and slammed into a light pole. Not a scratch on her, thanks to her seat belt and the airbag. Some Good Samaritans yanked her from the car and were restraining her when I arrived."
"Why?" Jesse asked. "Did she try to drive away?"
"No," Steve said. "She tried to back up and run over her husband again."
Mark and Jesse both looked at the body in the trauma room, then back at Steve.
"That's her husband?" Mark asked.
Steve nodded. "Isn't
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