Stress Test (5 page)

The man’s struggles to speak were thwarted by an endotracheal tube, an airway placed into the patient’s windpipe and connected to a ventilator. Ken did a quick scan of the dials and noticed that the man on the bed was “overbreathing” the ventilator, his spontaneous respirations strong and regular enough to no longer require assistance. The chart confirmed he’d been doing this for a while.
Timing’s about
right for the patient to regain consciousness .
. .

Ken threw a switch and the rhythmic chuffing of the machine stopped. The patient drew in a strong breath, then another.

Ken flipped a mental coin. He didn’t want to extubate his patient too early. But he didn’t want him struggling either. Sedation wouldn’t be good right now.
Take a chance
. “Okay, hang on,” Ken said. “I’m going to remove the tube from your throat. Don’t struggle.”

In a moment, the tube was out. “Take some deep breaths,” Ken said.

The man did.

“Now cough.”

Again, the man complied.
Good
.

The patient swallowed twice, coughed several more times, and said in a rough voice, “Do I have to be tied up?”

Ken pondered the wisdom of removing the restraints at this point, but finally decided to free his patient’s hands. “Okay, now you can move. Just don’t pull that IV out of your arm.”

“Why . . . why am I here?”

“You had a blow to your head, a bad one. Blood accumulated inside your skull and pressed on your brain. We had to do an emergency operation to relieve the pressure. You did fine, but it’s going to take awhile for you to recover.” Ken hooked a straight chair with his foot and pulled it to the bedside, then turned it around and sat with his arms resting on the chair back. “We need some information from you so we can let your family know you’re here. What’s your name?”

“I can tell you that.” Ken jerked his head toward the door and saw Hank Truong there, holding out a beeper like a priest presenting a communion wafer. “On their way out of the alley with our John Doe, the EMTs picked this up and threw it in the back of the MICU. They forgot it when they hit the ER, so they dropped it off on their next run, and the clerk gave it to me.”

“And this gave you his name how?” Ken asked.

“Simple. I called the number listed on the pager’s label and the service told me it belonged to a Dr. Matt Newman.” Hank pointed to the bed. “Dr. Gordon, meet the new assistant professor of surgery.”

Ken swiveled back to the man lying on the bed. “Is that right? Are you Dr. Newman?”

“I guess . . . I think that’s right.” The man in the bed ran his tongue over cracked lips. “Can I . . . can I have . . . some water?”

Ken picked up the Styrofoam pitcher of ice chips from the bedside table and spooned a few into the man’s mouth. “Suck on these. If you do okay, we’ll let you have some water soon.”

Hank took up station at the foot of the bed. “Dr. Newman, I’m Hank Truong. We met when Dr. Franklin gave you a tour of the department. I’m afraid there was so much blood on your face when you came in that I didn’t recognize you.”

Ken leaned toward the man on the bed, the man he now knew was a colleague. “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

A voice from the doorway provided the answer. “You’d probably better start with a lawyer.”

The little room seemed a lot smaller with the addition of the latest speaker. Ken pegged him at six-six, maybe two hundred eighty pounds or more. His skin was the color of coal. The scowl on his face and his shaven head added an air of menace. The badly tailored suit he wore couldn’t conceal the bulge under his left arm. His shoes were thick-soled and obviously designed more for comfort than style. The man’s presence screamed “police” even before he flipped open a leather folder and flashed a gold badge. “Detective Virgil Grimes, Dallas Homicide.”

Grimes moved further into the room, followed by a tall, attractive blonde wearing a dark blazer, white tee, and tan slacks. She carried a large purse slung over her right shoulder, and her right hand rested on its open top. The woman pulled aside the blazer to show a badge clipped to her belt, but apparently decided to leave the talking to Grimes.

“Detective,” Ken said. “This patient has had surgery for a very serious head injury. He’s still recovering. Can you wait outside? I’ll be happy to talk with you there about his condition.”

Grimes shook his head. “Not good enough. We need to talk to him as soon as he’s awake, and it looks like he’s awake now.”

Matt turned his head toward the detectives. He spoke slowly, apparently searching for words. “I don’t . . . remember much. The . . . the men—”

“Wait, before you say anything more, we need to give a little
speech.” Grimes nodded at his blond companion. “Detective Ames will do the honors.”

She pulled a laminated card from her purse but didn’t consult it. Her soft Southern accent didn’t make the words less chilling. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Why . . . . are you reading . . . my rights?” Matt asked, after the recitation ended. “I’m . . . the victim—”

Gordon interposed himself between the detectives and Matt. “Stop right there. I’ll testify in court that he cannot possibly have understood his Miranda rights. I’ve already told you that Dr. Newman has suffered a very serious injury to his brain. He’s had major surgery, and although I’m happy to see him wake up, there’s no way he’s in full possession of his faculties. I suggest you come back when I’ve pronounced him fit to answer your questions. Until then, I’m going to ask you to leave and stop upsetting my patient.”

“If you think I’m upsetting him now, he’s going to be a lot more upset before we’re finished.” Grimes shrugged as if trying to settle his shoulder holster a bit more comfortably. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What’s . . . happening?” Matt rasped.

Grimes fixed Matt with a glacial stare. His lip curled a bit, but he remained silent. Then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, the other detective close behind him.

Hank’s face showed his puzzlement. “I’ll look in on you later,” he told Matt, and followed the detectives out.

Ken looked into the eyes of his patient, eyes that were still a bit glazed. “You’re not going to be in any shape to talk for another day or so. I think I can keep that detective away from you until your head clears a bit. But it looks to me like you’re going to need a lawyer. If you know one, I suggest you call them.”

“I . . . I can . . . call—”

Ken consulted his watch. “It’s late. Just rest now. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
I hope
.

“Felony Trial Division, Jennifer Ball.”

“It’s Matt. I need your help.” The voice on the other end of the phone was weak, the words a little slurred.

Jennifer glanced around to make sure none of her coworkers in the DA’s office were in earshot. For once, the area around her cubicle was deserted. “Matt, where have you
been
?” She made no effort to hide the anger in her voice.

“I . . . I don’t know where to begin. I’m—”

“You didn’t show up for our date two days ago. It’s not like I’m that hard to reach, and you didn’t call me, didn’t text, didn’t email. I tried to call
you
, but there was no answer. I left messages on your machine and your cell phone, sent you texts and emails, but you never called
back
.”

“Jennifer, let me explain.”

“It’s as though you just dropped off the face of the earth.” She squinted her eyes to force back the tears she felt forming. “Listen, I thought—”

“Jennifer, will you let me try to explain?” Matt’s voice was still weak, but there was an urgency, a desperation to his tone now. The words were halting at first, then came out faster and faster “I’m in . . . Parkland Hospital . . . in the ICU. I was kidnapped. I . . . I ended up with a head injury. They did a craniotomy . . . Sorry, that’s doctor-speak. Uh . . . I had bleeding on the brain. They . . . they did an operation to relieve the pressure. I began to come out of it yesterday, but I’m still sort of fuzzy.”

Jennifer tightened her grip on the phone. “Oh, Matt. I’m sorry. What happened? Are you all right? What can I do?” She opened her desk drawer and grabbed her purse. “I’ll be right there.”

“Wait. Let me tell you the rest of it.” She heard him take in a big breath. “I’ve had a visit from a detective who said he was from homicide. He tried to read me my rights until my surgeon ran him off. I don’t know what he wanted, but a homicide detective doesn’t hand out parking tickets. This is serious. I need a lawyer.”

Jennifer dropped the purse back into the drawer and eased it shut. Her mind churned, looking to escape any possible blowback from this sudden turn of events. She tried to tell herself she was being paranoid, but she knew how the politics of her office worked. Guilt by association was a very real threat to the status she’d achieved, and could put her position in jeopardy.

Jennifer’s master plan changed as thoughts of life as a doctor’s wife gave way to visions of visiting Matt in prison. The feelings she had five minutes ago were forgotten as new plans evolved. An hour ago, she’d wanted nothing so much as to talk with Matt. Now she wished he’d never called. She wanted all this to go away. No phone call. No Matt in trouble. And definitely no request for help.

“Jennifer, are you there?” Matt’s voice held a note of desperation.

“I’m thinking. You know I’m not a lawyer. I’m only a secretary.”

“Jennifer, I don’t have the strength to argue.” He cleared his throat. “You work in the DA’s office, and you’re bound to know of some lawyers—criminal lawyers. When you come, can you—”

“Matt, listen to me. If you’re a suspect in a homicide case, this changes everything. I can’t come to visit you. I shouldn’t even be talking with you. If things get serious, the detective will bring in an assistant district attorney. It would be one of the ADAs I work with.
This is a clear-cut conflict of interest.”
Not to mention what it would
do to my future in this office
.

“But I need you—”

Jennifer drew a shuddering breath. “What’s your room number? I’ll call you when I have a name.”

Ken Gordon stopped at the door of Matt’s room and surveyed his patient. “You’re looking better today, a little more bright-eyed.”

Matt managed a weak smile. “Bits and pieces are coming back. And I don’t feel quite so much like there’s a blacksmiths’ convention using my head as the anvil.”

Gordon eased into the chair at Matt’s bedside and stretched out his legs. “What do you remember about what happened?”

“I vaguely recall being called out for an emergency at Metropolitan Hospital. It was probably about two in the morning when I left. In the parking garage, somebody—a couple of guys, I think—jumped me, trussed me up, and tossed me into the trunk of my car. From what I could hear, they planned to take me somewhere to kill me. I managed to escape, hid from them on top of a pile of wooden pallets. I started to climb down after they left, and I must have fallen. That’s when the lights went out.”

“You have a couple of cracked ribs,” Gordon said. “Think you did that falling off your perch?”

“Those are probably from when they jumped me, or maybe when I rolled out of the trunk of the moving car.”

Gordon nodded. “You have some cuts and scrapes on your wrists. You’re not trying to cover up a suicide attempt, are you?”

Matt started to shake his head, but pain stopped him. “No, they
taped my wrists with duct tape. I used the sharp end of a road flare to scrape the tape until it parted. I turned my hands and wrists into mincemeat in the process, but I figured that was better than the sort of ending they had planned for the trip.”

Gordon shifted in the chair. “So why did they kidnap you?”

Matt tried to read the neurosurgeon’s expression, but it remained a perfect poker face. “Honestly, I have no idea. Just as I have no idea why a homicide detective has such an interest in me.”

Gordon levered himself to his feet. “Well, you seem to be doing pretty well after the injury. We’ll keep you here in the ICU today. Probably transfer you to a regular room tomorrow. And when that happens, I won’t be able to keep detective what’s-his-face away from you. So if I were you, I’d get a lawyer as soon as possible.”