Hard To Breathe, page 30
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
“The big irony is that the DA had decided not to prosecute him on the domestic violence charge,” Farley said. “Ogren has a lot of pull, his attorney is super-sharp, and the case would be high-profile. The wife had repeatedly denied in the hospital that he’d abused her, then again later that night to police. A day later, she changed her story.” Farley shook his head. “Based on the clause in the prenuptial, she had a lot to gain. Ogren's lawyer would destroy her credibility on the stand. The DA told us yesterday he didn't feel he could get a conviction.”
The young detective paused. “It stinks, but if Ogren had waited out the legal process, he would have been safe. The DA was going to let him plead to a lesser, non-domestic violence charge. Make him attend some anger management classes.”
Drake felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. The legal process...
Following the law had resulted in him almost being killed and Beth Ogren traumatized for life and lucky to be alive.
And most maddening of all, if Dan Ogren had “waited out the legal process,” he’d have gotten off with a judgment barely above a traffic ticket. Drake pictured Ogren sitting in an anger management class leaned back in a chair with his hands behind his head and a smug look on his face. Son of a bitch!
He got to his feet, shoving his chair back. A bitter taste filled his mouth and he felt the urge to spit. The detectives looked at him open-mouthed, eyebrows raised.
Farley and Yamada were good men, but he had to get away from them. He couldn't stand to hear any more about how his doing the “right thing” had caused everything to go so horribly wrong.
“I'm sorry. I've got to get upstairs and see Rachelle.” He turned and left the detectives sitting, their best wishes for Rachelle faintly penetrating the thundering roar in his head.
His blood boiled. Rage jolted through his exhaustion-fried nerves. His anger massed like gathering lightning but with nowhere to strike. Anger at the nameless, faceless, monolith that was the “system.” A system that, over and over again, punished victims and let abusers go free.
A system that once again had taken Drake and made him a participant in a gross miscarriage of justice.
A system that had made Beth Ogren kill to survive and brought Drake within a breath of dying. A system that, left to its own, would have left Dan Ogren free, rich, and able to victimize again.
Chapter 74
Clara heard the report on the evening news. “A Twin Cities businessman shot in a metro area township. Dan Ogren, heir to the Ogren Automotive empire, whose father died only yesterday, was airlifted to Memorial Hospital level one trauma center. He is reported to be in critical condition. No further details available.” Her breath caught. Dan shot. How? Why? Critical condition? No!
The news jackals brought up Dan's recent arrest and his pending domestic violence case. They tried to make it sound like Dan was a bad person.
She climbed into her car and drove through the dark in the worst snowstorm she'd ever seen. Almost got stuck four times, but she rocked the car out with her four-wheel drive. The trip that had taken her fifteen minutes before the storm took almost two hours. It wouldn’t matter if she had to drive for two days—she needed to be as near Dan as she dared.
The hospital at night was the special domain of caregivers. Administrators were a rarity. Even though Clara wore a white coat and scrubs she stood out. She was not one of the chosen. Despite being a PhD in Clinical Laboratory Science and one of the most accomplished persons in the organization, she did not belong in the hospital at night. In particular, her role did not allow her to go to the bedside of Dan Ogren. The patient's bedside was a sacred place where, other than family or loved ones, only doctors, nurses and technicians were allowed. The Intensive Care Units were the holiest areas of all.
She could not reveal that she and Dan were partners in a love bond unlike any other. Especially now.
She could sit within the nurses' station and act as if checking labs and electronic medical record issues.
“Well, lookee here. It's the lab chief and computer nerd. You supervisors and administrative types don't belong in the hospital at night.”
Clara winced at the bullhorn voice of the nearly seven-foot-tall medical school admissions mistake.
“Black Bart” Rainey sat leaned back on one chair with his legs stretched out and feet resting on a second. He wore sweat-marked scrubs and a soiled surgical cap with his OR foot-covers still in place. His mass took up much of the nurses' station. She could smell his body odor from ten feet away. His insufferable habits included always speaking so loud that everyone within one hundred feet could hear.
She ignored him and went to the station's farthest computer terminal.
“Did some of your test tubes need washing?” he asked. “One of your computers take a turn for the worse, doctor?” He laughed like the braying jackass he was, wearing an “aren't I clever” grin, oblivious to the unanimous distaste of all who heard him. He alone among the medical staff outwardly ridiculed her for her use of the title she'd earned with her PhD. “As long as you're here, why don't you make yourself useful and run down and make sure you have enough blood on hand for my patient.”
Clara despised everything about Dr. Bart Rainey, though on this night she wished him total success. She'd already checked and double-checked all the lab and blood bank requirements his patient may have. It had shocked and sickened her to learn that Dan—who loved her more than anything—was in critical condition. Finding that Dr. Bart Rainey was the trauma surgeon taking care of him added to her burden.
She'd just come from her office, where she'd bypassed the privacy walls of the electronic medical record system and pored over the details of Dan's care. She'd read all the up-to-the-minute reports of what occurred pre-hospital, in the ER, and in the operating room.
He'd arrived by Air Care at nine seventeen p.m. He’d spent twenty-three minutes receiving care in the ER Crash Room before arriving in the OR. He'd been transfused two units of blood during helicopter rescue and transport, then more than twenty additional units of blood products in the ER and OR. As undeserving as Black Bart was to be a doctor, and as much as she truly hated him, the documentation suggested he'd operated with skill and speed.
How and why had Dan been shot? What had brought him to a campground on the edge of the metro area in the middle of a blizzard? The last she'd heard from Dan he'd told her he needed to meet with his lawyer.
Clara didn't know the details but she knew in her gut where it began. The one who'd started Dan's troubles.
The wife of the person responsible lay in ICU bay four. The thought of Dr. Drake Cody caused the blood to pound in her ears. A violent criminal who'd falsified his record. Another of the many undeserving applicants the corrupt medical establishment had chosen over her to become a doctor.
Drake Cody’s report of “suspected” domestic violence had started the chain of events that led to Dan being near death. It had started it all.
The ER physician was as responsible for Dan’s condition as if he had pulled the trigger.
Drake Cody's wife had a serious systemic infection. Clara had checked her records as well. The physician reports, nurses' notes, and extensive lab results showed she'd undergone rapid deterioration but had stabilized in the last hours.
Drake Cody had leapt past Black Bart on Clara's most hated list. The life-saving care he'd provided Dan in the field and ER did nothing to diminish her desire to make him suffer.
Clara had stolen multiple glances into ICU bay five. She could not go to his side. Their love must remain hidden.
Clara knew the odds. The amount of blood Dan had received—enough to replace his total blood volume five times over—and the injuries he'd suffered did not predict survival.
She prided herself on facing reality straight-up, however grim it might be. She could lose him.
As great as their love was, she had to think about herself. Dan would want it that way. Were there any tracks linking her to Dan and his attempt to kill Drake Cody? How she wished he had succeeded.
Did she need to worry about the police? Unless Dan had made a mistake that pointed her way, she should be safe.
No one knew of the magic bond she and Dan shared. She needed to keep it that way.
Clara moved to the counter nearest ICU five. She took her longest look at her man. His feathered and flowing blond hair looked untouched. Beyond that, what she saw was a nightmare. Massive swelling, bruising, and a grotesquely deformed jaw made him unrecognizable. The airway tube protruded from the ugliness. Her incredible man, her Adonis, had been brutally defiled.
She slumped and cast her eyes downward as if she might somehow erase the horror her eyes had revealed. She put her face in her hands.
Whatever happened, whoever in addition to Drake Cody had done this—they wouldn't see it coming, but she would make them pay. And pay dearly.
Chapter 75
Hospital corridor
The white noise roar in Drake's head faded as he escaped down the hospital's empty corridor.
Aki and Farley had to have wondered about his reaction. He'd practically run out of the ER. He'd felt ready to explode. The brutal and blind legal system...
The law was supposed to deliver justice. It had failed again. The system was without conscience—it did not look back or make amends.
His license to practice medicine and his ownership of D-44 would likely end up being decided by the law. He trusted no institution less. It could take from him all that he had struggled so long and hard for—the work that was his passion and salvation.
Drake entered the corridor leading to the elevators, his shoes squeaking on the buffed floor. He noticed the Code Blue beeper clipped on his top pocket. He'd meant to hand it off in the ER as he had the Air Care beeper. He'd have to swing back and drop it off, as otherwise he was responsible for responding to any Code Blues occurring in the hospital.
He stopped and before he could turn, the door to the male physicians' locker room opened ahead of him. Neurosurgeon Gaylan Rockswald stepped out. He had a winter coat with gloves and hat in hand. It was clear he was heading out.
Drake couldn't help but wonder how many middle-of-the-night trips to the hospital and the rarefied arena of the OR the venerable head of neurosurgery had made. Drake approached him.
“Good evening, Dr. Rockswald,” Drake said. Despite having known the surgeon for almost four years, Drake never considered calling him by his first name. The tall, gray-haired man was one of those who commanded respect without effort.
Dr. Rockswald stopped and turned.
“Dr. Cody. Good evening to you.” His eyes found Drake's. “I heard of your wife's illness. So hard. I hope she recovers quickly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I scrubbed in on your gunshot patient,” Dr. Rockswald said. The man afforded genuine recognition and collegiality to all. He showed respect to nurses, physicians-in-training, and everyone. His awareness that Drake had cared for Ogren pre-hospital and in the Crash Room was typical of him. “I'm sorry, but I do not believe he will survive.”
No doubt the bullet to Ogren's spine and suspected spinal cord damage had prompted the trauma surgery to consult with the neurosurgeon. The highly regarded physician had been the one to take Rizz to the operating room after his gunshot wound.
“Was his cord destroyed?” Drake said. Ogren had shown no movement below the neck while in Drake's care.
“Injured but not destroyed. It looks like a contusion—his cord is bruised but not severed. If he were to live he'd be paralyzed, but it is the type of injury where there would be a slight chance of recovery.”
“I wish that would have been the case for Rizz,” Drake said.
Dr. Rockswald cocked his head. “What do you mean by that?” His gray eyes penetrated.
“Just that I wish Rizz's cord injury offered a better chance of recovery.” Drake felt awkward, as if his discussing Rizz were inappropriate.
“I'm not sure I understand,” the neurosurgeon said. “Dr. Rizzini's injury was remarkably similar to that of the patient I just treated.”
Drake felt as if the floor had shifted beneath him. Had he misheard?
“Excuse me?” Drake said.
“I said Dr. Rizzini's cord injury was remarkably similar. Contused, definitely, but not severed. The type of injury that unfortunately most often causes lifelong paralysis, but which can sometimes recover fully.”
“Michael Rizzini?”
“Of course.” A frown flicked across Dr. Rockswald's face. “I remember these things.”
The man was legendary for recalling everything about his patients. Drake felt a flush of embarrassment.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Rockswald. It's just that... well, er, I was misinformed. I thought his prognosis was virtual zero chance of recovery. I had the impression his cord was severed.” Drake felt like a babbling first-year medical student. Why had Rizz—
“The odds against your friend are high, but, as I told him after surgery—low hope is not no hope.” The stately man smiled. “Good luck to you and your wife. I live close by, so I'm going to brave the storm and try to get a couple hours sleep in my own bed before my first case.”
He strode toward the exit end of the corridor, pulling on his coat as he went.
Drake reeled. “Low hope is not no hope.”
That was nothing like what Rizz had told him. Rizz had said Rockswald told him his spinal cord was “trashed.” That there “wasn't any reason to expect he'd be getting anything back.” Drake's decision to take the huge risk of D-44 had been made easier because the prognosis had been so grim. Why had Rizz said—
The answer flashed like a neon sign. Rizz.
Drake's brilliant, messed up, and vice-laden friend had manipulated him.
Rizz faced a low probability of recovery and was willing to risk his life for the improved odds D-44 offered. He'd needed Drake to give him the drug so he’d lied.
Rizz had foreseen Drake's internal battle about the danger of using the untried-in-humans drug. He’d read Drake like a book and worked him like a puppet-master.
Perhaps he should be pissed but... Who wouldn't lie for an improved chance of recovery?
He shook his head. Rizz‘s combination of people-smarts and guile left Drake far behind. Only Rizz could lie to him, manipulate him, and put him at risk of a lifetime of guilt, yet leave Drake almost smiling.
Drake didn’t agree with a number of things that Rizz did or said, but in the end he loved the in-your-face, hedonistic, tortured, but strangely loyal bundle of conflicting parts.
The thrilling part of Dr. Rockswald's news was that Rizz's chance of recovery was much greater than Drake had believed.
The thought of Rizz no longer paralyzed was a rush. All good if no adverse reactions occurred—a big if.
A shrill alarm sounded, snapping Drake's thoughts. The code-blue alarm clipped to his scrub pocket shrilled again as at the same moment a paging announcement sounded from the speaker over his head.
“Code Blue, ICU. Code Blue, ICU. Code Blue, ICU.”
Drake was running before his mind could react.
God in heaven, no! Rachelle...
Chapter 76
“...Code Blue, ICU.”
Drake had covered thirty feet before he silenced the screeching beeper.
Four years of responding to code blues had taught him the fastest route to everywhere in the hospital. During the day, hospital traffic required he maintain a pace restrained enough to avoid collisions. On nights such as this, he sprinted through the empty halls as if on a fast break in a pickup basketball game.
He arrived at the stairwell, ripped open the door, then raced up the steps three at a time.
The elevator was not as fast as his legs for codes on floors one through five. For the ICU on floor six, the elevator held the edge. But not tonight. Not when it could be Rachelle whose heart may have stopped, breathing failed, or blood pressure plunged.
He rocketed up the stairs.
“Code Blue, ICU.” The operator's page sounded in every corner of the hospital, summoning the response team to wherever the patient lay dying. In the ICU, highly skilled nurses would already be at the bedside, along with the crash cart that contained the resuscitation drugs and equipment needed.
Please, God, don't let it be Rachelle!
Theological pondering had vanished. His thoughts were a prayer—desperate and total.
He burst out of the sixth floor stairwell and banked toward the ICU. Despite the sprint up six flights of stairs and hours without sleep, neither fatigue nor shortness of breath existed for him. The automatic doors swung open. He spied the scrubs and white coats of the crowd massed around the nursing station near ICU bays four to eight.
Don't take her. Don't you dare take her! Fear invaded every inch of his body.
The not-so-tongue-in-cheek adage for doctors responding to code blues was, “When you get to the patient, first take your own pulse.” If the doctor leading the life-saving effort lost their cool, the resuscitation could quickly become a disaster and assure a fatal outcome.
Could he keep it together when it meant everything?
He rushed into the unit. His heart hammered.
The crowd of techs, medical students, and nurses who'd responded to the code filled the unit outside the bays. They parted, opening a path for Drake.
Tracy stood at the head of the bed directing CPR, while the crash cart sat with several drawers open and used med containers strewn on the floor. A tech stood on a low riser bent over the bed with his arms executing the rhythmic piston-like chest compressions. The faces of others in the room showed the blank look of those witnessing a failed effort.
