Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “I can imagine.”

  “Jeannie knew about Donna. Recently, she told me Harold had some new floozie. But maybe it was still Donna, for all I know. Then, just a week before she died, Jeannie said Harold swore to her it was over. But Jeannie didn’t trust him. She told him she was leaving him, and he said—” she whispered loudly “—‘over my dead body.’” She nodded. “Well, it wasn’t his body that ended up dead now, was it? But it makes you wonder.”

  Susanne felt her mouth hanging open. She closed it. “You’re kidding me?”

  “I’m not. And believe me, that man had plenty of reasons not to want a divorce.”

  “Why not, if he’d taken up with another woman?” Maybe he was in love, Susanne thought. Although it seemed a stretch that anyone could love Donna. The woman was awful. And capable of awful things, too. Was she capable of murder, like her brother Billy? Jeannie was Donna’s rival for the judge’s affection, after all. Susanne struggled to pay attention to Kim as her thoughts pinballed all over the place.

  “This campaign of his, for starters. For the U.S. Senate. He told Jeanne that politicians don’t get divorced. But it’s not just that. Jeannie knew about all the dirty things he’s done. As long as they remained married, she’d never have to testify against him. But if they got divorced, she could be forced to the witness stand. The stories she could tell there would ruin him.”

  Susanne had suspected as much. Nobody got blackmailed unless they’d done things they wanted to keep quiet. Bad things.

  “That’s just horrible.” Which was understating it, if anything.

  But then Susanne had another thought, and it was a doozie. Was it even appropriate for the judge to preside over a death penalty case involving the brother of his former lover? Wasn’t that a conflict of interest because it would make him biased? Or susceptible to pressure from Donna? She could threaten him with revealing the details of their relationship if things didn’t go the way she wanted. A small gasp burbled out of her.

  Donna could even be the one blackmailing the judge.

  Chapter Twenty: Shock

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Monday, March 14, 1977, 3:45 p.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick looked at his wristwatch again. Three-forty-five. He’d been parked outside the high school for fifteen minutes, per the plan he and Susanne had agreed on that morning: she’d pick up Perry, and he’d fetch Trish home. At first, there’d been quite an exodus of kids and vehicles. Then there’d been a wave of adults—teachers and staff. Now the flow had tapered off, with no sign of Trish.

  At first, he’d assumed she’d been held up for basketball, until he remembered the season was over. Next, he’d thought maybe she’d stayed after a class to talk to a teacher or for detention. But he knew he couldn’t afford to make assumptions. Not with all that was going on in their lives. He found himself scanning the open fields and creek frontage and realized he was looking for a mountain lion. He wasn’t sure why, but regardless, he didn’t see one.

  Maybe he’d gotten his wires crossed with Susanne. She’d left a phone message with the operator at the hospital for him that afternoon. He’d been taking care of a guy who’d fallen headfirst through a window. Lots of stitches. Lots and lots of little bitty, teeny tiny stitches. By the time he was done, it was too late to call her back before he had to leave. Now, he regretted not taking the time. Had Susanne picked up Trish, and was Perry now standing on a curb waiting for him?

  It was possible. But even if it were the case, he had to make sure Trish wasn’t at the school. If she wasn’t, he would borrow a phone in the office and call home to see what was up before he made a knee-jerk decision about his next move.

  He got out of his truck—normally white, but currently looking more Dalmatian-colored because of all the mud—and walked to the building. His boots were waders by the time he made it to the front door. He paused inside to clean them on a mat, getting his bearings as he did. He’d been at the main building once for open house, but, other than that, he’d always visited the gymnasium. Luckily, the administrative offices were visible from the vestibule. He headed for them, wincing at the squelching sound of his sopping footwear.

  The admin area was separated from the rest of the school behind glass, like a fishbowl. He poked his head through the main door. The overhead lights were off, and the front desk wasn’t manned.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” he called.

  A meager beam of light from one small window highlighted a warped floor tile. Devoid of color and decorations save a few personal photos on desks crowded close to each other, his mind conjured a crier greeting kids at the door with the admonition to “abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” A narrow hallway led into a warren of offices that reeked of chemical cleaning supplies.

  A few beats later, a man’s voice answered. “Back here. May I help you?”

  Patrick walked toward the voice. It came from inside an office marked “Principal” over the door.

  He peered in. The office was more spacious than he would’ve imagined it, given the sparse reception area and premium on square footage. It was also warmer, in a way that suggested the principal had access to a personal decorating budget beyond whatever was provided by the school district. A chair in front of a scarred-but-handsome wooden desk anchored a multi-colored hook rug. A free-standing wooden bookcase covered most of one wall. Volumes of different sizes and colors were stuffed on the shelves, their spines creased from use. A series of paintings of big-bodied horses with tiny heads and hooves decorated the wall behind the principal. Prancing in front of a manor house. Drinking from a stream. Leaping over a hedgerow.

  The man that rose from behind the desk had remarkable dandelion hair. He offered Patrick a smile that displayed coffee-stained teeth with a wide gap between the top center ones. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Hello. I’ve been waiting outside for my daughter. I realized I’d better come in and find her or I’d be there until the cows came home.”

  The man shook his head. “Teenagers. I’m Ted Olsen, the principal here.”

  Patrick shook his hand. “Patrick Flint. My daughter is Trish Flint. She’s a sophomore.”

  “It’s Dr. Flint, isn’t it?”

  Patrick raised a hand. “Guilty.”

  “Trish is an exceptional student. She’s got a bright future ahead of her.”

  “Thank you. We’re proud of her.”

  “Strong-willed, too.”

  “Which is what brings me here today, I suspect.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can find her.”

  The outer door to the admin area opened. A tremulous female voice shouted down the hall. “Help! One of my students is choking!”

  “I’ll call 911,” Olsen shouted back.

  Patrick reacted before Olsen reached for the phone. He was 911. But how he wished he had his doctor’s bag, which he’d left in the truck. He didn’t need the bag to deliver the Heimlich maneuver, though. “Make the call, Olsen. I’m going to see what I can do to help.” He ran out the door of the office.

  A very young-looking woman was running toward it. They both stopped. The woman was flushed and breathing hard. Her pinned-up hair was escaping its bindings.

  “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Can you take me to your student?”

  “She’s right this way.”

  Patrick nearly choked. “My daughter is here.” He sounded panicked even to his own ears. God, don’t let it be Trish, please.

  The woman took a step back. “The girl’s name is Marcy.”

  Marcy. Not Trish. The name rang a bell, but in his relief, he didn’t place it. “Lead me to her.”

  The woman took off at a run that would have earned her a spot in the girl’s 100-yard dash for the track team. Patrick pounded after her. Their loud steps echoed in the empty corridor.

  As they flew past water fountains, rows of metal lockers, and one closed door after another, he raised his voice over the noise of their feet. “What happened?” />
  “I’m monitoring detention.” Huff. “She was sitting in the back, talking to a boy.” Huff. “He started screaming that she was choking.” Huff. “And couldn’t breathe. I tried to give her the Heimlich.” Huff. “It wasn’t working, so I ran for help.”

  Most people didn’t know how to administer the Heimlich correctly, so Patrick was still hopeful the maneuver would work. He was worried about the time that had elapsed, though. Without oxygen, humans lose consciousness after about three minutes and can only survive seven to nine total.

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  The woman turned into a classroom going too fast and rammed against the open door. She shot him a stricken look over her shoulder. “A few minutes.” Then she pointed to the back of the room. “There she is.”

  He hurried in that direction. A cluster of students were bending over someone on the floor. It had to be Marcy.

  A pudgy boy with cowlicked hair stepped away from her. His eyes were enormous behind black-framed glasses. “Help her. Please. She can’t breathe.” His voice sounded young and scared.

  Trying to sound calming and in command, Patrick said, “I’m Dr. Flint. Can you give me some room around Marcy, please?”

  Eyes flitted to him, then back to the girl. The kids parted but stayed close to their friend.

  “Does anyone know what she choked on?” Patrick knelt beside a girl with a familiar face and dark, curly hair in two braids. Marcy. Of course. Trish’s best friend. His mouth tightened into a determined line. He couldn’t face his daughter if this girl died in his care.

  The boy with glasses said, “She, um, she put a rubber ball in her mouth.”

  That gave Patrick pause. “Hard rubber?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marcy’s face had a bluish cast, and she’d lost consciousness. He swept her mouth with his fingers. He could just feel the edge of the ball lodged deep in her throat. There was very little chance he could get it out before she died. He calculated the time until the EMTs would get there. From Olsen’s call to mobilization, arrival, and entry into the school, they were four minutes away, at best.

  Marcy didn’t have four more minutes. It wasn’t preferable, but he’d have to do an emergency cricothyrotomy.

  “I need a ball point pen casing or a drinking straw, ASAP. I prefer the straw.” He hoisted Marcy up with his arms under hers. First, he laid her across a desk and slapped her back five times, attempting to dislodge the ball. It didn’t work. He picked her back up under the arms again and made a fist with one hand, locked the other around it just above her belly button, and started abdominal thrusts. By the time a student brought him a straw from a lunch box, he’d performed five thrusts with increasing pressure, enough that he might have broken one of her ribs but hadn’t dislodged the ball. The Heimlich maneuver wasn’t going to work.

  Gently, he placed Marcy back on the floor on her back. He tore off his jacket and positioned it under her shoulders to elevate her neck, with the straw laying on her chest. He pulled out his pocketknife.

  “Get the kids out of here, please,” he said, without looking away from Marcy’s throat.

  As if far away down a tunnel, he heard the woman’s voice calling to the students. There were footsteps and protesting kids’ voices. But his world winnowed down to Marcy. Using the tip of the knife, he made a vertical incision just below her Adam’s apple. Then he made a deeper transverse incision in the cricothyroid membrane. Quickly, he inserted the straw into the opening, adjusting its position until he heard air moving through it. He rocked back and watched her chest. It began to rise and fall. Sweat rolled down the side of his cheek. He breathed along with her.

  Her eyes popped open. She gave him a look of abject confusion. Then she tried to speak. When it didn’t work like she expected, pure terror froze her features.

  “It’s okay, Marcy. I’m Dr. Flint, Trish’s dad.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t try to talk. Just nod if you can hear me.”

  She nodded and squeezed back.

  “You have a ball stuck in your throat. You couldn’t breathe, and you’d passed out. So, I put in a hole for you to breathe through. You won’t be able to talk until we get you fixed up at the hospital. Everything is going to be just fine though. All you need to do is stay relaxed and trust me. Can you do that?”

  She nodded again, but scared confusion remained in her eyes.

  He became aware of the other people in the room again. Kids were pushing their way back to Marcy, over the admonishments of the woman. He understood. Impromptu surgery in their classroom had to be morbidly fascinating.

  The woman gave up trying to control them. Standing beside Marcy with her eyes averted from the girl’s throat, she clasped her hands at chest-level. “That was amazing. Thank you so much, Doctor.”

  “Of course.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Could you direct the EMTs to your room? They should be here by now.”

  But there was no need. The team was wheeling a stretcher through the door by that time. Two EMTs started loading Marcy onto it. Patrick recognized them. The woman with the funny walk and her tattooed partner. Patrick updated them on her condition.

  The woman said, “The straw is holding. We’ll fix her up with a better tube in the ambulance.”

  “Sounds good.”

  When the stretcher started moving, Patrick walked beside it, keeping a tight grip on Marcy’s hand. “This is probably the most exciting detention you’ve ever had.”

  Something close to a smile crossed her face, but tears streamed down her cheeks. He continued speaking to her in a soothing tone, banal little nothings to distract her from the pain and fear. By the time they reached the ambulance, the stretcher had acquired an entourage, including the detention monitor, the principal, the students, and, to Patrick’s surprise, Wes Braten.

  Patrick leaned down to Marcy. “Dr. John will take good care of you at the hospital. You’re going to be just fine.”

  The EMTs loaded the stretcher and left with their patient. Life was full of hard choices. He hated not being able to ride with Marcy, but she was in good hands. And he had a missing daughter to track down.

  The detention monitor approached him. Running, she’d been fast and efficient. Walking, her short steps and waddling motion reminded him of a duck. He took a good look at her for the first time. She looked tired and old-fashioned in a high-necked blouse with lace at the collar, but pretty. “I’m Tara Coker. And you’re Dr. Flint, Trish’s dad?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m her trigonometry teacher.”

  “I hope she’s not trouble.”

  “No trouble. She’s a smart girl.” She licked her lips. Her eyes gleamed. “I’ve never seen someone do a tracheotomy before.”

  “Crike,” he said. “Cricothyrotomy.”

  Before he could ask her if Trish had been in class that day, Wes interrupted. “Nice to see that knife put to good use, Doc. In fact, I think it lived up to its name.”

  “Name?” Tara Coker asked.

  Wes winked. “Sawbones. I had it engraved for him.”

  Patrick chuckled. It had, at that.

  Wes threw a chin in the direction of his big green Travelall. “Guess who I’ve got over there in Gussie, afraid to come see you?”

  Patrick groaned. “Where did you find her?”

  Olsen joined Coker. Both were listening intently to the interchange between Wes and Patrick.

  “Stranded. Her boyfriend had a flat tire and no spare. I was just coming off my shift watching Susanne and was on my way home when I saw them.”

  More to himself than Wes, Patrick muttered, “But she knew I was coming to get her. Why would she leave?”

  “Well, I don’t think she’d left the school, Doc.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think she was trying to get back to the school. They were at City Park. As in ‘parking.’ Filling in the gaps in the sketchy details of her story, I’d say they’d been there since lunch.”

>   All of his worry morphed into red, hot anger. “Skipping school.” Gritting his teeth, Patrick turned to Olsen. “This is the first I’ve heard of her doing that. Do you know if she’s done it before?”

  Olsen shook his head without hesitation. “If she had, word would have gotten to me. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “My family has some security issues right now, due to a trial we’re testifying in.”

  “The Kemecke capital murder trial?” Olsen asked.

  “Yes. It’s a long story.” Patrick gestured at Wes. “Wes is on a team, helping watch our six.”

  Wes put his hands on his hips and thrust out his chest. He was too tall and gangly to look very imposing, though.

  “Dr. John is helping us out as well. He was supposed to contact my kids’ principals and ask that Susanne and I be notified immediately of any issues with the kids. Like them not being in class or people from outside the school looking for them.”

  The principal looked away, staring at the purple silhouette of the mountains. “Yes, Dr. John did call.”

  Patrick’s voice vibrated with the tension of a taut piano wire. “Not showing up for class on the day you’re told about our safety concerns seems like it warrants a phone call.”

  Olsen’s gaze returned to Patrick. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I hadn’t heard about her absence.”

  Patrick turned to Trish’s teacher. “Was she in trig today, Miss Coker?”

  The woman folded her arms across her chest and hunched into them. “No. Not this afternoon. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was an issue.”

  Patrick got a bad feeling. “Mr. Olsen, did you even talk to the teachers about the problem?”

  Olsen cleared his throat and pulled at a fat, striped necktie. “Dr. John didn’t get hold of me until mid-day. I was going to talk to the staff and faculty at our Tuesday morning meeting.”

  Patrick’s fists balled.

  Wes put a hand on his arm. “Brandon and Trish are waiting. Given their track record, I’d recommend we get out of here before they disappear again.”