Except Dave, of all people. Pastor Dave of City on a Hill, Jenn's church. He seemed nice enough, but I never completely trusted him. This was due in no small part to my absolute distaste for organized religion. Ironically, Jenn had become born again soon after we got married and began attending not only Sunday services at Dave's church, but their weekly small group Bible study as well.
I sat on my sofa in a chilled stupor, a blanket draped over my shoulders while paramedics worked feverishly around both of my children upstairs. According to Dave, they had arrived just as he came out to get me. I was so shell-shocked that I didn't recall their arrival.
Another team had gone to the master bedroom.
"Jenn?" I bolted up. "Jenn!" They carried her down in a gurney, a white sheet over her face. The anguish within couldn't crack through the frozen wall of shock around my mind.
Next came my kids, but they were not covered. The paramedics worked on them as they brought them down and wheeled them to the ambulance. "Bethie! Aaron!" I shouted and tried to run over. Dave held me back.
"Let them, Sam."
I was trembling, shaking my head, as they raced off. Jenn couldn't be gone. It couldn't be my kids in that ambulance. It was like watching a movie. Flashing lights, sirens.
"Let's go." Dave grabbed my arm and rushed me into his car. We chased the ambulances, leaving behind a pair of squad cars, their red and blues groping out into the rain like a lighthouse in a hurricane.
My home had become a crime scene.
___________________
As soon as we arrived at Children's Hospital's Trauma Care Center, a medical team rushed Bethie into one room and Aaron into another. Frozen, I stood, chest rising and falling, eyes darting between the two rooms.
"Bethany's a lot worse," Dave said.
I nodded and went for the door to Trauma One. He caught me and turned me around to the correct room. Dave went into Aaron's room just as I entered Bethie's.
The next thirty minutes were torturous. About a dozen doctors and nurses crowded around Bethie, two of them squeezing a plastic bag to assist with her breathing. Instruments rattled in the crash cart as the trauma surgeons surrounded her. IVs webbed around her, into her arms.
Speaking in rapid succession, overlapping each others' words, yet somehow maintaining some form of intelligible communication, the team's dialogue all meshed together.
"Epi's in."
"She's bradying down."
"Atropine in."
"We're losing her!"
They began CPR. Then the whine and snap of defibrillator shocks. Jolted me as well. One of the nurses announced that they'd gotten a pulse back, but a very weak one. Bethie just had to pull through.
Doctor Yang, one of the doctors not completely engrossed in the code, came over, pulled down her face mask. "She's lost a lot of blood. We're doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourself."
"For what?"
"Is there anyone you'd like to call?"
I wanted to scream that her mother had been murdered, less than half an hour ago. I could not accept the fact that my little girl was within moments of death…"Please, you have to save her!"
Doctor Yang nodded and returned to the team. Seconds later an alarm from the EKG blared again. Bethie's pulse was gone.
The lead doctor called out something about joules. "Clear!"
Again, with the defibrillator. Bethie's torso arched up and fell. The EKG blipped, but the line remained flat, the tone static. The lead doctor was now performing chest compressions with both hands. Gently! I wanted to cry out. But I knew they had to do this to help her. This went on for a while, but it was clear that her pulse continued only because the doctor's efforts.
"Bethie?" I managed to whisper. It was starting to hit me. Not even an hour after Jenn's death, I was about to lose my daughter.
"Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said as she approached. "Do you want to be with her now?"
Tears stung my eyes like acid. Gradually, the cacophony of voices died down. I could now discern something that I had vaguely heard earlier through all the commotion—one of the doctors in the background announcing each elapsed minute since Bethie's heart had stopped.
"Thirty-seven minutes since arrest." The chest compressions continued.
"Mister Hudson?" Doctor Yang said, again, her tone sympathetic, but a bit more urgent. Less and less of the team were looking at Bethie now. They kept eyeing the clock.
The lead doctor had been doing chest compressions for some time now. He looked to his team. "Shall we?"
"He just lost his wife," one of the nurses replied. "Can we try a little longer?"
He nodded and continued the compressions. After a while, they tried the defibrillator again. No response. A solid green line slithered across the screen. The nurses looked up at the other doctor. He stood still for a second, glanced at the wall-clock and shook his head. "Time of death..."
"We did all we could, Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said. "I'm so sorry."
"NO! Save her, dammit!" I rushed for the table on which Bethie lay as still as silence. "Don't let her go!" I reached for the defibrillator paddles. A large orderly grabbed and pulled me away. I shouted at the top my lungs. He didn't release me until I stopped thrashing. The nurses stepped back.
When I calmed myself, the lead doctor approached me.
"We did everything possible, but her injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."
I couldn't speak. First Jenn, now Bethie. Anger ebbed, giving way to despair. I walked over to my little girl.
"Sweetie..." I held her lifeless hand, brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry. Daddy's so sorry." Before I knew it, I was curled up on the floor and sobbing, still reaching up and holding her hand. The orderly tried to help me to my feet but I couldn't do it. Eventually, they managed to get me up and pour me into a chair.
"Sir, do you need a moment?"
I nodded.
They drew a curtain and left me alone with my daughter. That's when I lost it. I don't think I'd ever cried so hard, or pounded my fist so many times into a wall, or screamed so loud in my entire life.
Aside from the wounds and blood, Bethie looked like she could have been sleeping. How could she be gone? How could Jenn? I felt disembodied.
The activity outside the trauma room increased. Walkie-talkies, intercom pages, hurried footsteps, gurneys rolling.
The doctor emerged from the curtain.
"I'm sorry, but there's someone outside you need to speak to." Outside the room, an officer from the Sherriff's department tipped his hat.
"My condolences on your loss, sir. But I need to ask you a few—"
"This isn't the best time."
Dave Pendelton arrived.
I gripped his sleeve. "Aaron?"
"He's still in surgery. Trauma One."
Behind him was one of the TCC doctors.
"Is he going to make it?" I asked.
"Too soon to say. He's suffered severe trauma to the head and internal organs."
"Can I see him?"
"Not yet."
I spent the next hour answering the deputy's incessant questions.
What was my name, date of birth, social security number, place of employment, phone numbers? He asked for identification.
"Do we really have to do this now!" I huffed, fumbling with my wallet.
Dave helped take it from my shaking hands and gave the deputy my driver's license and social security card.
The officer asked for the same type of information for Jenn, Bethany and Aaron—the victims. My mouth became bitter. Dryness impeded my words. The deputy was sympathetic and seemed genuinely sorry to put me through this. I couldn't concentrate.
Dr. Salzedo, the trauma surgeon arrived.
"How is he?" I asked.
"We've stabilized him. He's been moved to the Pediatric ICU."
I exhaled in relief.
"PICU's on the third floor."
I got up immediately and turned to Deputy Schae
ffer. "If you'll excuse me." If there was anything to hold onto amidst the devastation, it was the hope that Aaron had survived.
I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I got to his room.
___________________
For some delusional reason, I had expected to find my son sitting up, with a few bandages and other dressings, but smiling at me. He would call out, "Daddy!" and we'd embrace, holding on to each other as the last surviving remnants of our family. When I entered, however, I found him unconscious. Tubes of all sorts invaded his body. A ventilator assisted his breathing and all I could hear was hissing, buzzing and beeping medical equipment.
"The next twenty-four hours are crucial," Dr. Salzedo said. "We'll know better with time."
Aaron was in a coma with injuries to his head, spine, and internal organs. Internal hemorrhaging had been controlled, for now. But things could get better or much worse, unexpectedly. Everything was still iffy.
I stood by his bed and held his hand. Warm. Thank god. He would have appeared peaceful and simply asleep, but for all the equipment he was hooked up to. It seemed grotesquely uncomfortable.
Dave stood over Aaron, laid his hand on his bandaged head and mouthed a silent prayer. I didn't like him imposing his religion, even if Aaron had attended his church with Jenn and Bethie since his birth. But I was too exhausted and beyond objecting.
"You're welcome to stay with Aaron as long as you wish," said Dr. Salzedo. "But there's nothing to be done now but wait and monitor his progress. You've been through hell and really should get some rest. We'll call you if anything changes."
"No, I'm staying."
"Sam," Dave said, his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you should—"
"I said, I'm staying."
He leaned over and said something to the doctor, who nodded in turn.
"I'll stay too, then," Dave said. "We can take shifts."
"Thanks, really. But..." I couldn't think of a good enough excuse besides the fact that he was starting to creep me out with all his kindness. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone with my boy."
"I understand." He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need a ride home, give me a call."
I thanked him again and he left. The Sheriff's office was good enough to post an officer outside the room. "You hang tough, buddy," I whispered into Aaron's ear and kissed him. "When you wake up, I'll take you to McDonald's for a happy meal." My voice broke. I had to believe he would get better. It was the only shred of
hope left.
Chapter Three
The yellow tape had been removed. A squad car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood awoke to a new day. At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of Lieutenant Jim O’Brien. Chris glanced my way then turned away. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any hint. O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators at my door. Good to see a familiar face. When he saw me get out of the taxi, he came over and removed his hat.
O’Brien and I first met under tense circumstances—with his rifle pointed into my chest. It was during a shooting and hostage crisis at Coyote Creek Middle School, where Bethie attended. Along with all the other parents, I stood for hours in the parking lot not knowing what was happening inside.
I grew tired of waiting around not getting any answers. So I marched right up to the police line. My cell phone started buzzing and I reached for it. He thought I was reaching for a weapon and he drew his rifle. Pissed and defiant, I pressed my chest right into the barrel. He wasn’t going to shoot me. The other parents might have, though. On that, the longest afternoon of my life, two girls were killed. One of the stray bullets grazed Bethie’s arm.
Afterwards, Jim and Chris came over to question Bethie. Chris, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, seemed not only to enjoy Bethie’s starry-eyed attention, he almost encouraged it. I was never completely comfortable around him since.
As I walked up the very lawn, on which I'd slipped last night, Jim removed his hat. "My God, Sam. I’m so sorry about Jenn. And Bethie? Dammit. You dodge a bullet, only to—" he stopped himself and scowled. "How’s Aaron?"
"He’s hanging on."
"You should get some rest."
"I spent the night at Children’s." From the corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I turned my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with Chris?"
Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s been in a mood since he found out. He really liked your family. ‘Specially the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim pulled his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head and nodded. "Don’t hesitate."
"Thanks."
"Oh, by the way," he stopped and handed me my cell phone.
"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked, so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.
Just then, a news van pulled into the cul-de-sac.
"Oh jeez, not again." My rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling writer and op-ed writer for the Union Tribune did an interview feature. The media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April. I’d just gotten out of the limelight.
O'Brien stepped out again and intercepted the reporters and paparazzi.
"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A young woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I padded halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black blazer and black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked in my driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her index finger repeatedly.
I cleared my throat, extended my hand.
"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a dead fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any form of identification?"
"Do you?" I reached for my wallet.
"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson flashed her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She looked back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it back. "Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"
"Would you like to come inside?"
"No." She proceeded to ask the same questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.
"I’ve already answered these questions."
She looked up from the PDA. "It’s routine. You’re probably thinking clearer after resting."
"Doubt it."
Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a thin, black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with chilling detachment. "What time did you come home?"
"About eleven o’clock." A thousand cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face. Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.
"What room did you go into first?"
"My daughter’s"
"When did you first realize something was wrong?"
"No wait. I first went into the master bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself against the door frame.
"So, you first went into your own bedroom, not your daughter’s."
"That’s right. I was thinking of which child’s room—"
"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said, enunciating. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"
"I didn’t think anything was wrong until I found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."
"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact cause of death has not yet been officially determined."
"Excuse me?"
"Why don’t you leave that to the coroner and stick with the facts."
"Fine."
> "Are you aware that we came here to speak with you last night about the pornographic materials found on your work computer?"
Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that stuff wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?"
"Where were you around 7:30 PM last night?"
"On my way to a client meeting in La Jolla. Is that when you came?"
"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts around 11:00 last night?"
"I was on the 52 freeway, driving home. Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the porn?"
"No, sir."
"It wasn’t mine!"
"As I said, we didn’t mention it. That’s still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson, relax. I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this investigation along. Right?"
"Of course."
"Then you won’t mind going to the crime lab to provide samples."
"Samples?" The hair on the back of my neck became thistles.
"DNA swabs, blood, fingerprints."
"What for? Am I a suspect?"
Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We routinely take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The longer you wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll raise the question as to why, and then—"
"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just that...it feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."
"Unless you’ve got something to hide—"
"What is your problem?"
She scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the case number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get to it this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear unfavorable."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I would never do that, sir."
"Yeah, well…" Before I could say another word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her wrist, tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.
My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed through my veins like Freon.
THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST Page 5
