Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  She slipped on her leather jacket, stuffed her strawberry blonde ponytail beneath the collar, and tugged the zipper up to her chin to block the cold desert wind. She saw Charlie standing near one of the fire trucks, talking with Fire Chief Manny Orosco. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed in their direction.

  “Sam.” Charlie Walker nodded to her as she approached.

  “Charlie. Manny. Jesus, what a mess. What happened?”

  “Big rig crossed the median and hit a car head on and exploded. The Camaro,” he yanked his head toward the overturned car, “and the wagon over there got lucky.”

  “How many killed?”

  “Whoever is in the car under the rig for sure. Two kids in the Camaro and the driver of the rig were taken to the hospital.”

  “The driver survived?” Sam looked at the molten mass, which continued to steam and spit, its heat puncturing the cold night air, warming her 200 feet away.

  “Thrown from the cab. Or jumped. Found him about fifty yards from the wreck. Banged up pretty good. Unconscious. Smelled like a whiskey bottle.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Why don’t you get over to the hospital and see what you can find out from the kids and the driver, if he wakes up. I’ll see that the family in the station wagon are taken care of and be along in a few minutes. Not much more I can do here.”

  *

  Dr. Caitlin Roberts’ head had been on the pillow for a half hour when the phone rang. This year’s flu bug had turned her usually busy office into a nightmare and she did not escape the sniffling hordes until after 7 p.m. Hospital rounds took another two hours. People were always sicker around holidays, especially Christmas, and she had twice the usual number of hospitalized patients to see. Home at 9:30, she wolfed down a tuna sandwich while talking with her husband Ray and her son Ray, Jr. Then a hot shower, a welcome soft pillow, and warm comforter.

  She glanced at the clock, 10:30, hoping the call was a wrong number. No such luck.

  Ten minutes later, she turned into Mercer Community Hospital’s parking lot, greeted by flashing red lights from the two ambulances, idling on the Emergency Department’s receiving ramp.

  Sitting along I-40 and being the only hospital for fifty miles, Mercer Community inherited several dozen major accident victims each year, despite being poorly equipped to handle such cases. Seemed like most of them fell into Cat's lap.

  “What’s the story, Rosa?” Cat asked as the automatic doors to the ER hissed open.

  Rosa Gomez, the ER head nurse for longer than anyone could remember, led her to the trauma room. “It’s a bad one, this time. Dude trashed his big rig.”

  Cat absorbed the scene before her. A large man of about 50 and over 250 pounds lay on the stretcher; a respiratory tech squeezed an Ambu bag, inflating the man’s lungs rhythmically. One arm, strapped to an arm board, hung off the stretcher and received fluid through IV tubing. Sue Tilden, one of the nurses, struggled to place a second IV line in the other arm. Cat glanced at the cardiac monitor above the stretcher where a series of electric blips raced across the screen. Heart rate 130 per minute, but steady.

  “What’s his BP?” Cat asked as she began her examination.

  “80 over 50,” Rosa said.

  The massive man, gray and mottled, splotched with blue-black ecchymoses and bloody abrasions, showed no response to the needle being jabbed into his arm or the tube in his throat. Dark blood, dirt, and gravel covered his chest, legs, and shredded clothing. His pupils, dilated to two oily pools, did not respond to the penlight Cat aimed at them.

  She probed and examined his neck without removing the stabilizing cervical collar that the paramedics had placed on him at the scene. Better to wait until X-rays were done before moving his neck. She slapped her stethoscope on his chest. His lungs crackled, gurgled, and wheezed, but his heart sounds were normal.

  After securing the second IV to his arm, Sue slipped a Foley catheter through his penis into his bladder, releasing a flow of bloody urine into the attached bag.

  Cat mentally ran through a differential diagnosis: massive trauma; head injury with possible intracranial bleed; possible neck injury; lung and kidney contusions; probable intra-abdominal organ damage. At least he still had a stable cardiac rhythm and an acceptable blood pressure given the circumstances.

  Just then, the regular monitor blips tripped, wobbled, and fell into a chaotic pattern.

  “V-Tach,” Sue shouted.

  So much for a stable rhythm. Cat eyed the monitor, confirming Sue’s interpretation of the rhythm, now emergent, lethal.

  “Warm up the paddles,” Cat ordered. “Lidocaine 100 milligrams IV STAT.” She smeared the defibrillator paddles with gel and pressed them against his chest. “Clear.” She depressed the red buttons on each paddle, releasing a salvo of electricity. His body lurched, then relaxed.

  “V-Fib, now.”

  “Great.” Cat recharged the defibrillator and again jolted the man with 400 Watt/Seconds of electricity.

  “Asystole.”

  Cat looked at the flat-line EKG tracing on the monitor. “Let’s get CPR going.”

  Tina Flores, one of the ER techs, began rhythmic compressions of the man’s chest, creating a pattern with the ambu lung inflations--five compressions to each inflation. Though Tina was a large, stout woman, she lacked the strength to adequately compress the trucker’s massive chest and the failing heart that lay inside. Rosa hooked a footstool with her ankle and slid it close to Tina’s feet. Tina stepped up on it, gaining better leverage. She put her full weight behind each compression.

  That’s better,” Cat said. “Is the Lido on board?”

  “Yes,” Sue said.

  Cat continued to eye the monitor. “Give an amp of Bicarb and one of Epi.”

  Sue injected Sodium Bicarbonate into one IV while Rosa pushed Epinephrine in the other.

  The fire drill continued for thirty minutes but to no avail. Cat pronounced the man dead at 11:22 p.m.

  *

  Sam stepped through the automatic doors into the emergency department, greeted by the aroma of alcohol, Lysol, and other unidentifiable chemicals, which mixed with the burnt oil smell of her own clothing with nauseating effect. She entered the trauma room as Rosa pulled a sheet over the dead man’s head. Purple feet stared at her from beneath the sheet’s edge. Bad news.

  Cat handed the chart to Sue, shaking her head. “Sorry, Sam. He didn’t make it. Head and chest injuries were just too much.”

  “Great. There are a few thousand questions I wanted to ask him.” Sam exhaled loudly. “Blood alcohol?”

  “Won’t have that until the lab can do it tomorrow. From the smell, I’d guess well over the legal limit. We’ll do a drug screen also. Never met a trucker that didn’t pop uppers. Time is money and sleeping makes nothing.”

  “What about the kids in the other car?”

  “Few bumps and bruises, scared half to death, but they’ll be OK.”

  “Can I talk with them?”

  “Sure. Come on.”

  Cat led Sam to the minor trauma room and introduced her to Rick and Debbie Freeman, a young couple on their way to Flagstaff, Arizona to visit Debbie’s parents. Two pale and worn faces offered weak smiles as Sam sat down.

  “You guys OK?”

  “Been better,” Rick said, his eyes puffy from crying. He looked to be about 19, thin, pale, long brown hair in need of washing.

  “Has anyone notified your family yet?”

  “Yeah,” Debbie replied. Tears had cut snail trails through her dirt-encrusted face and her hair had been tossed in all directions. She wore an over-sized flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and untied black tennis shoes. “My mom and dad are coming from Flagstaff.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was unbelievable,” Rick said, Debbie nodding in agreement. “This truck came out of nowhere, from the bushes on to the highway. I saw it a half a mile away but thought...I don’t know what I thought...maybe that it was on a cross road or und
erpass or something. By the time it reached our side of the freeway, it was too late. I tried to change lanes, but it seemed to come after us.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know. It was all so fast. It seemed like he was after us. Or somebody.”

  “And trying to avoid the truck, you flipped over?”

  “Yeah. He took up the entire road, so I tried to slip by on the shoulder but my wheel caught the gravel and...after that we just hung on.”

  Debbie began to cry again, burying her face into her husband’s shoulder. He wrapped a protective arm around her.

  “Sam.”

  She turned to see Rosa peeking around the door.

  “Sheriff Walker’s on the phone,” she said. “Line three.”

  Sam excused herself and walked to the nurse’s station. She picked up the phone and punched line three’s blinking button. “Yeah, Charlie. What’s up?”

  “We IDed the people in the other car. It was John and Connie Beeson.”

  The words struck Sam square in the stomach, pushing acid into the back of her throat. Connie Beeson. Her third grade teacher. Her mother’s close friend before her mother had died. The Garrett jury foreman.

  Chapter 3

  After leaving the hospital, Sam had gone home, showered, and crawled into bed, pulling the comforter under her chin. Scooter, the calico cat that had adopted her two years earlier, staked his claim to half of the pillow.

  As she lay in the darkness, the sounds of Scooter’s bathing and purring in her ears, she had turned her thoughts to the trial. How would Connie’s death affect it? Surely, Judge Westbrooke wouldn’t start the penalty phase over. He would replace her with one of the alternates and the jury would elect a new foreman and the trial would go on. That made the most sense, seemed the most practical.

  And if he didn’t? Another week of trial rather than one more day.

  As these thoughts tumbled inside her head, images of her mother, her father, and Connie Beeson assaulted her. Images that brought joy and pain and drew sobs and tears that she released into her pillow.

  Connie had been her third grade teacher. More than that, Sam considered her like an aunt, part of the family. Connie and her mom had grown up together, attended school and church together, and been each other’s bride’s maids. Connie had helped Sam weather the death of her father, and years later, had offered rock steady support through her mother’s illness and death. Connie was her last flesh and blood family. Memories and a shoebox of faded photos were all she had to remember her parents. And now, Connie.

  After tossing and turning for an hour or two, much to the irritation of Scooter, who flicked his tail in protest, she finally cried herself to sleep at 2:30 am. She awoke several times during the night, but with some difficulty managed to doze again. At 7:30, she dragged herself from bed, dressed, and headed for town.

  For the third day in a row, thick gray clouds hung low over the desert, promising rain, but as yet reneging on the deal. They did release a fine mist that peppered the windshield of her Jeep. Not enough that the wipers could be left on without squeaking, but enough so that she had to flip them on and off every thirty seconds. Irritating, given her current state of fatigue.

  After picking up coffee at Starbucks for herself and Charlie, she parked in front of the Sheriff’s Department. When she entered Charlie’s office, he was on the phone. She placed the two cups of coffee on the corner of his desk, stripped off her jacket, and dropped into the chair across from him, letting the jacket slide to the floor beside her. Lifting the lid from the paper cup, she blew across the steaming brew, and then carefully took a sip.

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say, judge,” Charlie said into the phone. “I’ll talk with you later.” He hung up, a grim smile splitting his weathered face.

  “Good news?” Sam asked.

  “Judge Westbrooke plans to replace Connie with one of the alternates and proceed with the closing arguments of the penalty phase.”

  “Thank, God,” Sam said, raising her cup as if to toast the good news. “I stayed awake half the night afraid we’d have to start all over. The other half I cried over Connie.”

  “I know.” Charlie lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his thick gray hair, and then reseated the hat. “As if this town hasn’t been through enough already.”

  Sam turned in her chair as someone rapped on the open door. Lanny Mills, Chairman of the City Council, stood in the doorway. Thin strands of dull gray-brown hair glued themselves across his bald pate, offering neither style nor substance. Tall and gaunt, he possessed a low, round belly, which except for his gender, made pregnancy a possibility. He wore his usual gray suit and white shirt, which reminded Sam of an unmade bed, rumpled, creased, slept-in.

  “Charlie. Sam.” He nodded, his head bobbing above his pencil thin neck. “I heard about Connie and John Beeson.”

  “Quite a shock,” Charlie said.

  Lanny sucked air between his teeth with an irritating squeak. One of his many annoying habits. “Any idea why that trucker lost control of his rig?” Lanny asked, stepping further into the room. “Was he drinking?”

  “Don’t know, yet. But, seemed to me he was,” Charlie said.

  Lanny’s small dark eyes darted back and forth between Sam and Charlie. “Either of you patrolling the Interstate last night?”

  “You know we weren’t,” Charlie said. “There are only two of us now and I-40 is a pretty low priority until we get some help.”

  “When might that be?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. We’ve put in a request a half dozen times, but the county still hasn’t ponied up the money.”

  “Too bad.” Lanny rubbed his chin. “Patrolling that stretch of highway brought a lot of money to the city.”

  “And the county,” Charlie said.

  “Yes, of course. I meant that, too.” He cleared his throat, setting off a vibration in his over-sized Adam’s apple. “I hear the trial is going ahead.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie nodded.

  “Good. We need to get this behind us. Then all these reporters and those hippies down the street will leave.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, Lanny?” Charlie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll tell Connie’s family that you inquired about her,” Charlie said. “They’ll be grateful.”

  “Thanks.” He bobbed his head again and hurried out the door.

  Charlie propped his feet on his desk. “I knew this would drag Lanny out of the woodwork.”

  “Guess this means we’ll get a request from the Council to spend more time on I-40.”

  “I’ll file it with all the others they send over.” He nudged the trashcan beside his desk with his boot.

  “You’d think that after you whacked him in the last three elections he’d give up wanting to play Sheriff.” Sam stood and headed for the door. “I’m going over to the court. Hopefully we can wrap up this Garrett crap today.”

  Sam walked the half block to the court building, a one-floor wooden structure that had been the town’s only department store before it went out of business. Now, it housed law offices, the local DMV, and the county court. As she approached, a covey of reporters closed around her, blocking her way. Nathan Klimek took a position at the periphery of the group. Her first impulse was to push forward, but she stopped.

  “Deputy Cody,” an ABC reporter shouted. “Was one of the jurors killed last night?”

  “Yes. Connie Beeson, a local school teacher, and her husband died in a freeway accident.”

  A neatly dressed woman from CNN waved her hand and spoke. “Some of the witnesses said they felt the truck driver was after them, trying to hit them. Is that true?”

  “We’re investigating all possibilities.”

  “Such as?” the woman asked.

  “Maybe alcohol or drugs or both.”

  “How will this affect the trial?” shouted another reporter, who sported a beard, one of those lip and chin
jobs that wrapped around his mouth like a hairy donut.

  “Hopefully, not at all. I guess we’ll find out shortly.”

  “Do you think Garrett will get the death penalty?” asked a reporter, wearing a Los Angeles Dodger’s cap.

  “That’s up to the jury. And Judge Westbrooke.”

  “What do you think?” the reporter continued.

  “I think Richard Earl Garrett’s crimes speak for themselves. The butchering of three innocent children would seem to warrant the death penalty. Now, I have to get inside.”

  “Deputy Cody,” Nathan said. “Do you think Garrett is possessed by Satan?”

  “Mister Klimek, you know how I feel about that. Garrett has a head full of bad wiring, but he’s not Satan’s sidekick. I know that won’t sell papers for you, but that’s the truth.”

  She weaved through the throng and entered the building.

  *

  The cramped courtroom overflowed. Eighty people filled the gallery seats and another two dozen stood along the back wall. Bailiff Hector Romero pulled the doors closed, leaving fifty or so people to mill outside in the hall. Sam sat in the front row, behind the prosecution’s table and the waist-high rail that separated the spectators from the business side of the courtroom. The chamber vibrated with anticipation and low voices.

  Hector took his place to the left of the judge’s rostrum near the witness chair. When the door to the judge’s chamber began to ease open, he said, “All rise.”

  The murmuring voices waned, replaced by the sounds of shuffling feet as everyone stood. Judge Raymond Westbrooke entered, clad in a black robe. A tall man with graying hair, he possessed a gentle, grandfatherly face that even his grim expression couldn’t mask. He ascended the rostrum, rapped his gavel once, calling the court to order, and took his seat, flanked by United States and California flags.