by Lee Goldberg
He didn't see any blood or deformities that might indicate fractures, but that didn't mean there weren't injuries obscured from his view. "Do you feel any pain or discomfort?"
"No," Mary said.
"Do you feel any tingling, burning, or numbness in your arms or legs?" he asked, gently steadying her chin with one hand while checking her neck for tenderness with the other.
"No," Mary said, studying his face as he examined her. "I'm just a little shaken up. How about you? You're all bloody."
Mark smiled. "It looks worse than it is. Stay still, Mary. Help is on the way."
He looked in the backseat for other passengers, then went to the check on the driver of the Impala that had careened into the gas station.
The driver of the Impala was shirtless, in his late twenties, and had the dark, even tan and sun-bleached hair of a surfer. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt and was slumped over the steering wheel, which was bent out of shape, indicating the surfer had hit it hard with his chest.
As Mark got closer, he could see the surfer was conscious, that his breathing was labored, and that he was in considerable pain.
"I'm a doctor; don't try to talk," Mark said, gently easing the surfer back from the steering wheel. "I'm going to help you."
It was immediately obvious to Mark that the impact had broken several of the surfer's ribs, separating the sternum and loosening a segment of the chest wall, impairing his ability to breathe. He explained the injury to the victim while checking him for telltale signs of traumatic asphyxia, but didn't see the bulging eyes, swollen tongue, and purple discoloration of the head, neck, and shoulders that were symptoms of the emergency condition.
Mark was concerned that the victim might have suffered a possible neck injury, but the danger posed by the chest and lung trauma was far greater. He couldn't wait for help to arrive with a neck collar or a carrying board.
"I need to get you out of the car and lay you down on your back so I can help you breathe," Mark explained, then rose from the car and motioned to the nearest person he could see, which was the gas station attendant. "I'm a doctor, I need some help lifting this man out of the car."
The attendant came over and, following Mark's directions, he carefully lifted the surfer out of the car while the doctor held the victim's head in both hands to prevent it from moving. They moved the victim a short distance from the car before slowly setting him on the ground. Mark gently raised the surfer's arms above his head.
"Keep your arms over your head," Mark said. "I'll be right back."
Mark returned to the car, removed several large beach blankets he'd spotted earlier in the backseat and brought them back with him to the surfer. The doctor rolled up two of the blankets, placed them on either side of the victim's head, then used tape from his medical kit to create a make shift splint. It wasn't much, but Mark figured it was the best way to keep the surfer's head from moving until the paramedics got there and replaced it with a cervical collar.
With the neck braced, Mark quickly folded another blanket into a heavy square, set it over the depressed area of the surfer's chest, then taped it tightly into place. The pressure created by the tension of the tape against the blanket kept the loose section of the surfer's chest from moving, creating a stable cavity for respiration.
With the surfer's breathing noticeably improved, Mark sat beside him and took stock of the situation around them. Traffic was gridlocked on the highway. Several Good Samaritans were scrambling into the ravine to help the driver of the truck. He heard sirens approaching from Kanan Dune and he saw a police helicopter streaking across the sky towards the scene. It was while looking at the chopper that Mark saw something interesting that he hadn't noticed before.
High atop a light pole, positioned for the best possible wide-angle view of the gas pumps, was a security camera. And from where it sat, it also had a nice, wide-angle view of the entrance to the Slumberland Motel parking lot.
By the time Steve made it through the dense traffic to the scene of the shooting, an hour and a half had passed since the incident. He arrived as the driver of the truck was being brought up the hill in a body bag and the cars blocking the intersection were being towed to the side of the road.
After conferring with the uniformed officers at the scene, Steve found his father in the office of the gas station, sitting at the security monitor, watching the playback of a video tape.
Mark was still wearing his blood-spattered clothing, refusing treatment for his own wounds in his eagerness to watch the security footage.
Steve took one look at his dad and yelled, "I need a medic, now!"
"Is somebody hurt?" Mark asked, transfixed by what he was watching.
"Dad, you're covered in blood." Steve put his hand on his father's shoulder. "You need to see a doctor."
"I am a doctor," Mark said. "I've seen myself and I'm fine."
"Dad, you're covered in blood."
"You keep saying that," Mark said. "It's nothing that can't be cured with a few cotton balls, some antiseptic, and a bandage."
"So let an EMT do it," Steve said as one came in, as if on cue.
Mark smiled at the EMT. "Don't bother, I'll go to the hospital and have these lacerations treated there. Go help somebody who needs it."
The EMT hesitated. "You really should let me examine you, Dr. Sloan."
"I appreciate your concern, Willy, but I assure you I'm okay and that my son here will transport me directly to the hospital for treatment."
The EMT shrugged at Steve, as if to say "I did my best," and left again.
Steve looked at his father, sitting there bloodied in front of the video screen, seemingly oblivious to the fact he'd nearly been killed, more interested in solving the murder than in his own well-being.
He'd only seen his father hurt like this once before, in the aftermath of the bombing of Community General Hospital. It was a miracle Mark had escaped that tragedy with his life. And now, today, there had been another assassination attempt that Mark emerged from bloodied, but alive. Steve wondered just how many miracles his father had left in his account.
"I'm taking you to the hospital now," Steve said.
"In a minute." Mark turned his attention back to the screen. "Have you identified the man who was trying to kill me?"
"Not yet. His ID is fake and he was driving a stolen truck," Steve said. "It may not have been you he was after. The motel manager says he's been the target of a lot of irate husbands lately."
"I was the target—the security camera caught it all," Mark said, picking up a cassette and handing it to Steve. "The shooter was tailing me, but I took him by surprise when I made a U-turn in front of the motel. He had to drive up a block and turn around, but got caught up in traffic. By the time he got back, I was already in the manager's office."
"If this is the tape of the shooting that just happened, what are you watching?"
"Lacey McClure's tryst, unedited," Mark said.
"Does it punch a hole in her alibi?" Steve asked.
"Just the opposite. It corroborates Stryker's tape. You can see Lacey's car driving in at 3:12." Mark advanced the tape past the coming and going of several vehicles before, then paused the playback on the image of Lacey's car on its way out. "And there, you can see her driving out again at 4:35."
"We're screwed," Steve said.
"You'd think so." Mark popped the tape out of the VCR and handed it to Steve. "But if that's the case, why does someone want me dead?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mark sat in a medical gown on the edge of an examination table in the ER, wincing as Jesse carefully plucked glass shards out of his flesh with tweezers. While Jesse removed the glass, Susan thoroughly flushed the wounds with saline, applied disinfectant, and bandaged him up.
"With all these tiny bandages," Jesse observed, "you're going to look like you nicked yourself all over trying to shave your body hair with a cheap razor."
"Have people done that?" Susan asked incredulously.
"I haven't seen it," Jesse
said, "but this is what they'd look like if they did."
"Do you have to dig so deep?" Mark winced again. "It feels like you're using garden shears."
"I got my technique from you, so you only have yourself to blame. Have you ever considered wearing Kevlar?" Jesse asked, shooting a mischievous smile at Susan. "Considering how often people try to kill you, you could use the protection. If you'd been wearing it today, you'd have half as many cuts."
"I'll keep that in mind," Mark said, hearing a plink as Jesse dropped another shard into a metal pan full of bits of broken glass.
"Any idea who the shooter was?" Jesse asked.
Mark shook his head. "Steve is busy trying to figure that out. The shooter was carrying false ID and was crushed to death in the accident."
"I wouldn't call what happened an accident," Susan said.
"Did you learn anything at the motel?" Jesse asked.
"Titus Carville rented two adjoining rooms," Mark said. "He supposedly did it for increased privacy, but I'm wondering if there was another reason."
"Like what?" Susan asked.
"I don't know," Mark said.
"Doesn't sound like you found out anything worth someone killing you," Jesse said.
"Maybe I did and don't realize it," Mark said. "I have this nagging feeling that the answers are right in front of me and I just can't see them."
"I hate it when that happens," Jesse said.
"When has that ever happened to you?" Susan asked.
"Every time Mark solves a murder and reveals to me how it was done," Jesse said. "Lacey's new movie Thrill Kill opens tonight; want to see it with me?"
"No thanks," Susan said. "I don't like seeing a grown man drool in public."
Jesse looked at Mark. "How about you?"
"I think I'll pass," Mark said. "I heard the manager of the Slumberland and the surfer were brought here. Did you treat either of them?"
"They're doing fine," Jesse said, "thanks to you."
"I've never seen condoms and a beach blanket put to such clever use before," Susan said.
"You haven't gone to the beach with me lately," Jesse replied.
Susan laughed. "Jesse!"
"What?" Jesse replied innocently.
Noah Dent was passing by in the corridor, when he spotted Mark through the exam room window, and doubled back.
"Here comes trouble," Jesse mumbled, motioning to the door just as Dent invited himself in.
"Dr. Sloan," Dent said. "I heard you had a nasty scrape."
"More like a couple dozen," Mark said. "But I'm receiving excellent care."
"You certainly are," Dent said. "Which is why I couldn't help noticing that you didn't register with the front desk."
"It's not like we don't know who he is," Jesse said.
"But do you know who his insurance carrier is? What his deductible covers?" Dent asked, looking from Jesse to Susan, then back to Mark. "I didn't think so. When you are done with your treatment, Dr. Sloan, I expect you to fill out the payment forms like every other patient is required to do before receiving medical care."
"This is basic first aid," Jesse said. "We aren't doing open-heart surgery here."
"We charge for all the services rendered at this hospital, including services performed on our own staff," Dent said. "Your time, and these supplies, are costing us money, regardless of who you're treating."
"He just saved two people on the street," Jesse said. "You don't see him presenting them with bills."
"He's right, Jesse," Mark interjected quickly, eager to stop the dispute before it escalated. He turned to Dent. "I apologize, this is entirely my fault. I should have filled out the forms. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking clearly when I came in."
"Of course you weren't. You shouldn't be expected to be thinking about paperwork under the circumstances," Dent said, then glared at Susan. "But I expect more from our nursing staff. Sadly, they don't have any excuse."
And with that, Dent marched out.
"What a lovable guy," Jesse said.
"I'm sorry if I got you or any of the ER staff in trouble," Mark said. "I'll fill out the forms and issue a memo tomorrow taking full responsibility for whatever procedures weren't followed."
"He's really out to get you," Jesse said.
"It certainly seems that way," Mark sighed. "Maybe I should consider wearing Kevlar in the hospital, too."
Jesse and Susan gave Mark a lift back home, stopping at the Slumberland Motel along the way so Susan could pick up Mark's car for him.
It was barely evening, but Mark went straight to bed, slipping between the cool sheets and falling instantly asleep.
He awoke at eight a.m., having slept a full fourteen hours, his body making up for the sleepless night the day before and the stress of nearly getting killed at the Slumberland Motel.
Because of his injuries, Mark opted for a delicate sponge bath so as not to aggravate his many cuts. Shaving also presented a challenge, his face already scratched from the flying glass. All in all, though, he thought he looked pretty good for a man who should be dead.
He wouldn't admit it to anybody himself, but he found the brush with death invigorating. It energized him and kicked him out of the doldrums he'd been feeling over his inability to solve the case. The attempt on his life not only made him feel more alive, it gave him a sense that he'd engaged the enemy. The game was on, and he was ready to play.
Mark went into the kitchen just as Steve came in from his morning jog on the beach.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Steve asked.
"Great," Mark said.
"Great?" Steve asked incredulously.
"It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for you," Mark said.
"I wouldn't know," Steve said. "I've been up all night following up leads from the Slumberland shooting. I just got back."
"And you went for a run?"
"I needed to clear my head," Steve said. "Now I'll be so exhausted that I can't help but fall asleep."
"Did your all-nighter yield any new information?"
"Yeah, and you're not going to like it." Steve went to the fridge, pulled out a Gatorade, and drank it straight from the bottle. "The guy who tried to kill you was Albert 'Fresh' Frescetti, freelance muscle for the Mob."
"The Mob?"
"I wish everybody would start calling them something else, because I feel silly every time I say it," Steve said. "Not that the Syndicate, the Organization, or the Mafia sound any better."
"Why would anybody in organized crime want to shoot me?" Mark asked. "Wouldn't it make more sense to shoot Lacey McClure?"
"Speaking of Lacey, officially she's no longer the focus of our investigation."
"She is the case," Mark said. "She murdered her husband and his lover. This whole Mob thing is a smokescreen
"It doesn't look that way now," Steve said. "We recovered Frescetti's gun and the bullets he shot at you. They match the bullets we pulled out of Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler. It's the murder weapon."
"He kept the gun? Why would he do that?" Mark asked. If he was a professional killer, he would have ditched it right away, not saved it to use in another killing. The last thing a killer wants is to keep any evidence—especially the murder weapon—that could tie him to his crime."
"Frescetti isn't known as a great intellectual," Steve said. "He is known for being a violent sociopath."
"But even sociopaths don't want to get caught," Mark said. "And if he killed them, who drugged them first and why?"
"Maybe Jesse's theory was right," Steve said. "Maybe the drugging and the shooting aren't related."
"If it's a simple execution, why bother trying to disguise the time of death? Who came back at four thirty and fired the shots I heard?" Mark said. "And more importantly, why?"
"We can ask Daddy Crofoot that," Steve said, "when we find him."
"Why was Frescetti tailing me and not you or Lacey?" Mark continued. "I wasn't the one who accused the Mob of being responsible for the killings. I don't think the
y had any thing to do with them."
"Yeah, but they don't know that," Steve said. "You do have a reputation for being tenacious. Once they found out you were involved, maybe they got afraid you would eventually find evidence that linked them to the murders."
"Which wouldn't be too hard to do if the idiot killer was still carrying around the murder weapon," Mark said. "This doesn't make any sense, Steve."
"It does to everybody else," he said. "From the chief of police and the DA on down. Everything we've found so far confirms Lacey's story: her accountant's report, the FBI wiretaps, Stryker's video, the gas station surveillance tapes, and now a Mob killer taking shots at you with the murder weapon."
Mark shook his head. "The shots didn't even sound the same."
"What shots?"
"The shots I heard yesterday and the shots I heard the day Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler were killed," Mark said. "They didn't sound the same."
"You heard the shots in entirely different situations," Steve said. "The first time, you were sitting out there on the deck on a peaceful afternoon when you heard shots coming from fifty yards away. Yesterday, you heard the shots while diving to the floor, windows shattering and cars crashing all around you. Of course they didn't sound the same."
"I don't think that's it," Mark said. "The gunshots had a different pitch."
"How can you possibly remember the pitch?"
"I do."
"Dad, the bullets all came from the same gun."
"But that's not what I heard."
"It's what the evidence proves," Steve said. "There isn't any doubt."
"So now you're convinced she's innocent, too?"
Steve looked at his dad and wondered why this felt like a betrayal. The evidence was overwhelming and undeniable. He couldn't continue pursuing a line of investigation on gut feeling alone, not with the entire police hierarchy and the national media watching his every move. If he ignored the evidence and followed his instincts, his career would be torched. He knew he was playing politics but he was also facing reality. It didn't mean he didn't trust his father or have faith in his instincts. Steve was just doing his job.
He wanted to tell his father all those things, and he found a simple way to do it.
