Act
of Murder: A Doc Brady Mystery
Chapter 1
by John Bishop MD
Chapter 1
by John Bishop MD
Excerpted
from Act
of Murder: A Doc Brady Mystery. Copyright © John Bishop. All rights
reserved. Published by Mantid Press.
STEVIE
Saturday,
March 12, 1994
What
I remember first about that day was the sound of a sickening thud. It
was blended almost imperceptibly with the screeching of tires, both
before and after the thud. I had been in the backyard, watering our
cherished potted plants and flowering shrubs. As soon as I heard the
screech, I dropped the plastic watering bucket and tore down the
driveway toward the front yard, thanking God that the electric
wrought-iron gate was open, and praying that Mary Louise was not the
source of the street sounds.
Although
it wasn’t
but 150 feet or so from the backyard to the street, it seemed that I
was moving in slow motion through a much longer distance. Our
neighbor to the right as we faced the street was kneeling down over a
small blue lump. I remember initially thinking it was a neighborhood
cat or dog with a sweater but as I neared the scene, I saw that the
blue lump was Bobbie’s
son, Stevie.
Bobbie
was screaming, “OH,
GOD! Oh, God! Jim Bob, is he all right? OH, GOD, JIM BOB, PLEASE LET
HIM BE ALL RIGHT!”
Stevie
was not all right. I felt his little ten-year-old wrist for a pulse.
Nothing. I felt his left carotid artery. Nothing. I considered
rolling him over on his back but was afraid that if he were in shock
and not dead, I could paralyze him if his spine were fractured. Some
of the other neighbors had arrived by then. I yelled for someone to
call 911.
“Can’t
you give him mouth-to-mouth or something?”
Bobbie
had yelled. “You’re
a doctor, for God’s
sake! DO something! Oh, please, do SOMETHING!”
I
felt helpless and wished I could do something. Anything. A mother was
losing her child, and all my years of medical training were, at that
particular moment, useless. I waited with her and tried to keep her
from moving Stevie. But how can you keep a mother from trying to
shelter, protect, hide, and heal her child? Mostly, I waited with her
and Stevie, feeling for his carotid pulse repeatedly, though my touch
would not restore it.
It
seemed like an eternity before the Houston Fire Department arrived,
although later my neighbors would tell me it was only four or five
minutes. The paramedics were affected as much as I was by the slight,
crushed bundle. Although there was, thankfully, little external
bleeding, they must have sensed the lifelessness when they stabilized
his neck before gently moving him onto the stretcher and into the
ambulance. He seemed so tiny to me as the paramedics deftly intubated
Stevie and started an IV running. It appeared they injected his
heart, probably with epinephrine, before they electroshocked him. A
heartbeat did not register on the monitor.
As
I rode in the ambulance with Bobbie and the paramedics, I thanked God
that Mary Louise was not the one being resuscitated. I vaguely
remembered her running outside during the commotion. Knowing her and
her composure and intelligence, she probably had called 911 before I
had time to give those instructions. Her gentle hand had rested
briefly on my shoulder as little Stevie was loaded into the
ambulance. A great woman, my wife. I was glad our only son, J. J.,
was away at college. At least he couldn’t
get run over in front of our house.
“You’re
a doc?”
asked
the least-busy paramedic in the ambulance. I nodded. “Jim
Bob Brady.”
All
three continued to work on Stevie, attaching monitors, pushing IV
drugs, and occasionally using the paddles to try to stimulate his
heart into beating.
“What
kind?”
one
of the other paramedics asked.
I
thought that was a helluva time to be making small talk. Dead child,
or presumably dead child. Mother, semi-hysterical, clinging to me.
Ambulance speeding down Kirby, sirens blaring. Who cared what kind of
doctor I was! Obviously, not a very good one. I had done nothing to
help save that child. At that moment, I felt I should be anything but
a doctor.
“Orthopedic
surgeon, although this doesn’t
seem the time to discuss my career,”
I
snapped. The comment ensured a silent journey the remaining five or
six minutes to Children’s
Hospital.
Poor
guys. We all become too calloused in the medical and surgical
business, seeing murder, mayhem, and tragedy the way we do. But this
was my neighbor’s
child, and I felt for her. And him. And me.
Fortunately,
the traffic was light that Saturday afternoon. Normally, Fannin
Street was stop-and-go in the several blocks known as the Texas
Medical Center. As the ambulance pulled into the emergency center,
people seemed to be everywhere. An injured child draws considerable
attention—not that adults don’t,
but the Children’s
Hospital staff was impressively organized, showing efficiency,
compassion, and skill. Within the next thirty minutes or so, they had
examined little Stevie and pronounced him dead. Apparently, the
trauma team was composed of not only medical personnel but of social
workers, ministers, and counselors. Bobbie was shattered, requiring
sedation. She was attended to, and I was left to give details of the
accident. I fended questions regarding arrangements for the body and
all the usual accompanying inquiries in such a situation.
I
begged off from the full-frontal assault, explaining that I was a
neighbor and had come along for the ride because I was a doctor, in
case I could help. No, I didn’t
know anything, but if I could make a few calls, I could find some
people to answer their questions.
I
left the holding area in the back of the emergency room and returned
to the lobby through the electric double doors. I assumed the
personnel on duty had allowed me to remain in the NO VISITORS area
because they had heard from the paramedics that I was a physician. I
was surprised, dressed as I was in baggy shorts and a not-so-clean
T-shirt. I had been dressed for gardening, not doctoring and death.
The
lobby was fairly empty except for a few sick children and their
overwrought parents. Not wanting to search for a physician’s
lounge and the privacy it would afford, and having left my cell phone
at home in the rush, I used a pay phone to call home. I had to borrow
a quarter from a phone neighbor.
“Hello?”
“It’s
me.”
“How
are you holding up?”
Mary
Louise asked.
“I’m
all right, other than feeling useless. Stevie’s
dead. Seems he was killed instantly. The chief pediatric surgeon
thinks his chest was crushed. Ruptured heart. They’ll
have to do an autopsy to know for sure. Bobbie collapsed. They have
her on a gurney in one of the exam rooms, sedated. They’ve
been incredibly kind and attentive.”
“I
feel so sorry for her. Is anyone else there yet?”
“Well,
that’s
one reason I called. The hospital staff is asking all kinds of
questions. The police will want to talk to witnesses. Someone needs
to be here who knows more about their personal lives and preferences
than I do. Do you know where Pete is?”
“He’s
on his way from his office. He’s
involved in some big trial that starts Monday. At least that’s
what the Mullens told me. I called a few of the neighbors, and they
called a few more people, and so on. You know how the network is
around here. Bobbie’s
sister should be there soon, and Pete, God help him, should be there
any minute.”
She
paused. “Do
you want me to come and get you?”
Great,
Brady, I thought, you even forgot you have no car.
“No,
that’s
all right. I’m
going to hang out here until I see Pete, or someone else I recognize,
and see if I can help out with anything. I’ll
see you as soon as I can. Oh, one more thing. I love you. For a long
five seconds or so, I thought it might have been you out in the
street.”
“I’m
still here, sweetie. I love you, too.”
As
Stevie’s
dad Pete and the others arrived, I basically directed traffic and
answered their questions as best I could. When I felt that I had done
enough, I walked outside. The paramedics were still hanging around
the emergency entrance. I apologized for my rudeness in the
ambulance, but they seemed to understand. They kindly offered me a
ride home.
On
the way, two of the men sat in the back with me and made small talk
about the medical world. I asked if either of them smoked. They
looked at each other, laughed, then individually brought out their
own packs of carcinogens. As we all lit up, I hoped that the oxygen
had been turned off.
About
the Author:
John
Bishop MD
is the author of Act
of Murder: A Doc Brady Mystery.
Dr. Bishop has practiced orthopedic surgery in Houston, Texas, for 30
years. His Doc Brady medical thriller series is set in the changing
environment of medicine in the 1990s. Drawing on his years of
experience as a practicing surgeon, Bishop entertains readers using
his unique insights into the medical world with all its challenges,
intricacies, and complexities, while at the same time revealing the
compassion and dedication of health care professionals. Dr. Bishop
and his wife, Joan, reside in the Texas Hill Country. For more
information, please visit https://johnbishopauthor.com