Dr. Kelly Brackett stepped out of Treatment Room 3 in the Emergency Department
of Rampart General Hospital, slipped his stethoscope into his coat pocket
and sighed.
You never get used to it, he thought, with regret. No matter
how many of 'em die on you, the next one hurts as badly as the first one.
He looked down the long hallway past the white-clad nurses and doctors and
spotted the two young men in blue he had been searching for. Paramedics
John Gage and Roy DeSoto were pulling supplies and drinking coffee and were
no doubt deliberately moving slowly so that they could get an update on the
cardiac patient they had brought in
just minutes ago. Brackett made his way down the corridor, dreading having
to bring them the bad news, though they were experienced enough to know the
poor guy really didn't have a chance. Problem with that was, they were skilled
enough and dedicated enough to give their resuscitation efforts everything
they had -- and take it personally when things went sour.
Brackett didn't have to dispense the bad news, because Johnny beat him to
the punch, speaking up as Brackett approached.
"He didn't make it, did he?"
"No, he didn't." Brackett met the dark haired paramedic's eyes, then glanced
at DeSoto, who was studying the floor.
Behind the two men, Dixie McCall sat at her station, looking over the nursing
schedule for the weekend. She sighed, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"You guys did everything you could. This was a no-win situation from the
beginning."
"What about his family?" DeSoto finally looked up from the floor and spoke.
"The man he was jogging with has called them. They're on the way." Brackett
answered the unspoken question in the firemen's eyes. "No...none of them
know he's dead. It will be my sad duty to inform them of that fact." Brackett's
last words rang with disgust as he parroted the oft-quoted phrase.
There was sympathy in John and Roy's eyes as the silence hung heavy again.
"Well, good luck with that, Doc," Johnny offered awkwardly. He pushed the
supply requisition across the desk to Dixie.
"Thanks," Brackett responded dryly.
"You fellas get everything you need?" Dixie asked, signing the requisition
with a flourish.
"Sure did. This will get us through a while, I think." Johnny took the
paper and stuck it in the box with the supplies.
The Handi-talkie interrupted the idle conversation with a strident pair
of beeps. Squad 51, LA. Are you available?
Johnny retrieved the handi-talkie and acknowledged. "Ten-four, LA. Squad
51 available on a follow-up to Rampart Emergency."
Squad 51, respond with Engine 51. Stand-by.
The tones began to sound over the handi-talkie. As the tones continued,
one after the other, the four exchanged worried glances.
"Sounds big," Brackett commented.
Roy nodded. "Might be Chet's MVA," he said, without explanation.
Station 51, Station 36, Tanker 18, Engine 10. Multiple vehicle accident,
with injuries. Pacific Coast Highway, at the 54- mile marker. Pacific Coast
Highway, at the 54-mile marker. Time out, 08:12.
"Squad 51," Johnny spoke into the handi-talkie as he and Roy made their
way toward their squad.
Kelly Brackett sighed. "Dix, you'd better get these treatment rooms ready.
Find Dr. Morton and Dr. Early. Alert the labs and your staff. This one
might get hairy."
*****
Gage took the supplies from DeSoto and stored them in a space in one of
the compartments. He joined his partner in the squad, donning his helmet
as Roy cranked it up and pulled out into the rain.
"Eight-twelve," Johnny muttered. "Wonder who won the pool?"
"Wonder how many bodies we're going to find?" was Roy's grim response.
For that, Johnny had no answer.
*****
Jim Reed awoke slowly, aware of a throbbing pain in his head and his left
leg. He was confused about exactly where he was. He felt like he was floating,
but he wasn't moving. He also felt wet and chilled. The young officer opened
his eyes carefully, blinking to clear blurry vision. Reed took in his surroundings
and tried to remember what had happened.
I'm in the unit. Even through his haze, he recognized the familiar
interior of a radio car. But he was still confused as to why he seemed to
be floating, dangling in air, and in pain. In the back seat...must have
a prisoner...why am I sideways? And how is it raining in here? He blinked
again and fought to overcome the fogginess in his head. He felt moisture
on his face some of which he figured wasn't water. Did Pete crack us up?
Pete... The thought of his partner knifed through some of the fog
and he expanded his field of vision to locate Malloy.
Reed ran his eyes over the interior, saw a large man lying in the floorboard
of the rear seat, his hands cuffed behind his back. The prisoner...who
is he and why is he in the floor? What the hell happened to the seat belt?
Is he dead? Never mind him now, where's Pete? Jim focused his eyes
forward, where he thought the front seat would be, but the side of the unit
was what he saw. It was then he realized that the car was flipped on its
side. I'm hanging from my seat belt! We're on our side! The thought
momentarily panicked him and he struggled to right himself, which he quickly
discovered was a mistake. The effort to move sent waves of nauseating pain
through his leg and hip. He turned his head toward the pain, afraid of
what he might find.
Leg is trapped in the door...metal is twisted around it. Oh, that damned
tractor-trailer rammed us! On the highway...an MVA....Pete almost drove
us around it, but the trailer....the trailer…
Reed took a breath and called to Malloy. "Pete?" Jim felt like he was yelling,
but his voice was barely a raspy croak. "Pete!"
Reed turned his head until he could see Malloy -- or at least part of him.
His partner was slumped over in his seat, stretched out in the space between
the driver and passenger sides. Reed couldn't see Malloy's face, only his
left shoulder and arm and the left side of his head, but he was obviously
unconscious.
"Pete! Are you all right?" he paused, got no answer. "Pete! Partner,
are you okay?" Oh, don't be dead, please don't be dead. Reed studied
his friend's form to see if he could tell if he was breathing, but he couldn't
see enough to make a judgment.
Reed managed to move his free right leg and give the front seat a jab with
his foot. "Pete!" he rasped. But again, there was no response.
Malloy, you'd better not die on me! You'd just better not! I've got
to get out of here and get help! As the minutes passed, Jim's memory
began to return. He remembered now that they were not in Adam-12, but in
an X-car, transporting a dangerous prisoner to the County. He remembered
that it was storming and he remembered the wreck in vivid detail up until
the point that the trailer had slammed into his door. He remembered, too,
that had fate not conspired against him, he'd be on his way to a romantic
mini-vacation with his beautiful wife instead of trapped in a wrecked car
on the coast highway. The thought of Jean tore at his heart. She would
be so worried, but at least he was alive; he just needed to get out.
Jean, Jean, I'm sorry...I love you...and Jimmy...I've gotta get out of here!
Reed turned back to his trapped leg and forced his still blurry vision to
focus. He shifted his weight as best he could, suspended by that trapped
leg and his seat beat, but the pain intensified as he attempted to pull the
leg free. He gasped with the effort and fought against unconsciousness again.
Okay, no good. No good. Think, man...see what you have to work with.
Stay calm and think. Look around...see if everything else is functioning.
Reed flexed his right arm and leg and found them functional, but sore.
He moved his left arm and regretted it. It worked okay, but it was badly
cut from glass and metal fragments and was slick with blood. He rested it
against the twisted door frame and waited for the pain to subside. It was
then that Jim realized finally that rain was pouring in on him from the broken
door window and also from the shattered rear windshield.
He used his right hand to touch the left side of his head where he felt
the moisture. Jim wasn't surprised to find a sizeable lump there and to
see his hand covered in blood when he removed it. He took a deep breath
and was relieved that other than pressure from the seat belt, he didn't feel
any major pain.
Maybe my innards are intact...no broken ribs or anything...that's good.
I'll probably be bruised from this seat belt. Now, let me see if I can
use anything to get my leg out of here. If I only had my nightstick!
Reed looked around the cruiser to see if there was anything loose he could
use to lever the metal away from his leg. He was hoping that a miracle had
dislodged his nightstick from its resting place, but it wasn't in sight.
Nothing. Just my luck, nothing. Okay, bare hands it is.
Jim tried to use his good right arm to reach the metal twisted around his
thigh, but because of his awkward position in the car, he couldn't quite
reach it to gain a purchase. His fingertips brushed the door and the material
of his torn uniform, but he couldn't grasp either. He took a deep breath
and carefully moved his left arm down to the door. The movement caused fiery
pain to lance through his arm and shoulder, but he kept it moving.
The young officer's hands were slick with blood from his wounds, but he
managed to grasp a piece of the metal. Steeling himself against the pain
he knew would come, Reed began to apply upward pressure. The ragged metal
dug into his palm as he strained to move it away from his thigh. Even though
he was wet and chilled, sweat broke out on his body as he continued to pull
on the door frame. The pain in his leg and arm was excruciating. Jim felt
as if someone had a dagger plunged into his leg and was twisting it to torture
him. Finally, the pain was too much and his waning strength deserted him.
His bloodied hand slipped off the metal and he jerked in response, yelping
in pain as the fire spread through his left side. Reed lay back, exhausted.
As Jim lay limp, waiting for the pain to subside, he heard the first sirens
in the distance. He mentally placed them as CHiP motorcycle sirens. At
least help is on the way. Hearing the sirens caused him to wonder why
no one had come by to check on them and he puzzled over the fact that he
couldn't hear voices of any kind.
We must be off the road...way off...maybe down an incline...oh, God...I
wonder if anyone even saw us go over? Reed called out to his partner
again. "Pete? Pete, you okay up there?"
When he didn't even receive a moan in response from Malloy, Reed pushed
his fears aside and doubled his determination to free himself. His next
effort was to twist as far as he could to the left, raising his right leg
up to rest against the most twisted part of the door. The movement sent
excruciating pain radiating down his left leg and he couldn't help but cry
out in response. However, he refused to give in to the agony. Reed clenched
his jaw tightly, used his right arm to brace himself, then hooked his right
heel under a piece of the door. The young officer took a deep breath, them
began to push on the metal with all the strength he could muster.
Reed could feel the metal moving, digging further into his flesh, sending
his nerves into spasms of pain. Jim yelled in response to the pain, in spite
of himself, but he kept up the attempt. He tried to adjust the angle of
the pressure, to move the metal away from his leg, but he couldn't get the
proper leverage. After several minutes of torturous effort, he gave up and
relaxed against the seat, exhausted from the pain and exertion. He closed
his eyes and took great gasping breaths as he attempted to gather his thoughts.
"Whassa matter, piglet? Got your leg caught in a trap?"
Reed's eyes snapped open and he turned to see the prisoner grinning at him
with a glint in his eye that sent a chill running down Jim's spine. Sometime
during Jim's loud attempt at escape, the prisoner had regained consciousness
and turned himself around to look at the young policeman.
Jim's right hand automatically went for his gun, in a reflex ingrained into
him by training and experience. He couldn't keep the look of surprise off
his face when he found that the gun wasn't there. The snapcase that normally
held his service revolver was open and the weapon was nowhere to be seen.
My gun...where...? Jim's eyes searched the seat and the floor but
he couldn't see it anywhere.
"Don't bother, piglet. I can see it from where I am. I'll even tell you
where it is, 'cause you sure ain't gonna be able to get it." Jenssen nodded
toward the floorboard. "It's under the seat there. I see the barrel sticking
out."
Jim shifted and craned his neck. Sure enough, he could see the gun on the
floor, under the driver's side seat. Jenssen was right, too; trapped as
he was, he wouldn't be able to reach the weapon either with his arm, or his
foot. He shifted his gaze to meet Jenssen's. The frightening gleam was
still in the prisoner's eyes.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about the gun, piglet," Jenssen spoke quietly,
the voice dangerously calm. "You did a good job with the handcuffs. I can't
pick the gun up either. I sure can't fire it with my feet. So you can relax
-- I can't shoot you." Jenssen shifted his weight again and managed to sit
up, leaning against the seat bench.
"Are you injured, Jenssen?" Reed asked.
"Awwwwww, didn't know you cared, Reed," Jenssen responded.
"Just answer me," Reed snapped.
"I got a wittle bump on my head, "Jenssen joked in a baby-ish tone, "And
I think I have a boo-boo on my arm." he paused and grinned even more widely,
switching back to his normal sarcastic tone of voice to continue, "But it's
worth it, because unlike you, piglet, I'm free. Thanks to the cheap seat
belts you pigs install."
"Don't get any ideas, Jenssen. You're not going anywhere."
"Who's gonna stop me? Certainly not you, piglet. You're caught in a nice
little tangle there." Jenssen jerked his head toward the front seat. "And
I don't think your partner is gonna stop me, because I'm pretty sure he's
dead."
"He's not dead," Reed insisted forcefully, though he had no fact on which
to base his statement. Deep in his heart he was still afraid that Malloy
was dead, but he refused to accept it.
"Denial is such a beautiful state," Jenssen remarked. He sighed theatrically
and moved his legs so that he was now in a crouch. "Keep those positive
thoughts, though."
"Jenssen, stay put!" Reed barked.
"You're a funny guy, Reed. Don't worry, before I leave, I'll give you a
nice parting gift."
"Jenssen, there's been a major traffic accident here. Do you know how many
County Sheriff's and CHiPs officers will be prowling around up there? Not
to mention firemen and a dozen or more witnesses that'll peg you as an escaped
prisoner as soon as they see those handcuffs. You don't have a chance."
Reed spoke fast but he knew it probably wouldn't do any good. His point,
however, was accentuated by the sound of more sirens approaching. "You
hear all that? Those belong to County Sheriff units, engine companies, ambulances
-- scores of people!"
"I'll take my chances, piglet. There's so much confusion out there, I can
slip away unnoticed. The fog is thick, the rain is heavy. I couldn't ask
for better cover."
"You'll never make it! You're in enough trouble. Don't add escaping to
your problems!"
"Save your breath, piglet." Jenssen snaked his way up off the floor and
started wriggling toward the shattered rear window and his freedom.
He was close enough to Reed now for Jim to reach out to attempt to stop
the prisoner. Reed clamped his right hand on Jenssen's right arm, but because
of the large biceps, his hand couldn't gain purchase. Jenssen shook him
off and Reed grasped again, this time grabbing the back waistband of Jenssen's
blue jeans.
"Get back in here, Jenssen!" Jim commanded, pulling on the massive man with
all his remaining strength. Reed managed to pull Jenssen back some, but
Jenssen changed directions and started moving toward Reed. Jim's hand twisted
at the change of direction and he lost his grip again.
"I almost forgot to give you your parting gifts," Jenssen growled. "How
thoughtless of me. I might not have a gun, but I've got other things to
work with." Jenssen lunged toward the trapped officer and gave him a head-butt
that brought blood from the officer's nose and mouth.
Reed had seen it coming but he hadn't been fast enough to avoid Jenssen's
charge. The blow caused his world to turn to gray as pain exploded through
his head. He fought to stay conscious and push Jenssen away, but his hand
flailed uselessly in thin air.
"So long, piglet," Jenssen sneered. Using his heavily muscled legs, he
pushed up and wriggled his upper body through the shattered rear windshield.
"One last thing for you to remember me by, Reed, just because I promised."
Jenssen braced himself, lifted his right leg and kicked Jim in the chest.
The blow drove the breath from Jim's lungs and sent fire through his chest.
A vision of his wife and child flashed through his head as he spiraled down
into unconsciousness.
*****
Roy killed the siren as the squad reached the accident site. The engine,
following behind, did likewise.
"Will you look at this!" John breathed, as they finally got close enough
to see a distance through the fog and rain. The surreal scene unfolded before
them, eerily quiet. There were damaged vehicles and parts of vehicles strewn
over the roadway and shoulder. Strangely enough, there were no people wandering
about. That, more than anything, alarmed the paramedics.
Roy shook his head. "What a mess...this is very bad."
"How many cars you think?"
"Too many. Too many. Let's get to work."
The paramedics left the squad and donned their turnout coats again, glad
for the insulation against the cold rain and gusting winds. As they pulled
equipment, Cap's authoritative voice began to bark out commands.
"Marco! Pull an inch and a half, pal, and stand-by! Chet, help John and
Roy evaluate victims. I'll coordinate with 36s."
The men of Station 51 acknowledged their orders and moved quickly to obey.
John and Roy moved off to the first vehicle that was visible through the
fog. It was a compact car that had a crushed front-end. There was one victim
inside, a young male.
Roy took the lead. He attempted to open the driver's door, but it was jammed.
"Need a crowbar," he said.
"I'll get it." John sprinted off to retrieve the tool.
"Sir," Roy tapped on the glass. "Sir, can you hear me?"
He got no response, so he stopped to set up the biophone while he waited
for Johnny's return. He didn't have to wait long. His partner appeared
out of the fog carrying the instrument.
"I almost got lost coming back," Johnny remarked breathlessly. "The fog
is so thick! I've never seen it like this while it was raining." He slipped
the crowbar between the warped door and the frame of the car and pulled.
"It's spooky," Roy agreed. "You can't see anything until it's right up
on you."
John grunted as the door popped open. Roy moved in to evaluate the patient.
"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" Roy thumbed the young man's eyes open and
flashed his penlight to check the pupils. "Equal and reactive," he reported.
Roy took a pulse as Johnny handed him the bp cuff. "Pulse is 100."
"Rampart, this is County 51. How do you read?"
"Loud and clear 51. Go ahead." The acknowledgement came from Dr.
Joe Early, another Rampart Emergency doctor. The paramedics had great respect
for the gray-haired physician, who had a knack for bringing calm and order
to any situation.
"Rampart we have a male, approximate age 25, victim of an automobile accident.
Pupils are equal and reactive, pulse is 100...
"Respirations 17, bp 140 over 90," Roy supplied.
"BP 140 over 90, respirations 17. There is no apparent sign of trauma,
but the patient is unconscious."
"51, check the victim carefully for head and abdominal trauma. Standing
by."
"Ten-four, Rampart."
Roy palpated the victim's neck and when he was satisfied with that, he moved
the man's head to examine the back of the skull. "Head and neck are clear."
DeSoto moved to the abdomen and found no rigidity. Both arms showed no
fractures, but when he checked out the victim's legs, he felt fractures on
both limbs.
"Found something!" DeSoto exclaimed quietly. "Feels like a tib-fib fracture
on the right leg, and fracture of the lower tibia on the left. No wonder
the poor guy is out cold."
"Rampart, the only apparent injuries are a tib-fib fracture of the right
leg and a fracture of the lower tibia in the left leg. Patient is still
unconscious."
"Ten-four, 51. Start an IV with lactated Ringers, TKO, splint both fractures
and transport as soon as possible."
"IV, lactated Ringers, TKO, splint fractures and transport. Ten-four, Rampart."
Johnny replaced the handset of the biophone. "You want to splint him and
set the IV before we move him?"
Roy studied a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, let's keep him out of the weather.
I think I can get to him okay."
"I'm going for splints."
"I'll start the IV." Roy opened the drug box to get a bag of D5W. "Check
on the status of the ambulances while you're back there!"
"Right." Johnny disappeared into the rain and fog.
Roy started the IV quickly. It was easy to work when the victims weren't
fighting you. He had just hung the IV bag from a piece of roof metal when
Chet appeared at his side. Roy had neither heard nor seen him until he spoke
from the mist, startling him.
"Roy! You can't believe what's up there," the fireman breathed. His face
was pale and he seemed shaken.
"You okay, Chet?" Roy asked, concerned.
"There are code Fs everywhere," Chet responded, breathing deeply in an apparent
effort to stay calm. "I saw six people and only two are alive."
"My God. Are you sure?"
Chet nodded. "I'm sure. There are more victims up there, but squad 36
is handling them."
"Who's working 36?"
"Brice and Maynard."
"Good. Chet, you'd better go find a Sheriff's deputy to report those Code
Fs to. Will we be able to get to the living victims?"
"I think so. One's in a white Chevy Caprice, the other in an Olds 88 --
blue."
"Thanks."
As Chet disappeared into the fog, Johnny reemerged carrying the rest of
the equipment they needed. He set it down and handed Roy the splints.
"Chet says there are four Code Fs up ahead." Roy stated as he began the
work of splinting the legs.
Johnny's mouth dropped. "Anyone living?"
"Two. One in a white chevy and one in a blue Olds."
"Can you handle this? I'll go check it out."
"I can handle it. Take the biophone and the drug box."
"Right. There's an ambulance on scene now. Cap's sending them here. You
think I should call Rampart and ask permission to send this guy in without
an escort?"
"Yeah."
"Rampart, this is County 51."
"Go ahead 51."
"Rampart, we have multiple victims here. Request permission to send
in victim number 1 without an escort. We have an ambulance on scene. Otherwise,
I can't predict an ETA."
"Okay, 51, permission granted to send in the victim without escort."
"Ten-four, Rampart." Johnny replaced the handset and broke down the
biophone.
"I'll join you after the ambulance picks this one up."
"Right."
*****
Erik Jenssen wormed his way out of the wrecked patrol car, ignoring the
shards of broken glass that clawed at his abdomen. He used his powerful
legs to propel himself clear of the backseat and shattered window to come
to rest on the canted decklid. The rain poured down on him but he welcomed
it, as it cleared his head and gave him an edge. "I'll need that edge, thought,
as he took a minute to formulate a plan.
Jenssen glanced back into the patrol car to make sure that both officers
were still unconscious, which they were. He hoped they were both dead, but
he thought he could still hear Reed struggling to breathe. It was too late
to worry about the pigs, anyway -- he was getting out and that was all that
mattered now.
Jenssen studied the area in all directions, looking for the best way out,
but all he could see was fog and rain. He slid off the decklid and found
precarious purchase on a muddy, slippery ground. He leaned up against the
car to balance, but the unit started groaning and shifting, moving a few
inches down an incline. Jenssen moved away from the black and white and
noted that the unit was perched on an incline. It certainly didn't seem
stable. It crossed his mind that he could probably send the police car sliding
down that incline with a push, but he decided not to risk it because he might
fall himself. The prisoner couldn't tell how far down the incline went because
the fog and rain were too thick. He did know, however, that he would have
to stay higher up the slope to avoid sliding down the precipitous ground
himself. With his hands bound behind his back, he could very easily lose
his balance on the muddy, wet ground and be unable to stop a slide.
"Damn! I need my hands!" he grunted aloud, as he began slowly making his
way across the slippery ground.
A thought occurred to him, then. Something the piglet had said about "engine
companies and firemen."
"Firemen!" Jenssen thought, exultant. "Firemen, who can't arrest me! Firemen,
who carry instruments that can get me out of these handcuffs! Thanks for
the tip, piglet!"
Jenssen altered his heading so that he was walking not straight up the slick
slope, but at an angle. He used the sides of his feet to dig into the ground
to keep from sliding. The work was exhausting and slow. He shivered from
the cold rain and was buffeted by the winds. Lightning still flashed through
the sky on occasion, illuminating the fog briefly. Often he slid, despite
his best efforts, but he was athletic enough that he was able to keep his
balance, even cuffed.
Jenssen lost track of time, but eventually was rewarded by seeing asphalt
appear before him. He had made it to the top. He triumphantly took the
last step up onto a solid purchase.
Well, piglet, you were wrong...I AM gonna make it. Now, to find a fireman.
*****
Gage gathered up the biophone and the drug box and began to pick his way
through a maze of twisted metal to locate Chet's two survivors. The paramedic
could hear more activity now as he moved closer to the center of the accident
scene. He could hear fire personnel from 36s talking to each other and he
could hear law enforcement radios squawking. The disembodied voices made
the scene even more surreal. It was still strange that no civilians were
moving about or talking, or even yelling for help. It was unnerving.
A shadowy shape in front of him became a vehicle as he came close enough
to see through the fog. It was a black mustang -- or what was left of one.
Two victims were crushed inside and John could see without checking for
a carotid pulse that Chet was right about these two. Code Fs, all right.
The driver had been partially decapitated by something and his head was
literally hanging onto his chest held only by one or two unsevered muscles.
The passenger, a young woman, was crushed and impaled by a piece of metal
that didn't even look like came from the car. Aside from severe burns, it
was possibly the worst sight John Gage had seen in his service as a fireman,
let alone a paramedic.
Don't think about it...move! John tore himself away from the gruesome
scene and moved to the next shadowy lump. It was a blue Buick, sitting half
on-half off the roadway. Chet hadn't mentioned survivors in a Buick, but
he felt obligated to check anyway. As John approached, he could see that
the car had a severely crushed driver's side, and the passenger door was
flung open. John couldn't see the victim. He assumed he or she was slumped
into the front seat. When he got to the door and looked inside, though,
there was no one there. He blinked in surprise and then realized that the
victim had probably been thrown from the car.
Gage quickly moved around to the other side and found a woman sprawled on
the pavement.
"Ma'am! Fire department, ma'am." he knelt beside her. "Ma'am, can you
hear me?" John reached for the carotid pulse and found one, weak and rapid.
"Mmmmm....wha...?" surprisingly, he got a response.
"Fire department ma'am. Just take it easy. I'm here to help you."
"Help...me..."
"Yes, ma'am, that's why I'm here. I'm going to help you." John soothed
as he placed a bp cuff around her arm. "Just relax. You're gonna be okay."
*****
Unlike his young partner, Pete Malloy awoke with a start, jerking himself
up off the seat bench to what he thought would be an upright position. It
didn't take him long to realize that "upright" in this case was actually
sideways. He put a hand out against the dash to brace himself and to recover
from the dizziness that his quick movement had brought on. A jackhammer
of pain was pounding in his head and the coffee he had consumed just a little
over an hour ago threatened to evacuate his stomach.
Pete took a deep breath and swallowed back the nausea.
I've obviously wrecked the black and white...damn if I can remember what
happened. We're on our side. This isn't Adam-12, though...strange marks
on the seat...
The empty passenger side startled him. Where was Jim?
"Jim?" he called out. Pete craned his head around -- more slowly this
time -- to see if he could see his partner. He found that he couldn't turn
sufficiently, but he heard ragged breathing coming from the back seat. Whoever
it was sounded like they were having trouble. "Jim?" he repeated. "Stupid
seat belt!" Pete yanked at the release until the offending belt popped open.
He slid down the front bench but managed to catch himself before he hit
the passenger door. Malloy had to pause again to let another wave of nausea
pass, but he used the time to flex his arms and legs and reassure himself
nothing was broken.
Satisfied, he flung an arm over the seat back and pulled himself up slowly,
turning to look in the back. The sight of his unconscious partner trapped
in the door froze him. Jim was suspended by his left leg and seat belt,
blood running from his nose and mouth. His hesitation lasted only a moment.
"Jim! Oh, no..." Pete crawled over the seat, pushing his own discomfort
into the background. "Jim, can you hear me?" Pete balanced himself in the
floorboard by Jim, then reached up and took his partner's pulse. He was
pleased to find a strong, regular, but rapid rhythm. The ragged breathing
bothered Malloy, but at least Jim was breathing.
Pete considered releasing Jim's seat belt to see if that would alleviate
the difficult breathing, but after studying how his leg was trapped, and
how the car was slanted, he decided that the seat belt was helping to support
his partner and was probably better for him. Jim was soaked and shivering
from the rain pouring in but Pete couldn't find anything to cover him with.
Malloy tried once again to awaken him.
"Jim? Partner. Can you hear me?" Pete put a hand under Jim's chin and
gently lifted his head. "Jim, wake up, now. It's me, Pete. Come on, wake
up!"
A low, incoherent moan was the only response Reed could muster.
"That's it, come on, talk to me, Jim." Pete tapped his partner gently on
the cheek. "Come on, wake up." Pete blinked raindrops out of his eyes and
willed his partner to respond. As he waited, Pete noticed that Jim had an
odd mark on his uniform front, like an imprint, and there was dirt and grit
ground in the shirt. It suddenly hit him that it was a footprint.
"Who the hell kicked you, partner!" he exclaimed, suddenly angry.
Somebody <U>kicked</U> him? That one bizarre
thought started a domino effect and Pete forced himself to stop and think
like the cop he was.
Jim's in the back...of course, we had a prisoner! And he's gone!
Pete looked to the empty side of the back seat, noted the broken seat belt,
then regarded the broken back windshield. He saw blood on the window frame.
Obviously, the prisoner's seat belt had broken during impact, and he'd escaped,
crawling through the broken windshield. Apparently, Jim had attempted to
stop him and the prisoner had kicked him in the chest. No wonder his breathing
sounded labored.
A quick glance at his partner's side revealed the open snapcase and the
missing revolver. Pete's first thought was that the prisoner had it, but
surely he had been handcuffed and should not have been able to take the weapon.
Pete gently placed Jim's head back down to his chest because it was obvious
Jim wasn't going to come around anytime soon. He got down and looked under
the seat to see if he could find Jim's gun. With a great deal of relief,
he located the revolver under the seat.
Malloy retrieved the gun and checked to see if it had been fired. It had
not. Pete took the gun and tucked it into the back of his belt.
"Okay, partner," Pete said aloud to Jim, "I'm drawing a blank here. I gotta
go after this guy, but I can't even remember his name, let alone what he
looked like. Wake up for me, now." Malloy reached up and gently shook his
partner's shoulder. "Come on, now's your chance to make fun of your old
partner losing his memory. Jim?"
Pete sighed as Jim remained unresponsive. Under his hand, Pete could feel
the muscles trembling. He gave Jim's shoulder a squeeze. "Hang in there,
partner. I'm going for help. I'm not sure what I'm gonna do, but...hey!"
a sudden idea came to Pete. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his
notebook. He blinked away the haze that his roaring headache was causing
and looked through his notes. Maybe that prisoner's name was there somewhere.
If not, maybe there was a clue that would help him remember.
Nope, I can remember this one...purse snatch suspect...that was yesterday.
Address for witness to traffic accident, address for witness to vandalism...license
plate number for the deuce...description of 211 suspects...the bar fight
witnesses addresses, nope, nothing.
Malloy replaced the pad then reached into his partner's pocket and retrieved
his notebook. Maybe, just maybe, there would be something in Jim's notes.
The papers were slightly damp from the rain, but Malloy carefully thumbed
through the pages, reading Jim's unique shorthand scrawl. Because Jim kept
the log, he sometimes made notes for it if he got rushed with calls so he
could fill it in later.
Let's see....traffic stops, description of 211 suspects...yeah, I can
remember these...459 report at Carlisle's Jewelry...hmmm...that's familiar...one
suspect...pursuit in alley behind store, down Harrisburg, etc....apprehended
in alley behind Walnut. Pete thumbed through a few more pages, but nothing
struck him as unusual. He turned back to the page where the 459 information
was. Why can I remember things from yesterday, but not today? I don't
even know where I am or where I was going. Think, Peter J., think!
His attention was drawn once again to the writing on Jim's notebook.
"459 report at Carlisle's Jewelry," Pete read aloud, "one suspect, pursuit
in alley behind store, down Harrisburg, cross Madison, down Magnolia. One
suspect. One suspect. Why can't I remember that suspect?" his eyes wandered
back to the footprint on Jim's chest. "That's one big foot. Bigger than
your boats, partner." the senior officer closed his eyes and rubbed his
temples. "Big foot. Big foot for a big man. Big man. Long pursuit, big
man..." A sudden flash of memory came back; Jim talking to him. "That
was one of the biggest guys I've ever had to take down. The cuffs barely
fit around his wrists!"
"But is it the same guy? Hell, it doesn't matter, I've got to make an attempt
to locate him. I'm looking for a big guy, handcuffed. I have no idea where
I am or how long he's been gone. Piece of cake!"
Pete shifted his position to crawl back over the front seat to get the shotgun.
Suddenly he had to grab for a handhold as the car lurched and slid. "Whoa!
Whoa! This isn't good." he stayed perfectly still until the car settled
again. "Great, just great." Pete leaned over slowly and took the shotgun
from the rack. He even more slowly moved back into the rear of the car where
Jim was still unconscious. Still shivering. Still struggling to breathe.
I can't leave him here! The car's not stable! How can I just leave
him? If something happens how can I ever face Jean and tell her I left him?
Stop it, Malloy... you have to leave him. You have a prisoner to apprehend.
Besides, you have to bring help!
Once more he reached out and touched his partner on the shoulder. "I promise,
I'll be right back. With help. Don't die on me, Jim. Hang in there."
Pete gently wriggled up through the windshield, careful of the shattered
glass. He made his movements as slow and small as possible to keep the car
from shifting any further. Malloy slid off the decklid easily, barely finding
a purchase in the wet, muddy ground. He looked around the car briefly, noted
that it was located on a semi-steep incline and only the occasional large
rock seemed to be keeping the car from plunging into an abyss of fog. The
constant rain made finding any footsteps impossible.
The officer wiped rain from his face and looked around, but was frustrated
by the fog and rain -- he couldn't tell anything about where he was because
of the visibility. All he knew was that he had to go up -- the steep embankment.
Malloy took one last look at the black and white and at his partner, unconscious
and trapped in the back seat. "I'll be right back," he promised, then forced
himself to turn his attention to his duty. He carefully began the trudging,
slippery journey to the top of wherever he was.
*****
"Ma'am, please lie still," Johnny requested of his victim, not for the
first time. "You may have an injury to your neck or back, and if you move
around you can injure yourself further."
"Hurts...hurts so much," the victim, an attractive black woman in her late
thirties, had regained consciousness while Johnny examined her.
"I know, I know," Johnny attempted to soothe her as he started the IV Rampart
had directed. "I'm going to ask the hospital if I can give you something
for that pain. Can you please hang on and be still for just a few more minutes?"
"Hurry," the woman pleaded, her voice taut with effort.
"Promise." Johnny pulled out the handi-talkie. "Engine 51, this is Squad
51."
Squad 51, Engine 51. Go ahead.
"Cap, I need a backboard and a c-collar. I'm going to need an ambulance.
One victim."
Ten-four on the backboard and c-collar, Squad 51. An ambulance is available,
but advise that you'll need to bring the victim to this location for transport.
It's impossible to get the vehicle through this maze of wreckage. Also
advise that I'm asking LA to send an additional squad.
"Ten-four, Cap!" Johnny put the handi-talkie back on the drug box and picked
up the biophone.
"Rampart, this is Squad 51."
"Go ahead Squad 51." It was Dixie again. Apparently the docs
were playing musical base stations. Nearly every call had netted him a different
doctor or nurse.
"Rampart, I have started an IV on victim number two. I'm about to put her
on a backboard with a c-collar. She is in considerable pain, Rampart.
Request permission to administer MS."
"Stand-by 51."
Johnny could hear papers rustling as Dixie searched for the vital information.
He could hear the doctors talking in the background. The base station
at Rampart must be in an uproar.
"Squad 51, this is Rampart. Do you read?"
"Loud and clear, Rampart."
"51, okay to administer 10 milligrams MS IV. Continue to monitor vitals
and watch for any respiratory suppression. Do not send patient in without
an escort."
"That's 10 milligrams MS, IV, monitor vitals, watch for respiratory distress,
and do not transport minus escort. Ten-four, Rampart!"
Johnny pulled the morphine sulfate from the drug box and administered the
dosage. "Ma'am, you should start to feel better real soon,. Just relax."
"Cold," the woman complained.
"I know. I'm sorry I can't keep this rain off you. But as soon as I get
you fixed up, you'll be in the ambulance, where you'll be warmer."
"Thank you."
"It's all right. This is what they pay me for." John smiled down at her,
pleased to notice that the MS seemed to be doing its work.
Roy suddenly entered his line of vision, appearing from the mist. "What
have you got here?" he asked.
"Maybe a neck or back injury -- no paralysis, but the c-spine feels funny
and she's hurting badly. Rampart authorized MS."
"She come from the Buick?"
"Yeah. Chet missed her. She was on the ground over here."
"You got this one?"
"Yeah, why don't you take the biophone and drug box and see if you can find
another survivor? I can't leave this victim."
"Okay."
"Cap says he's calling in another squad."
"Good. We need the help."
Almost as he said it, the tones sounded over the handi-talkie and LA called
out Squad 10.
Roy gathered up the biophone and drug box. "I'm going on up further."
"I'll find you as soon as I can," Johnny promised.
"Okay." Roy disappeared into the fog.
*****
Erik Jenssen didn't allow the triumph and happiness he felt over reaching
solid ground to last long. If he was going to make this escape attempt successful,
he was going to have to have his hands. Finding a fireman at an accident
scene shouldn't be difficult, but it was going to be more difficult because
of the fog and rain. He had to be extremely careful. The piglet was right;
Sheriff's deputies had to be crawling around everywhere, too. Those
he had to avoid at all costs.
The trouble was, the fog and rain were obscuring his vision to just a few
feet. Right now, all the prisoner could see were hulking shadows, which
were probably cars. He could hear voices now, but he couldn't make out everything
they were saying. The sirens had all but stopped. Only a few could be heard
as new vehicles came and some went.
Jenssen looked in both directions, irritated that virtually all he could
see was a wall of white. It was difficult to tell which direction to go.
He made an arbitrary decision to move to his right.
The prisoner moved slowly and quietly along the side of the highway. He
walked with his face paralleling the road. If someone came up behind him
he didn't want them to see the handcuffs first thing. He slowed as a shadowy
hulk appeared before him. As he approached, his footsteps silent, he noticed
that it was a car. He walked up to it and peered in. There was one person
inside, either unconscious or dead. Either way, he wouldn't be a bother.
Jenssen moved around the car, and was startled when a motion caught his
attention. He crouched beside the car quickly and watched the shadowy figure.
It was a fireman, carrying a large board and something else in his hands.
The fireman was jogging through the fog and never even noticed Jenssen.
He relaxed. Maybe that one would be a good one to follow.
Jenssen stood from his crouch and moved cautiously in the direction the
fireman went. But Jenssen moved slowly, keeping to the side of the road.
As he moved a few feet, he suddenly heard disembodied voices. He stopped
to listen.
"What kept you, Chet?"
"Ah, John, we're a little busy out here!"
"And we're not? Put the backboard right here. And give me the collar."
"Okay....you need any help with her?"
"Nah, not right now. I will need some help with transport in a minute.
We have to take her to the ambulance. It'll take me a minute to get her
ready. Why don't you go see if Roy needs you and check back with me in about
five minutes? You can help me get her to the ambulance."
"Which way did he go?"
"That way. He went to try and find your survivors."
"I'll be right back."
Jenssen allowed himself a sly smile as he heard the footsteps of the fireman
leaving. Oh, boy...one fireman gone, and another one alone with a victim.
Five minutes. Hell, it wouldn't take him three minutes to get the cuffs
off and he'd be gone. Perfect. This was perfect.
Jenssen moved down the side of the road until he saw the shadowy outline
of the fireman and the victim lying next to him on the asphalt. They were
hidden from the rest of the accident scene by the victim's car. It just
kept getting better and better. He moved closer. The fireman had his back
to him, and his attention was on a white collar that he was fiddling with.
Even better.
The prisoner moved up to stand right behind the fireman. He hadn't even
seen him yet, nor had he heard him. This was just going to be too easy.
"Hey, hose jockey," Jenssen said, his voice calm.
"Huh, what?" the fireman spun, still crouched by his victim. "Where did
you come from? Do you need help? Are you hurt?" there was an unreadable
look on the fireman's face.
"Never mind where I came from," Jenssen replied. "But yeah, I need your
help."
"Okay, okay...I've got to finish up with this woman first, but...."
"But, nothing!" Jenssen sneered. He lashed out with a leg and kicked the
fireman off his crouch. He didn't use too much force, because the prisoner
needed the fireman functional, but he used enough to let the scrawny little
guy know who was now in charge. The fireman went down with a grunt of surprise
and now the look on the smaller man's face was one of angry disbelief.
"Hey, what'd you do that for?" the fireman demanded. He rolled to
a sitting position, rubbing his knee where Jenssen had made contact. "I'm
here to help you! Now settle down!"
"Me first," Jenssen demanded.
"Look, pal, I've got a seriously injured woman here. I gotta finish..."
Jenssen made a threatening move toward the fireman again. "You gotta finish
nothing. I'm in charge now."
"You're what?" the fireman exclaimed, his face now contorted into a furious
glare. "Now, see here, fella!"
"No, you see here!" Jenssen took a step backward, toward the victim.
He put one foot beside the woman's head, then took his other foot and put
it on the opposite side of her head, poised to move. "You're going to do
exactly what I say, or I'll snap this woman's neck in two."
