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  First Do No Harm

  By

  Dr. L. Jan Eira

  *****

  BY:

  Dr. L. Jan Eira

  First Do No Harm

  Copyright © 2010 by Dr. L. Jan Eira

  Edition License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to www.amazon.com/author/janeirabooks and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Other books by this author:

  - Seconds From Revenge

  (a stand-alone part 2 to First Do No Harm)

  - Still

  These books may be purchased at www.amazon.com/author/janeirabooks

  Facebook Author Page

  www.facebook.com/janeirabooks

  First Do No Harm

  Preface

  The Facts

  Over the last fifty years, heart disease emerged as the number one killer of Americans. This formidable slayer is capable of taking a life slowly, over many years of misery, or rapidly, in a matter of seconds.

  The most important heart chamber, the left ventricle, can become weakened and inefficient by a variety of mechanisms, characterized by progressively incompetent heart contractions. This leads to congestive heart failure or CHF. Its sufferers develop fatigue, shortness of breath and physical activities become harder and harder to perform. This progression of declining quality of life is often paralleled by repeated hospitalizations and eventually death from pump failure. This may take years, sometimes decades, to transpire.

  Some patients suffer from the sudden emergence of lethal arrhythmias, racing heartbeats caused by electrical short-circuiting within the heart’s electrical system. Patients afflicted by these disorders collapse unexpectedly and suddenly, their hearts quivering uncontrollably. Effective pumping and circulation cease instantaneously and, without prompt resuscitation, sudden cardiac arrest (SCA) ensues. Rapid initiation of cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) and quick defibrillation—delivery of a shock across the heart to bring to a halt these deadly electrical short-circuits—are necessary to save the life of a SCA victim.

  Electrophysiologists are cardiologists that specialize in the care of patients with heartbeat disorders. Individuals at high risk for SCA are fitted with an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD), a small device that monitors the heart rhythm for the emergence of lethal arrhythmias. If these fatal arrhythmias arise, the ICD shocks the heart from within to normal rhythm, saving the patient’s life.

  Roughly, on average, one American dies of cardiovascular causes each minute. Unfortunately, for many of these individuals, a fatal SCA event is the first and only manifestation of heart disease.

  Research dollars directed to the fight against heart disease have increased appropriately by government and private organizations alike. Institutions delivering results are held especially high on the pedestal of medicine and those directing the battle are widely revered.

  *****

  Today

  October 1

  8:28 PM

  It was a beautiful twilight in October—a perfect end to a perfect day—not too hot, not too cold. Everything was just right in Evansville. The moon was a crescent sliver. Around it, a million stars hung high with a perfectly painted deep blue sky as the background. All seemed in place and at peace.

  Erratic footsteps and loud chaotic breathing suddenly assaulted the calm of the serene autumn evening. The approaching dark form was Dr. Jack Norris. At this time, Jack was not sure of anything—he knew not who he was, where he was or even what he was doing. He wore an expression of utter panic and fear. He was a tall, handsome man with dark features and a square jaw. His hair was disheveled. He looked awful and felt even worse. His heart hammered powerfully inside his ribs and he had a colossal headache. He walked rapidly, occasionally looking back. Then he ran for several yards. Jack scampered away from the hospital’s main building, unpredictably changing from a rapid walk to a mad dash. His vision was cloudy at best; for short periods, it would become exceedingly focused. He was sweating profusely and panting ferociously. Weary. Wild. His mind had become nebulous and he simply was incapable of logical reasoning. There were horrible images in his mind, but he could not explain or understand any of them.

  He entered and zigzagged aimlessly through the meandering streets of the affluent neighborhood that surrounded the Newton Memorial Hospital. As he ran, confusion, thundering palpitations, breathlessness, and headache became exacerbated exponentially. Occasionally, Jack had to stop, but this made him feel dizzy and faint. He developed increasingly severe bouts of abdominal cramping causing him to bend at the waist. Doing so provided brief and mild relief. Sporadic stints of nausea also ensued. As these symptoms would wax and wane, a heightened feeling that he needed to run would overcome him. He would scurry again. Stumbling faster, and faster.

  To lighten his load in his escalating bewilderment, paranoia, and desire to escape, he had shed his lab coat. The white jacket had been tossed carelessly on the ground of the doctor’s parking lot, his nametag over his left breast pocket—Jack Norris, MD, Department of Cardiology, Section of Electrophysiology, Chief of Fellows. The coat pockets were full of accouterments including a stethoscope, personal digital assistant, and a couple of pens. There were also syringes, needles, a tourniquet, and three large drug vials. The vials were nearly empty.

  He knew he had to escape, but he had no idea as to where he should head. Primitive feelings of self-preservation persuaded him that something or someone was trying to find him. And kill him. He needed to get away as fast and as far as he possibly could. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that he was being hunted. It was imperative that he start planning an attack strategy. He had to strike first or he would die. And soon. How do you plan an assault when you can’t reason or analyze the situation? He was now totally incapable of thinking rationally and only instinct ruled his actions. Deep down, Jack just knew his life was imminently in danger and he had to strike first. And he would. He intended to fight. He would fight to kill.

  He ran straight into a driveway as the street meandered to the right then left. He skirted around the beautiful house. The almost palatial domicile was one of many luxurious homes in the area. It was dark out. As Jack stumbled forward, a motion detector was activated and a spotlight automatically came on, dumping bright light onto the driveway. Jack’s eyes stung with the sensation of a thousand needles. The sudden brightness heightened his confusion and disorientation. Inside him, primitive, self-conservation emotions overflowed powerfully and overcrowded his mind, sharply adding to his panic and aggressive idealization. He would kill whoever was after him.

  A barking dog could be heard in the near distance. Jack looked around frantically attempting to hone in on the origins of the growls. Was that his attacker? Jack ran pointlessly and nervously, unpredictably gazing in different directions as he contemplated the question. By now, he had turned the corner of the ornate home submerging him back into the darkness of the night. Just like the sudden bright lights a few seconds earlier, the sudden dimness augmented his befuddlement. His breath grew increasingly short and labored. He perspired copiously and his heart raced thunderously. He was lightheaded and weak. Waves of nausea and abdominal cramping recurred. He knew he couldn’t continue this way for long, now staggering unhurriedly in the dark.

  Jack suddenly and unexpectedly felt a sharp pain across his forehead and neck as he struck a tree limb. He fell backwards and lay prone on the grass beneath the tree
, grunting noisily.

  “Who’s there?” an old man’s voice could be heard coming from the back of the house.

  “Close the door, Harold. I’m calling the police,” whispered an old woman anxiously.

  “I think someone might be hurt in the backyard and—” the man continued, as the door slammed shut followed by the sound of a loud bolt solidly locking the entry.

  Jack tried to stand up but found it hard to do. He was too weak to bear his own weight, his chest heaving in and out, furiously. With difficulty, he struggled to roll over. Gathering all the effort and resolve he could muster, he managed to get on his knees. Sapless, he fell again, sprawled face down on the lawn. As he did so, he felt an uncomfortable feeling, as his left thigh area hit the ground. It was his cellular phone, deep in his pocket. He managed to get back on his knees and extract the mobile device. Mesmerized, he hypnotically gawked at the Treo 650, a Palm Pilot and cell phone combo device, like a cow staring at an incoming tornado.

  What is this? What is it for? Jack tried to recall, but the brain synapses would not oblige, his mind increasingly garbled and unconnected to reality. Jack gazed at the phone turning it side to side. Accidentally, he pushed one of the keys. The keypad illuminated. Startled, Jack dropped the device. A few seconds later, he bent down to reexamine the cell phone. As he picked it up, he fortuitously pressed the Send button. A moment later, a voice emanated from the small device.

  “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice. “Jack, are you there? Hello! Jack, are you okay, honey?” No reply. Silence.

  “Jack, are you hurt? It’s Claire. Are you there?” the woman’s voice persisted.

  She could hear Jack articulate deep guttural sounds in the distance. The words were incomprehensible, but the message was meaningful to Claire—Jack was in trouble.

  Drops of blood from Jack’s forehead wound dripped onto the lit cell phone pad causing him to grunt and again drop the device.

  “Jack, I’m calling Susan. I’ll get help, honey.”

  The woman’s voice fell on deaf ears.

  *****

  8:48 PM

  The Evansville Police Department Central Dispatch received a call from an elderly woman requesting immediate help. The 911 operator, Nicole Gehring, was a jolly, overweight, acne-ridden woman in her early twenties, with dark hair and big brown eyes. Her voice was pleasant, calm, and soothing, the result of both her personality as well as training for this position.

  “A man is trespassing on my property. I’m afraid he’ll try to get into my home and hurt my husband and me. Please come quickly,” begged the old lady.

  Nicole reassured the woman and instructed her to stay inside and lock all doors. She promised the caller that help was on the way. She knew the address. It was displayed on the computer in front of her, obtained from the caller ID database. She took notes in her logbook and radioed for all available police cars with instructions to proceed immediately to 3076 Bell Road, giving them the details of the call. Three police cars replied, stating they were available and on their way to the scene.

  A few moments later, Detective Susan Quentin’s cell phone rang. She was in bed with a lover. A lover she hadn’t known long. They had met a few months earlier on a money counterfeiting case consisting of a complex web of events, involving law enforcement agencies from multiple jurisdictions. Since the crime had crossed state lines, the FBI became involved. The Bureau sent out two of its best and one of them was Detective Lieutenant Michael Ganz.

  Mike was in his early thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, well built and always incredibly well dressed. Not only did Mike have the looks, he was also very bright and enjoyed the reputation of always cleverly solving the case. His outstanding success with the Bureau had caught the attention of his superiors who rewarded the charismatic Detective Mike Ganz with relatively quick promotions up the ranks. Despite this, Mike continued to be liked by his counterparts, in keeping with his outgoing personality and demeanor. The counterfeit case lead to repeated trips to Evansville, giving Susan and Mike a chance to get to know one another. In time, Mike’s visits to Evansville changed from professional to personal and became regular and often. Soon they started a romantic relationship.

  When the call came in the two detectives were in bed, naked under the covers. A bottle of merlot and nearly empty wine glasses were perched on a bedside table. The TV was on but the sound was muted, allowing for after-the-fact romantic conversation. Strewn clothes on the carpet gave testament to the intense passion of moments earlier. Surprised to get a call this late in the evening, Susan looked at Mike, who gave a sympathetic nod. With an intrigued look on her face, Susan sat up in bed and picked up the phone.

  “Susan?” exclaimed an excited woman’s voice even before Susan could speak. Susan was a walker, which amused Mike. She would do the phone march, pacing back and forth, as she spoke. Susan was a plain looking woman without distinguishing features. She had short blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Yes, with whom am I speaking?” replied Susan in a tranquil tone, promenading around the room.

  “This is Claire,” continued the voice on the other side of the call.

  “Yes. What can I do for you, Claire?” Susan said, a smidgeon of irritation barely noticeable in her voice.

  “I received a call from Jack’s phone. I think something awful has happened to him. I think he’s hurt. I heard him grunt in pain; he couldn’t talk—” said the increasingly excited and anxious woman.

  “Okay, calm down. Let me see what I can find out and call you right back,” vowed Susan, her interest piqued.

  “Oh, and Susan, are you with Mike? Mike Ganz?” asked Claire, speaking softly.

  After a few more exchanges between the two women, Susan hung up and called the Police Central Dispatch Station.

  “Hey, Nicole, it’s Susan Quentin. Anything exciting going on?”

  “It must be a full moon. All the crazies are out this evening. What can I do you for, Suzy Q?” replied the police dispatcher with a grin on her face.

  “I’m looking for a man, a doctor,” answered the detective.

  “So am I but I’d take a lawyer or engineer, or—” interrupted Nicole, smirking.

  “Dr. Jack Norris. He’s helping us with a case,” continued Susan, refusing to acknowledge the joke. “Word is that he’s been hurt. Have you had to dispatch EMS recently?” Nicole realized Susan was serious and not in the mood for jokes.

  “Yes, I dispatched the ambulance to the scene of a fight with injuries, and to a man’s house that was having a heart attack,” she replied, a professional tone now in her voice.

  “Hang on. Tell me more about the fight with injuries. How old a man?” interrupted the detective.

  “Teenagers down by the train tracks, both taken to the hospital,” answered Nicole, still consulting her logbook.

  “That doesn’t sound like the man I’m looking for. What about the heart attack? How old?”

  “Seventies.”

  “That’s not him either. The man I’m looking for is in his thirties. What else?”

  ”Car accident, but the only injury was a woman from Ohio. No locals hurt.”

  “Okay, what else, and more recently?” persisted Susan.

  “That’s it for this evening. Tell me more about what you’re looking for. Maybe I can—” her voice was interrupted by a radio communication from the officers at the scene on Bell Road.

  “Delta three-five to dispatch.”

  “Hang on a sec, Suzy,” said Nicole when the voice on the radio transmission stopped. “Delta three-five, go ahead,” she spoke into the microphone in front of her.

  “Yeah, Delta three-five. We’re at the scene behind the address you gave. Delta two-four and Delta one-five are out here also; we have a male, white, appears to be drunk and on some kind of—” he searched momentarily for the right word—“super high. He’s totally out of his mind and out of control. We’re trying to place him in protective custody, but he’s a fighter. Call an ambulance; he’ll ha
ve to go to Memorial.”

  “Standby, Delta three-five, I will dispatch an ambulance to your location.”

  Nicole picked up the red phone on her desk. It was labeled “Evansville Rescue Squad—Emergencies Only.” After a few seconds, a voice responded and she spoke.

  “Rescue one, you have an emergency at 3076 Bell Road. Male apparently under the influence. Delta three-five at the scene requesting your presence.” A moment later, she hung up the phone and made a quick entry into the logbook in front of her, noting the time and the type of the dispatch.

  “Delta three-five, EMS on the way,” she verbalized into the microphone.

  “Ten-four, dispatch, Delta three-five,” a reply echoed from the radio.

  “Back at ya, Suzy Q,” Nicole spoke into the phone receiver she had put aside momentarily.

  “What was that all about?” asked Susan.

  “A drunk on crack,” replied Nicole.

  “Did I hear Bell Road? Isn’t that by Newton Memorial Hospital? Find out his name, please. And get more info on the man,” solicited Susan.

  “Hang on,” said Nicole as she again put the phone down and picked up the microphone, using her dispatcher voice once again.

  “Delta three-five, I have a detective on the landline requesting a name on the subject.”

  “Negative on ID, dispatch,” replied the cop at the scene. As the officer communicated with the dispatcher on the radio, the background was filled with a cacophony of loud babble of unintelligible words, as the confused and highly combative Jack fought the cops with all his might. The police officers ganged up on Jack and continued to endeavor to subdue him. In his furious insanity, Jack proved to be a challenge for the cops, who were attempting to place him in a protective vest that bound his four extremities. This continued to prove extremely difficult with a young, strong, aggressive and highly combative and confused villain.