Page 9 of Tropical Heat

Although there are more effective ways to kill yourself than jumping from a bridge that is only thirty feet above the water, I asked her if it had been a suicide attempt.

“No mam’, fleeing law enforcement. He was doing almost one hundred miles per hour when he ran out of gas and jumped.”

“Take him into room three.” I told the nurse to get a tox screen and BAC report. Although the man showed no signs of impairment, I could not believe that a sober person would be stupid enough to do a hundred miles on that stretch of the Overseas Highway.

Seven Mile Bridge has just one lane in either direction, with no guardrails separating the north and south lanes. There is also extraordinarily little room on the sides to maneuver if another driver stops suddenly or swerves into your lane. I avoid it whenever possible.

I asked Mr. Robbins why the police had been chasing him. He was more than happy to tell his story. While I examined him, he explained he had run a red light in Firefly. When he saw the patrol car behind him, he sped through side streets until he lost the cop. “I thought I was home free when I got on Route 1. But then I saw two sheriff's cars behind me and took off. I would have outrun them if it weren't for the other cars.” I asked why he jumped off the bridge.

“I figured the cops would be too chicken shit to jump in after me and I could just swim away. I was right, they didn't jump. But when I hit the water, I fucked up my ankle. I still could have made it to shore if FWC wasn't out looking for people poaching lobster. Just my damn bad luck.”

“Do you realize you could have killed somebody driving like that?”

“Nah, I'm a real good driver.”

I shook my head, sent him to x-ray and notified Ortho. Then went out to wait for the lab results. After talking with the man, I no longer suspected he'd been drinking or was on drugs. He was just an idiot. When I arrived at the nurses’ station, although not completely unexpected, I was pleased to see Sheriff Deputy Dante Garcia waiting for me. He was even sexier than I remembered.

Seven

Morgan

I already knew why he was there, but gave him a coy smile. “You can’t keep showing up at my place of work, Deputy. People will think you are stalking me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, suppressing a smirk. “I’m here to arrest Christopher Robbins. Unless, of course, you think he might be suicidal.”

I ignored the jab. This was a completely different situation from Dixie Higgs. “You'll get no argument from me this time, Deputy. The man's incredibly reckless, but he's not suicidal. He could have killed somebody. If you lock him up and throw away the key, it would be alright with me.”

“I wish I could, but in all likelihood, he’ll be held overnight and at his arraignment in the morning, he will be released on bail and eventually given probation as a first-time offender.”

Before I could respond, the hospital alert system signaled a Level I trauma was inbound and all available personnel were needed on deck. “I’ve gotta run,” I said, but Dante had already stepped away to take a call on his police radio. The look in his eyes told me something serious was going on. But there was no time to ask questions.

In the ambulance bay, I quickly learned what had him looking so angry. EMS had radioed ahead and Dr. Ambrose was briefing the team. The patient was a Largo County Deputy Sheriff named Edward Cooper. The officer had made a routine traffic stop. As he approached the other vehicle, a pickup truck traveling at a high rate of speed struck him from behind. The impact propelled him thirty feet in the air; he landed in the other lane and was struck again by a Kia Rio, whose driver called 911. The driver of the pickup fled the scene.

It was the type of case Level One Emergency Rooms were created for, and the true reason I came to Turtle Key—to make a difference and atone for my past mistakes.

I looked around the room. Surgery, thoracic, cardiology, neuro, and orthopedic were all represented and ready to spring into action. The protocols were well established, and we each knew our role.

Dr. Ambrose would lead the triage to identify the patient’s most life-threatening issues. These would be addressed first. Once we had him stabilized, a determination would be made on the order in which to treat his other injuries.

I had seen both paramedics before but did not know their names. The expression on the younger one’s face told me the situation was grim. The taller of the two spoke, his voice flat as he gave his report. “We had to resuscitate him twice in the rig. He has a pulse, but BP is critically low.”

Nurses were already hanging IV lines and attaching EKG leads as we wheeled the patient into trauma room one. He was unrecognizable. If we somehow managed to save his life, he would require reconstructive surgery to repair the shuttered eye socket and jaw on the right side of his face. I felt the patient's abdomen. It was swollen. “Type and crossmatch,” I called out. “We're going to need blood. He's hemorrhaging internally.”

Neuro examined his eyes with a penlight. “Pupils are blown. We're going to need a CT scan to check for swelling around the brain.”

Pulmonary listened to his chest with a stethoscope. “We’ve got a collapsed lung. He needs to be intubated.”

“It’s going to be awhile before you need me,” said Ortho, who was looking very pale. “I’ll get out of your way. Page me if he survives.”

For the next hour, we worked to stop the bleeding. His spleen had ruptured and was removed. The CT scan showed cerebrospinal fluid accumulating around his brain. If allowed to go unchecked, nothing else we did would matter. The brain would be damaged beyond repair, eventually it would cease to function, and the patient would die. The decision was made for Neuro to perform an emergency ventriculostomy.

I had only seen the procedure done in the ER once before, and was eager to observe. But right before it began, a nurse came into the room and whispered something to Dr. Ambrose. He looked at me. “Morgan, you’ve done excellent work this evening, but we have another patient in room two that needs your attention.”

“Yes, Doctor,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

When I pulled back the curtain, I found Dante and a young deputy standing on either side of the exam table. The man between them was obviously intoxicated. There was a nasty gash above his left eye and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

“I need you to stitch this piece of shit up as quickly as possible so we can get him out of here.” Dante’s eyes never left the man on the exam table. “There are a dozen cops in your waiting room who would love to beat the fuck out of him.”

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