Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (15 page)

"Not as far as I know," the manager said. "You're welcome to look through the register if you like."

"Did you see who was with Mr. Carville?"

"I didn't see anybody, but then again, I try not to," the manager said. "Less chance I'm going to have to testify to anything. They don't compensate me for testifying, you know, and I've got to pay someone to fill in for me while I'm stuck in the courtroom."

Mark closed the register and passed it back to the manager. "You've been very helpful. Thank you."

"I had the clap once while I was in Vietnam," the manager said. "The waterworks have never run quite right since then."

Mark smiled politely, not quite sure of the appropriate response to a disclosure like that, and hurried for the door before the manager decided to ask for a free exam.

Perhaps if he'd been in less of a hurry, and if his mind wasn't occupied with the new information he'd learned, Mark might have noticed the Dodge Ram pickup that was backed into the parking spot directly across from the office. He might also have noticed the gun the driver was aiming at him out the window.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The first gunshot shattered the glass beside Mark, who dived onto the vinyl couch for cover. The next shot tore a chunk off the couch right above Mark's head. He peered over the edge and saw the truck speeding straight for the office and the couch he was lying on.

There was nowhere Mark could go and no time to do it if he could. He ducked down again, covered his head with his arms, and braced himself for a lot of pain—not that he had much hope of being alive to feel it.

That's when he noticed the manager standing in front of him, legs apart, holding a sawed-off shotgun in both hands, facing the oncoming truck.

The manager fired, blasting open the truck's hood, which flew up, completely blocking the driver's view through the windshield.

The driver wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, his bumper clipping the edge of the office, shattering the remaining windows and smashing the condom vending machine.

The truck burst into traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, where it was immediately sideswiped by a Ford Explorer, which went spinning into oncoming cars, colliding with an Impala that had a pair of surfboards strapped to its roof. The Impala jumped the curb and careened into the gas station, slamming into a car parked at the pumps, the impact launching the surfboards like missiles. The boards sailed through the windows of a minivan and became lodged inside, the ends sticking out of either side of the empty vehicle.

The shooter's truck veered out of control in a screeching U-turn that took it across the motel parking lot again and straight over the edge of the ravine. The truck tumbled down and disappeared into the dense brush below, kicking up a huge cloud of dirt and leaves.

Mark sat up and gaped at the destruction. The floor was covered with broken glass, bits of cinder blocks, and condom packets from the smashed vending machine. The motel manager hadn't moved. He stood in place in his Hawaiian shirt and shorts, bleeding from dozens of wounds caused by the flying glass, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.

"I need you to sit down for a moment," Mark said, leading him to the couch, using a copy of
Road & Track
magazine to brush away the broken glass. "My name is Dr. Mark Sloan. You didn't tell me your name."

"Phil," the man said, taking a seat and holding the shot gun across his lap. "Phil LaLonde."

"Phil, I'm going to examine you." Mark wiped blood out of his eyes, suddenly aware of the sting of his own injuries. "Are you feeling any pain?"

"Mostly in my wallet. I had this window replaced two weeks ago," the manager said. "That guy is going to pay for it."

"I think he already has," Mark said, then noticed a steady stream of blood spilling from inside the bend of Phil's left knee. The popliteal artery had been cut, and the blood loss had to be stopped fast.

Mark gathered up some condoms, tore open the packets, stretched out the prophylactics, and quickly tied them together into a band.

"What are you doing?" Phil asked.

"Making a tourniquet." Mark placed the tourniquet above the wound and twisted it tightly enough to stop the blood flow. "Now you can tell your wife that the condom machine really does save lives. Stay here until the EMTs arrive."

Mark stepped through the frame that once held the office windows and hurried to his car, popping open the trunk and yanking out his medical bag. He took a roll of gauze and wrapped it like a sweatband around his head to keep the blood from his scalp wounds from running into his eyes.

Then he put on a pair of surgical gloves, picked up his bag, and went to the edge of the ravine, peering over cautiously in case the shooter was on his way back up to finish the job.

The truck lay at the bottom, upside down, its wheels spinning, the dust still settling around it. There was no sign of the driver. Mark wasn't about to go down and check on him. Not only would Mark be presenting himself as a target, he also didn't want to risk injuring himself going down the steep hillside, especially when there might be people on the street who needed his immediate attention. The shooter, whatever his medical condition, would have to wait for help from the fire department and the EMTs.

Mark hurried out onto the highway, where traffic was snarled around the accidents. The SUV that had sideswiped the shooter's truck was in the center of the intersection, dented on all sides. Several cars that had collided with the SUV were stopped haphazardly around it, the drivers staring at the damage to their vehicles and talking ferociously into their cell phones. Mark hoped one of the people thought to call 911 before their insurance agents. In his rush to treat the injured, he'd forgotten to make the call himself and his cell phone was back in his car.

He leaned into the crumpled S.U.V., where the driver, a woman in her thirties wearing a seatbelt, was lifting her face from the airbag that had deployed from her steering wheel. She seemed slightly dazed, but otherwise he didn't see any obvious signs of injury.

"I'm Dr. Mark Sloan," Mark said, giving her a quick visual examination. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Mary White," she said.

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."