‘Act of Revenge’ is the third book in the Doc Brady series. Courtesy photo, used with permission.
John Bishop M.D. is an orthopedic surgeon, keyboard musician and author of the beloved Doc Brady mystery series. The series includes “Act of Murder,” “Act of Deception,” “Act of Revenge,” “Act of Negligence,” “Act of Fate” and “Act of Atonement.” Jim Bob Brady, the protagonist, is an accomplished orthopedic surgeon with a talent for solving medical mysteries who also moonlights as a blues musician. The series is set in the 1990s and features Houston and Galveston locales. In “Act of Revenge,” Jim Bob Brady is once again helping in an investigation, this time in regards to Lou Edwards, one of his colleagues, who is the prime suspect in the murder of Paul Thompson, the CEO of an insurance company.
In “Act of Revenge,” Doc Brady and his wife Mary Louise are in Colorado for a combined continuing education conference and ski getaway when he crashes into another skier. That skier turns out to be Lou Edwards, a plastic surgeon from Houston and a colleague of Jim Bob Brady. Once back in Texas, Lou has knee surgery and while he is in the hospital, Mary Louise spends time with Mimi, Lou’s wife. As it turns out, Mimi has lupus along with other health issues brought on by leakage of her breast implants, which were inserted by Lou. Lou is being sued multiple times for other faulty silicone breast implants and because of that, his medical malpractice insurance has been cancelled. Days later, he shows up at a protest downtown at the office of that insurance company and while being interviewed, he threatens Paul Thompson live on the air. Later that same day, Paul is found murdered in his luxury penthouse and Lou, being the main suspect, disappears. Since he has successfully helped before, Jim Bob is brought into the investigation and with the help of his son J.J., he follows the paper trail to uncover the real killer.
In “Act of Revenge,” John Bishop M.D. once again takes his real-life knowledge as an orthopedic surgeon to give his writing an authentic voice even though the medical aspect of the story is not the mystery. Jim Bob Brady is once more lured into an investigation that puts him in the crosshairs and this time he is trying to find out who killed Paul Thompson. He is almost run off the road: “As I slammed on the brake and ducked down into the seat, the sound of a sonic explosion, followed by shattering glass, deafened me” and towards the end, he is held captive at gunpoint. Descriptions of the author’s native Texas are spot on, especially Houston and the characters are familiar, believable, and relatable. Except for the sections explaining plastic surgery and medical insurance, it is an easy read and the story is entertaining and light-hearted. The language is poetic at times: “The evening was spectacular, an unusually clear, starlit night with a half-moon shining through the cloudless sky” and acts as a transition between the dialogue. The extensive backstory on Felicia Edwards (Lou Edwards’ daughter) and Annie Harrison makes it seem it seem like revenge was a motive in Paul’s murder so the plot twist at the end came as a surprise. Even though this is the third in the Doc Brady series, it stands perfectly fine on its own and should not dissuade readers who have not read the previous books. A definite page-turner, “Act of Revenge” is a must-read for fans of murder mysteries who appreciate the intricacies of the medical profession as background and want to learn more about the different types of plastic surgeries.
*The author received a copy of this book for an honest review. The views and opinions expressed here belong solely to her.
‘Act of Revenge’ is the third book in the Doc Brady Mystery series by John Bishop, M.D. It will be released on Thursday September 10, 2020. Courtesy photo: used with permission.
I was stunned but not unconscious. My first concern was that I had sustained another head injury. I had been mugged a year and a half ago and had spent ten days in a coma after developing a subdural hematoma, a collection of blood between my brain and skull requiring surgery. The hair on my shaved head had taken seemingly forever to grow back out to a length and texture I could brush. I wasn’t prepared to go through all that again.
“I’m okay, I think,” I said to Mary Louise. She was kneeling down over me, skis off. “Thanks for not being in front of me. I might have hit you, too. Where’s the guy I ran into?”
“He’s up the hill. I’ll go check on him.” And with that, she headed back up the slope.
Since I had landed face down in the snow, I used my corduroy cap to clean off my goggles and face in an attempt to see what was going on. I was partially buried in the foot-high drift, but when I assessed that my extremities were intact and my vision was relatively normal, I managed to turn myself around.
I sat up and saw my wife kneeling down over the man I had run into twenty yards behind me. One ski was off, and the other was twisted about 45 degrees, half-buried in the snow. Unfortunately, his leg was still attached to it. My skis had come undone, and God only knew where they had landed. Probably in someone’s condo.
I had heard of a ski accident that occurred on the same slope wherein a crash between two skiers had resulted in a lost ski sailing down the hill and crashing through a picture window into the living room of a residence. No one was hurt, at least in the home, but I’m sure it gave them quite a start. And some decent kindling.
I abandoned my ski poles, which had still been attached to my wrists with their adjustable loops, and stepped up the hill to join Mary Louise and the unknown assailant. A thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was the unknown assailant. Whatever the situation, I hoped the man had experienced enough of a shock to render him an amnesiac but not unconscious or damaged.
“Are you okay?” Mary Louise was asking him repeatedly as I arrived on the scene. Several other skiers had gathered as well and had already placed their skis in the ground, tips up and crossed, the universal sign of an injury requiring the ski patrol’s attention.
The man was on his side. His eyes were open.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m a doctor. I need to check your pupils and your arms and legs. Don’t be frightened. Okay?”
He nodded.
His pupils reacted normally to light. I felt his neck.
“Any pain here?” I asked as I gently moved his cervical spine from side to side. “Any numbness? Arms or legs?”
He shook his head. “My leg . . . killing me.”
“I’m sure. I’ll get down there in a minute.”
The man’s arms, chest, head, spine, and right leg all seemed to be in working order. It was time to address the crucial issue.
“Listen,” I explained, “my name is Jim Brady. I’m an orthopedic surgeon from Houston. I need to check out this left leg and try to decide if you’ve got a fracture in your femur or tibia or if you’ve got a knee ligament injury. I may not be able to tell, but I’d like to try before the ski patrol arrives. Okay?”
“I don’t want you to move it. Hurts too bad.”
“Well, the medic will have to move it to get you onto the stretcher. Your leg’s kind of twisted out at an angle. If I can figure out what’s wrong, I may be able to make you more comfortable by moving it. Let me try.”
He nodded. I gently felt his femur, the thigh bone, with both hands. No pain. Same with the tibia and fibula, the two bones connecting the knee to the ankle. When I felt his knee, however, even through his bulky, waterproof ski pants, I could feel the enlarged joint. He winced.
“It’s your knee, probably a ligament tear. If I can get your ski off and straighten out the leg, you’ll feel a lot better. I want you to hang on for a minute.”
“Man, it’s killing me! Just leave it alone!”
I paused, then slid down toward his boot release, had Mary Louise support the ski to minimize the torque, and unsnapped his boot from the binding. He moaned for a second, but I quickly untwisted the leg, brought it parallel to the other, and laid it down.
“Damn it! I told you not to—huh. Feels better.”
“See,” I said, “you should have trusted me.”
“Sort of hard to trust a guy who runs you over, wouldn’t you say?”
I assumed amnesia wasn’t going to be a problem for him.
Two members of the ski patrol arrived on separate snowmobiles pulling stretchers. One of them had probably been intended for me. I was glad to decline it. I helped the medics get my victim onto the stretcher and bind him down to minimize the shock of the journey to Snowmass Ski Clinic. I felt obligated to accompany them.
“Are you by yourself? Is there anyone we can notify?” Mary Louise asked. “I’ll be glad to make a call. Whatever you need.”
“Guess you better call my wife, tell her I’m hurt. I hate to upset her, though.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked him.
“Wood Run Condos. Just down the hill. I was headed home.”
“So were we,” Mary Louise said. “Why don’t I just run by there. We’re at the Chamonix. You’re only a block or so away. How would that be?”
He nodded and sort of smiled. “That’d be real nice, ma’am. I’d appreciate
that.”
She looked at him for a minute, waiting. “I need your name and condo number,” she said patiently, like a schoolteacher waiting for a third grader to figure out the times tables.
“Oh, sure. Sorry. I’m Lou Edwards. Her name’s Mimi. We’re in 530 Wood Run. And thanks.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Mary Louise said, looking at me like she was very glad I was okay, but not happy that I had run over the poor man. I didn’t blame her.
John Bishop, M.D. 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.
‘Act of Deception’ is the second novel in the Doc Brady mystery series by John Bishop, M.D. Courtesy photo, used with permission.
John Bishop M.D. is an orthopedic surgeon, keyboard musician and author of the beloved Doc Brady mystery series. The series includes “Act of Murder,” “Act of Deception,” “Act of Revenge,” “Act of Negligence,” “Act of Fate” and “Act of Atonement.” Doc Brady is the protagonist and his fictional counterpart – an accomplished orthopedic surgeon with a talent for solving medical mysteries who moonlights as a blues musician. The series is set in the 1990s and features Houston and Galveston locales. In “Act of Deception,” Doc Brady, a Houston orthopedic surgeon, is being sued for medical malpractice because a mysterious infection caused a knee replacement to end up as an amputation.
In the second book in the Doc Brady mystery series, “Act of Deception,” the story takes place in 1995 and begins with Doc Brady waking up with the sweats again. He is preoccupied with his impeding lawsuit even though it is not the first time he has been sued. Nothing in his notes or recollection of the event backs up the malpractice claim but he is determined not to settle even though everyone from his lawyer to his co-workers tell him it is the best thing to do. The case involves William Jones, a farmer whose treatment for severe arthritis in his right knee joint ended with an amputation. Preparations for the trial begin to take a toll on him until he ends up in a coma after he is assaulted in a parking garage. There is also an ambulance chaser on the loose and no one knows where he is getting his information. As it turns out, Mr. Jones received treatment from a doctor covering for his usual doctor while he was out on vacation but the page that notated this in Mr. Jones’ medical record was missing, which is why no one was able to figure out what went wrong. In the end, after all the sleuthing and help from his family and friends, Doc Brady is exonerated and the hospital worker responsible for the medical records leak is fired.
This is another excellent medical novel from John Bishop M.D. and this time he combines legal drama and medical mystery. In this case, the mystery involves how one of his patients could have developed an infection that required an amputation. He almost gives away the ending when he mentions the missing medical records page, but not until the end does the reader find out why it was missing and who took it. The story is told in first person narrative which gives the reader an in-depth look into Doc Brady’s mind and the character development makes the characters real. With detailed explanations of the medical and legal issues, the balance between his personal and professional lives makes for fascinating storytelling. The final courtroom scene when Don Shaw, the plaintiff’s attorney, attempts to attack the witness when he realizes he is about to lose the case, is an exciting conclusion to the case: “At the same time, Judge Barbara Woods deftly jumped out of her chair, hopped down to the witness stand, and got in front of the doctor. In the second or two it took for Shaw to reach the stand, she reached inside her robe and stood there, waiting for him, with the biggest handgun I had ever seen.” Even though it stands perfectly well on its own, it would be best to read the first one in the series, “Act of Murder,” to get to know the characters better. As a big plus, there is a sneak peek at the third novel in the series: “Act of Revenge” at the end of this one. “Act of Deception” is recommended for readers who appreciate an exciting mystery novel involving down to earth characters and intriguing plots.
*The author received a copy of this book for an honest review. The views and opinions expressed here belong solely to her.
‘Act of Murder’ by John Bishop, M.D. is the exciting first book in the Doc Brady mystery series. Courtesy photo, used with permission.
John Bishop M.D. is an orthopedic surgeon, keyboard musician and author of the beloved Doc Brady mystery series. The series includes “Act of Murder,” “Act of Deception,” “Act of Revenge,” “Act of Negligence,” “Act of Fate” and “Act of Atonement.” Doc Brady, the protagonist and his fictional counterpart, is an accomplished orthopedic surgeon with a talent for solving mysteries who moonlights as a blues musician. The series is set in the 1990s and features Houston and Galveston locales. In “Act of Murder,” Doc Brady witnesses his neighbor’s ten-year-old son killed by a hit-and-run driver and is prompted to investigate whether it was truly an accident or an act or murder.
“Act of Murder” begins in the spring of 1994 when Doc Brady hears the sounds of an accident in front of his house. At the scene, his neighbor Bobbie is kneeling down over a small blue lump that turns out to be her son Stevie. The distraught mother begs him to do something to help but by the looks of it, it is too late. When Detective Susan Beeson with the Houston Police Department starts investigating the case, details about Stevie surface, including that he had osteogenesis imperfecta, a genetic disorder that affects the bones. At first it looks like a random accident, until days later when another boy with a similar genetic disease and similar looks dies after surgery. Sensing that the two cases are more than just coincidence, Doc Brady starts digging for clues and together with his twenty-year old son J.J. and wife Mary Louise they uncover a sinister plot. The two boys were twins, one given up for adoption under the guise of helping out a family member but with the ultimate plan to gain money and power.
The most original authors are those who write from their own experiences and in this case, John Bishop M.D. successfully takes his real-life knowledge as an orthopedic surgeon to give his writing an authentic voice. The story is a combination hospital drama and murder mystery that draws the reader in right from the first sentence: “What I remember first about that day was the sound of a sickening thud.” It would be a mistake to call it a medical thriller because the case does not exactly involve any kind of medical issues but it centers around a doctor’s daily adventures. The language is easy to understand and does not include complicated medical jargon. Since it takes place in the 1990s, there are pop culture references like Seinfeld and Dave’s World that anyone who remembers those years can chuckle along with the author. Descriptions of his native Texas are spot one, especially Houston and Galveston and the character development makes them believable and relatable. It is a strong beginning for the series. A sure page-turner, “Act of Murder” is a must-read for fans of murder mysteries that center around the medical community and appreciate a behind the scenes look at hospitals and doctors.
*The author received a copy of this book for an honest review. The views and opinions expressed here belong solely to her.
I awoke that Friday morning in a serious sweat, the kind that is not immediately relieved by rising and washing one’s face with cold water. I noted that the clock in the bathroom read 4:38, twenty-two minutes before my designated alarm setting. After staring at the clock for a minute, maybe two, I felt my right radial pulse. The accelerated throbbing confirmed that tachycardia was still my predominant rhythm. I decided to attend to ritualistic morning bathroom chores, make coffee, read the paper, and at least try to pretend that it was a normal Friday morning.
Upon completion of the bathroom routine, as quietly as possible, I punched in the five-digit alarm code and started to leave the bedroom to go downstairs. Unfortunately, even the sound of punching in the numbers was unduly shrill, and it caused Mary Louise, my bride of twenty-four years, to stir.
“Jim Bob?”
“Yes?”
“It’s not even five yet. Why are you up?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Woke up with the sweats again. Sorry to wake you. I thought I’d go downstairs, make some coffee, and sit outside and think for a while. Okay?”
“Want some company?”
Normally, I would never turn down such an offer. I loved my wife dearly. She was, in fact, my best friend. That particular morning, however, I responded in the negative.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, sweetie, but this is just one of those times I need to collect my thoughts. Know what I mean?”
“I do. I’m sorry you’re having to go through all this. It isn’t fair. After all you’ve done for everybody else. I know in my heart it will be all right, just maybe not today. Try not to get too upset. Promise?”
“I’ll do my best.” I leaned down and kissed her warm cheek. She smelled so good, I considered taking off my robe and getting back into bed. I finally chose not to. “Go back to sleep. I’m not leaving until about eight o’clock.”
I left her reluctantly and plodded downstairs barefooted, in my cotton robe, with lights still off, toward coffee heaven. I selected Twin Peaks Blend coffee beans, which we kept in the freezer to avoid staleness, ground them, and began the ten-minute process to achieve as perfect a cup of coffee as I could make. I waited on the back porch in my “spot,” a large white cane rocker. The month of August was a stifling time of year in Houston, even at that hour of the morning. The heat and humidity were almost unbearable during July, August, and early September. I turned on the outdoor ceiling fan that hovered above my chair and hoped it would make the weather more pleasant. It didn’t.
I considered my life that morning. I, Dr. James Robert Brady, who had done my best to be a compassionate and dedicated orthopedic surgeon for the past seventeen years, was being sued for medical malpractice. I was not a neophyte when it came to lawsuits. I had been sued twice before, not an unusual occurrence in a city of four million people, with far too many law school graduates sitting in their quiet offices with nothing to do. The other two suits were quite minor and did not linger but were dismissed rather quickly, meaning over a year-or-two period. The current lawsuit, the cause of my awakening before five with the sweats and intense gastrointestinal distress, had not been dismissed.
I stepped back inside to the relatively cool air, although during August even the air-conditioning system labored heavily. I poured my coffee into a large black mug with a removable top that allowed intermittent filling of the cup but twisted on securely so as not to spill during the drive to work. While I wasn’t yet ready to leave, I used the “to go” cup anyway, being a creature of habit, a trait inherited from my dear departed father, and one which drove even me to distraction on occasion.
I returned to the French door to head back to the humidity and spotted Cat perched on the back doorstep, peering through the lowest windowpane, awaiting her breakfast. I sipped my coffee and prepared her Prime Feast in a disposable dish, probably not recyclable because I am sure it isn’t possible to remove the smell of mixed seafood, no matter what treatment is available at the nearest recycling plant.
Strolling to the door, feast in hand, I greeted the discriminating feline.
“Morning, Cat. I have your breakfast.”
No response. Just a simple twitch of the sensitive nose. There was no tail-wagging or jumping on my bare leg to greet me, sure signs that man’s best friend loved you and missed you. Rather, Cat simply did what she did best. She remained aloof and distinctly noncommittal. I bent down, sat her dish on the patterned concrete deck, and stroked her damp fur as she sampled my selection. She did give me a brief look of gratitude, then resumed her nibbling. I returned to my chair and continued to assess my life and its worth.
I was most critical of self that morning, pondering the effects of aging on a once-athletic physique. While Mary Louise considered me to be a handsome specimen, I lamented my shrinkage from six feet plus one inch to slightly less than the “manly” six feet. I continued to disguise my shortening by wearing Western boots, and only on weekends did I allow myself the comfort of high-topped athletic shoes—not that I used them for athletics.
I remembered my previously full head of hair that had slowly thinned, especially at the front, to allow for enlargement of my forehead while a balding spot was created on the crown of my head. My sideburns were a little long and gray and transitioned to brown at an always-increasing distance from the top of my ears. I criticized the extra minute I spent every morning to carefully position my combed-straight-back locks over that bare spot I had grown to hate.
I had begun to study myself each morning before showering to confirm that I indeed resembled Alfalfa of Little Rascals fame, with thin wisps of hair sticking straight up toward the heavens. I then reminded myself of my need to wear bifocals and of my need to start a workout program to slim my waist from its size 38—although I had noticed lately that the cleaners had been shrinking my best jeans.
I tried to take comfort in Mary Louise’s love of what she called my “charming cleft chin” and “captivating smile” but was unsuccessful. I felt old that morning, which, along with words like useless, worthless, out-of-shape, and four-eyed, drove me to an even fouler mood than when I awoke to cold sweats and the dreaded digestive-tract blues.
By six o’clock I was sweating again, that time from drinking an entire pot of coffee and from the oppressive heat that had already risen to a sultry 80 degrees with the humidity at drip level. I threw off my robe and dove into the pool, taking care to avoid a cervical spine injury in the four-foot-deep water. It did cool me off temporarily, so after two laps I simply stood in the healing waters, naturally, in the buff. As I reminisced over the treatment of the patient that had decided to sue me, the back door of the house opened and the Tipster bounded outside. He saw me in the pool and almost dove in with me. Fortunately, I was able to hold him back while I ruffled his shaggy mane and scratched his ears. At least he was glad to see me and acted as though we had been apart for years, not just the six hours since we had bid him good night.
His official title was “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too,” a typical name given by a particular breeder who prized his full-blooded intelligent golden retrievers. But “Tip,” “Tipper,” or “the Tipster,” as Mary Louise intermittently called him, had failed the IQ test for well-bred dogs and was lovingly given to me by that grateful patient, who had many more golden retrievers than insurance dollars.
Tip had been presented to me in the office five months previously at the end of the day as a surprise. The man didn’t ask me if I wanted a dog, but simply showed up at my office with a large, overly friendly seven-month-old golden retriever puppy. I still suspected that Fran and Rae, my faithful office staff, had somehow conspired with my darling wife to bring some new joy into my life. At the time, I was highly skeptical and hoped to rid myself of the constantly-shedding beast who had disrupted our lives. Over the next few months, however, I had grown to love, without restraint, this large, adorable dog, whose only faults were that he was too much a friend to strangers and a poor fetcher of dead birds. Neither flaw bothered me. I didn’t hunt much anymore, and we rarely had anyone to the house that I despised. Besides, considering we had yet to be burglarized, the Tipster’s camaraderie with those stealers of one’s things was an untested character defect.
My mood improved significantly after seeing Tip, and I watched with interest as he bounded over to greet Cat with a friendly good morning. He had attempted to make Cat his new best friend every day since his arrival at our abode but had been miserably unsuccessful. Cat’s reaction to his energetic playfulness was to leap gracefully into the rocking chair next to mine, back herself up as far as possible to the rear of the chair, and wait. When Tip happily padded over to see her and put his whole head onto the seat of the chair, she would strike out at his sensitive nose with one of her front paws, prompting an episode of howling. For five months, this scenario had occurred each and every time the two animals had a backyard encounter. I believed that Cat had become bored with the whole routine and had actually become embarrassed at what seemed to be the retriever’s inability to learn.
“Tip? Be careful over there. She scratches your nose every day! It’s so raw, you almost need stitches.”
I obviously had lost my mind. I was talking to the dog as though he understood my every word. Just before pushing his fat head into the seat of the chair to smell the gray bundle of fur, though, he turned his head toward me and perked up his ears. I didn’t know if he had actually understood what I had said or simply had forgotten that I was in the pool, since he had wandered into the bushes to relieve himself before approaching Cat. He stared at me for a moment, seemed to consider what I had said, then pushed his tender, scarred nose toward the she-beast, and . . . I couldn’t believe it! She didn’t hurt him! He licked her fur, and Cat just stood there. I guessed she finally decided that Tip was harmless and just wanted to play. She might have also figured out that a large dog like that could be an impressive ally when trying to ward off neighborhood cats who strayed into her domain looking for a free meal.
And so it was that on that hot, steamy morning in August, my cat and dog became friends. I thought that maybe Mary Louise was right, having told me repeatedly that everything would be okay. Alas, that small, backyard miracle was the only one I witnessed for a while.
John Bishop MD is the author of “Act of Deception: 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.
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.
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.
SA Examiner 