Good Samaritan

Kel Brackett drained his cup of coffee and placed it on the counter in the Lounge. Rampart's Chief of Emergency Services couldn't hide away any longer, he admitted with a sigh. Although he hadn't been paged in at least a half hour, there was likely some emergency either in progress or waiting to happen. He might as well check in with Dixie McCall, and, if he were lucky, he might be able to get through a few charts in his office before he headed upstairs to the interminable and, no doubt, contentious budget meeting that would ruin the rest of his day. He headed toward the Base Station, his mood dampening further as he saw the red light begin to blink.

Dix was just opening the door to the booth, so he followed her in. The Nursing Supervisor, still relaxed and neat even several hours into her duty shift, deferred to him and picked up the notebook to record the information that was about to be transmitted, information that she would transfer to a new chart. "Squad transmitting, please repeat and identify."

"Rampart, this Squad 51." Kel recognized Paramedic John Gage's voice: professional, dispassionate, and even.

"Go ahead, 51," Kel said, checking to see that the recorder had started. He opened a mental blank page, ready for Gage's succinct recitation of pertinent facts and vital signs to sketch out the picture into a diagnosis and stabilizing treatment.

There was a pause, dead air. That was unusual. The paramedics were usually well-prepared to give initial vitals, or, at the very least, to describe the rescue in progress so that the medical team knew what to expect. The silence continued.

"Go ahead, 51, " Kel said again, throwing a glance toward Dix. He saw the nurse cast her eyes over the equipment, silently confirming that it was working.

"Stand by, Rampart," Gage said, and now his voice sounded tense and unnatural. Kel and Dixie exchanged concerned glances. The paramedics, who were also rescue men and firefighters, responded to an infinite array of circumstances. It was not unusual for them to establish contact with Rampart prior to extricating a victim from a life-threatening situation, or before they themselves had reached safety. Kel could recall many times when he'd had detailed conversations with the paramedics about a victim's condition, only to realize that the paramedics were mid-rescue, sometimes a hundred feet up in the air, or trapped inside a cave or collapsed building. As Dixie had succinctly put it in a moment of utter frustration with a colleague who did not fully appreciate the paramedics and their skills, these first responders treated patients in circumstances that would curl your hair, not in the safety of an emergency treatment room. He waited.

After about two minutes with no further contact, Kel pressed the transmit button. "Rampart to Squad 51, do you read?" There was no answer. He frowned. Something was really wrong at the other end. Without more information, he could only imagine a cave-in, a fire gone horribly wrong, a building collapse. Until Squad 51 reestablished contact, he couldn't know.

"I didn't hear anything that sounded like an active fire behind them," Dixie commented, "did you?"

"No," Kel answered slowly. "Maybe they're having trouble calming down the would-be patient." That would also not be unusual. Drunks, people in the midst of bad drug trips and hallucinations, not every call involved a potential victim who wanted to be helped. He checked the watch face on the underside of his wrist. "Squad 51, do you read?"

Still silence. Now Dixie's expression was concerned. "Should I call Fire Dispatch?"

Kel shook his head. "Let's give it another minute." The two of them waited impatiently, ears straining for any hint of what was going on at the other end of the biophone.

Finally, Kel stabbed the button one more time. "Squad 51, this is Rampart. Do you read?"

Ten seconds later, the relay clicked, and a hesitant female voice said, "H-hello?" Kel and Dixie traded shocked, alarmed glances. The voice continued, "Is somebody there? Hello?"

"This is Rampart General Hospital, who is this?" Surprise and a little fear made Kel's questions come out harshly. "Get off the line."

There was a pause, then the voice came back, sounding scared. "There's a guy here and I can't wake him up. I think he's a fireman. He's lying on the ground, and he won't wake up."

Kel felt his heart drop. This was no crank; this was a true emergency. One of the paramedics must be seriously injured—and if so, where was the other one? He snapped into emergency physician mode, concentrating immediately on the most important thing: assessing the condition of the patient, and stabilizing him until help could get there. He made a Herculean effort to wrestle his tone into something that would not frighten away what he hoped would be a Good Samaritan, and took a deep breath. "Okay. My name is Kelly Brackett. I'm a doctor here in the Emergency Department of Rampart Hospital. What's – what's your name?"

"Julia," the woman said, "Julia Warren." To Kel, she sounded adult, but not old, maybe in her twenties or early thirties.

He glanced at Dix, who had her pencil poised to capture any significant details. "Okay, Julia, nice to meet you." He grimaced at the banal comment, then soldiered on. "You say there is an unconscious man there?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly are you?" If he'd believed in luck, Kel would have crossed his fingers. Her response confirmed that there was, indeed, no such thing.

"I - I don't know the address," Julia said, her voice trembling as if she were about to cry. "I was just walking in the woods and saw this man, and he looks dead—" A sharp inhale heralded her impending panic.

"Okay, Julia, that's okay, we'll deal with where you are later. I need you to tell me about the man's condition, can you do that for me? I'm gonna ask you some questions, and that will tell me how to help him. Okay? Julia?" He hoped he hadn't lost her completely.

There was a liquidy sniffle, then, "Okay."

Kel let out a relieved sigh. "All right, Julia. Is the man lying face up, face down, or on his side?"

"He's on his back, face up, but kind of splayed out."

"Good. I need you to feel for his pulse, do you know how to do that?" Please say yes, he begged silently.

"On the wrist or maybe on the neck?" Julia asked.

Oh, thank you. "Wrist is fine, Julia. Put your first two fingers on the vein below his thumb, and tell me how many beats you can count in fifteen seconds."

"I-I don't have a watch on."

Kel sighed as Dixie picked up the phone receiver, presumably to call Station 51. "That's fine. I'll tell you when to start and when to stop, and you count the beats in between. Can you feel the pulse?" At her affirmation, he said, "Okay, go." Eyes on the sweeping second hand of his watch, although after all these years, he instinctively could pinpoint the proper interval with unerring precision, he finally said, "Stop. How many beats did you count?"

Julia paused, then said, "Twelve." Okay, pulse about forty-eight. Not ideal, but not terrible, either. He decided not to tax her with trying to decide if the pulse was weak or strong or thready. He moved on to the next statistic. "You're doing great, Julia. Now I need you to count his breaths. Same thing, I'll tell you when to start and stop. Put your hand flat on his chest, not too high up, and feel for the rise." A few seconds later, and he had a respiration rate of about sixteen.

Dixie came back to stand at his shoulder. "The Station isn't answering, the Engine must be out on a run. I'm going to call Dispatch, unless you need me here?"

"I've got this, Dix," Kel replied, grateful for the nurse's unflappable nature. There were three immediate questions to answer: who was the patient, where was he, and what was his condition and treatment? Kel could only concentrate on that last one, and would let Dix and the authorities deal with the rest.

"Julia," he said carefully, knowing this next step might be upsetting for both of them, "I want you to take a good look and tell me, do you see any injuries, any blood?"

The silence was interminable before Julia said haltingly, "Only on his face. There's some blood coming from his head."

Damn. "All right. Now I want you to very, very carefully slide a hand over his head, front and back—being very, very careful not to move his head—and see if there's any cut or open wound. It's very important," he emphasized, "that you don't move his head or neck, in case he has a spinal injury. Do you understand?" He waited.

"Y-yes, I understand," Julia answered faintly. After a few seconds, she reported, "He has a gash just behind his left ear, under his hair. That's where the blood is coming from. It's kind of a lot toward the back. It's pooling in the dirt."

Kel pinched the bridge of his nose. Possible concussion, he added to his mental differential diagnosis. No way to check the patient's pupil response, so let's move on. He could hear Dispatch confirming the address of the last run. Dix slipped him a note in cursive: Police trying to locate. Get landmarks? "Okay," he sighed, nodding at Dix to acknowledge the note, "you're going to need a free hand. Can you find the switch on the phone box that allows you to speak to me without having to hold the receiver?"

There was a click, then Julia's voice became a bit more distant and tinny. "Like that?"

"Perfect. I need you to do two things. One, if you have a towel or something, press it gently on the wound to try and stop the bleeding."

"I didn't bring a towel with me. I just, wait—" she stopped abruptly, and the speaker was filled with a short rustling noise. "Okay, pressing gently." Just as Kel opened his mouth to inquire, she huffed a slightly hysterical laugh and said, "Boy, I'm really glad I wore a bra today." Then she added quietly, "My boyfriend is going to have a cow."

Kel rubbed his nose. "Julia, now for the other thing. Take your hand and make a fist, with your index knuckle pointing out. Then rub your knuckle on his chest as hard as you can in a circle, in the middle of his chest. right around where the top button of his shirt is."

Her voice sounded shocked and dubious. "Won't that hurt him?"

"Yes, but that's what we want, just this one time. It'll tell me how unconscious he is."

"Okay," Julia said, and for the first time, her voice conveyed something less than trust.

"Did he open his eyes or move?" Kel wanted to know.

"He didn't open his eyes, but he made a frowny face and moved his head just a tiny bit. Is that bad? You said don't move his head." She sounded worried, like she'd done something wrong.

"No, that's fine, Julia, thank you." He closed his eyes for this next bit. "Okay, Julia, one last thing. He may start to, er, throw up, so I want you to watch for that. If he does, you need to turn him on his side, but try not to twist his neck at all, so that any vomit runs out of his mouth. Otherwise he could breathe it into his lungs and that would be very, very bad."

"He's a lot bigger than I am," she protested dubiously. He was losing her.

"It might not happen, but you're doing great." Kel was not typically the encourage-to-success type, but he really needed this Julia person to keep her focus.

Dix tapped the note with a long coral-enameled fingernail and he scowled at her. He wasn't a private detective, how the hell was he supposed to . . . "Julia," he smarmed into the radio, "you said you don't know where you are, but, do you remember how you got there?"

"I, um, I left my house on Sycamore Street–I just moved in last weekend—and turned left at the little white variety store. Then I . . . I cut through the parking lot. There's a hole in the fence that leads to the woods. I followed the path maybe about half a mile or so and ended up here. There's an old, abandoned house, I don't know the address. It doesn't look like anybody lives here."

"That's great, Julia, really good." Kel nodded at Dix, who had jotted down the information and was now moving back toward the phone to relay it. "Can you check his pulse and breathing again?" He was relieved to hear that the vitals were holding steady. "That's good," Kel repeated. Now for the hard question. "Julia, is the man wearing a name tag?" He found himself holding his breath.

Another rustle. "It says, 'J dot Gage, paramedic," Julia said. "He's wearing a badge, too, three-three-zero."

Kel hung his head. Where was Roy, then? Forcing an encouraging note into his voice, he replied, "That's good, Julia. Help is on the way. His first name is John, so I want you to talk to him, see if you can wake him up." He swallowed, "Is there anyone else around that you can see? No red truck?"

"No," Julia answered, "just this John Gage."

Where are you, Roy? What happened? Kel couldn't imagine what could have occurred that left Johnny unconscious, alone with the biophone with no sign of his partner, Roy DeSoto. He heard Dixie relay this latest information to Dispatch, her voice solemn. Over the biophone, he could hear Julia following his instructions, talking to Johnny, "Hey, John, can you open your eyes for me? John, can you hear me?" He studied the vitals on the pad, willing the paramedic to fight his way to consciousness.

Mike Morton cruised by, carrying a few patient charts. "Hey, what's going on, you look like something serious is up." Dixie didn't respond, intent on monitoring the conversation on the L.A. County frequency.

Kel checked to make sure he wasn't broadcasting, then answered heavily, "It sounds like John Gage is unconscious at a scene, and there's no sign of Roy. If I had to guess, I'd say they were ambushed, and someone knocked John out. There's a civilian there, and I've been getting some vital signs, pulse and respirations, but obviously no BP or other information."

Dr. Morton looked concerned as Kel showed him the notes from the call. "Concussion?'

"Probably," Kel said.

"How long has he been out?" Mike asked.

"Don't know. I've been on the phone with this Julia woman for at least ten minutes now, and he hasn't been conscious the whole time. Dix is monitoring the County frequency, and we may have some good information to tell us where he is." Kel rubbed his forehead with his index finger. "It's gonna take some time to find him, though."

"What about Roy? Where is he?" Morton wanted to know.

"I don't know, Mike. I just don't know."

The other doctor laid a hand on Kel's arm. "What can I do to help?" he asked.

Kel shrugged helplessly. "Just keep an eye on the floor, Mike. I . . . I can't really leave . . ."

Mike squeezed his arm gently. "Don't worry, I'll handle whatever comes in. It's handled. Just . . . keep me posted."

Kel nodded gratefully. "Will do." As Mike walked away, Kel's attention was drawn abruptly back to the radio by a change in the tone of Julia's voice.

"John? Can you hear me?" A low voice murmured in the background. "John, can you open your eyes and look at me?"

There was a pause, then Kel heard, with a sliver of relief, John's slurred, "Where's . . . Roy?"

"Who's Roy?" Julia asked. "John, who is Roy?"

John's voice continued, sounding confused and a little agitated, although Kel could not distinguish the words. He knew Gage well enough that if there was one coherent thought in his mind, it would be focused on the welfare of his partner. Kel was feeling the same anxiety, truth be told, and that anxiety only increased as he listened to Julia trying to calm the paramedic down.

"They took him? Where did they take him, John? John, you've got to stay down, just lie back." The panic was back in her voice. "I'm not supposed to let you move your neck, John! Please!"

"Julia . . ." Kel said, fearing that the situation was quickly going sour.

His sharp, emphatic bark into the biophone seemed to catch Julia's attention. "John, I've got Dr. . . . um," the words got louder briefly, "I'm sorry, I've forgotten what your name is . . .?"

Kel felt his mouth twitch. "Brackett," he said loudly.

"Dr. Brackett is on the phone," Julia said.

John mumbled, "Brackett? It's . . .Rampart?" Then he moaned, in the very distinct Gage tone that Kel knew so well, "Oh, man . . ."

Kel stabbed the button. "Julia, quick! Help him turn on his side!" Dix appeared at his shoulder, wincing as they listened to the watery retching. The gagging eventually gave way to soft moans and even softer whispers of, "It's okay, you're okay." The doctor ran his hands through his black hair in frustration, wanting to jump through the base station equipment and start treatment. Dixie laid a hand on his arm, squeezing it a little. "Now we just need to find him," Kel muttered, hoping that the searchers of the woods would get there in time.

"The police are fanning out from Sycamore Street, retracing her steps," she said. "They'll find him any minute now. Any minute, Kel." Her deep blue eyes were calm and confident, just what he needed to pull him back from the edge.

John coughed in the background, and Kel wondered how much foreign matter he had aspirated.

Julia's voice sounded tearful again. "Oh, no! Come on, John, you have to stay with me. Keep your eyes open. Please stay with me." Then Kel caught a pitiful whisper, "I'm scared."

It took all of Kel's self-control not to stab that button again and start asking questions and issuing orders. There was nothing this woman could do. She had no equipment, and no medical training to use it even if she did. She was hanging on by a thread, trying to rouse an unconscious man, with only a disembodied voice to guide her. John's life depended on her ability to focus, at least for a little while longer, and he couldn't let her lose that thread. He couldn't lose the thread. "Come on, come on," he growled at the radio.

Johnny had obviously lost consciousness again, and Kel was brimming with questions. Was the bleeding controlled? Was his blood pressure tanking? How was his airway? Were there any other injuries—maybe even internal—that they didn't know about yet?

The sense of helplessness persisted as all Kel could do was ask for periodic updates on John's condition and try to keep Julia calm. In the background, Dixie continued to monitor the LA frequency, and finally reported that the LA County Sheriff's Department was was doing a sweep of the area that Julia had described. The two of them held their breath as they listened in real time to the transmissions. Twice, the Dispatcher, relaying between the Sheriff's Department and Rampart, asked Dixie to repeat the directions Julia had given.

Finally, and it seemed like an entire eternity had passed, they heard the voices of officers through the Base Station transmitter, shouts of "over here!", the calm questioning and authoritative controlling of the scene, and the soft relieved weeping of Julia, as the woman realized that help had finally arrived.

"Rampart Base, this is LA County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Matthew Fields, on scene. Paramedics should be arriving within two minutes, and will establish contact."

"Understood. LA, and thank you. We'll be standing by." Kel let a tiny bit of tension release from his body for the moment, and felt himself being steered by Dixie to the stool behind the nursing station desk. They weren't out of the woods by any means; Johnny was still not entirely stable, but at least he was found, and that was something. But they still didn't know where Roy was, or what condition he was in. He felt a cup of steaming coffee being pushed into his hand, and he sipped it gratefully, eyes closed. He could have wept with relief a moment later, when he heard the transmitter come to life with a faint echo through 51's still-open biophone. "Rampart, this is Squad 36, do you read?"

A few moments later, with John being readied for transport, the phone buzzed again, and Dixie snatched it up. Her face broke into a broad smile as she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Kel, they've found the Squad. They've found Roy. He's okay, a little shaken up."

"Where–?"

"Two blocks away from the bus station. He's on his way in now." She turned back to the phone, asking for further details on Roy's condition from the officer. Kel saw her nod emphatically, then hang up the phone. "He's alert and oriented, says he never lost consciousness," she said. "Has a bad bruise on his shoulder. LAPD are bringing him in."

Kel placed both hands on the desk and bowed his head. It took three deep breaths before he felt he could trust himself to speak. Still, he was grateful that it was Dixie standing here with him, Dixie gazing at him with blue eyes that mirrored his relief.

"Set up in Treatment One," Kel said.

"Right away," Dix answered.

Five hours later, John was ensconced, very much against his will, in a hospital bed, and Roy was stationed in the one uncomfortable chair in the room, left arm in a supportive sling. Kel pushed the door open and took in the welcome sight of two of his first, best paramedics, mostly whole and sound after their ordeal. Roy wore his normal placid expression; even as he turned his head toward the doorway, he never let Johnny fully leave his field of vision. John's forehead was creased with residual pain, which Kel fully expected him to deny existed when asked about it, and a thick bandage covered the stitched gash behind his left ear.

Kel slid a hand into his lab coat pocket and fiddled with his stethoscope. "Well, I think I've been patient enough," he said. "I'm very curious to know what happened to the two of you today." He kept his voice light, not betraying the long moments of stress and worry.

John shrugged and looked at Roy. Kel clocked that if the normally-gregarious Gage was not willing to spin the yarn, he must be very uncomfortable indeed. He'd check the pain medication orders and up the dosage if necessary.

"We responded to a 'man down' call, supposed to be on Oliver. But when we turned onto the street, a guy came out of the woods, waving his arms, saying the victim was actually in there. We couldn't drive in, so we legged it. We see a guy on the ground, off this little path." Roy gestured at Gage with his chin. "Johnny was ahead of me . . ."

"Roy's slow," John said.

"Roy was carrying the trauma box and the drug box," his partner corrected stiffly, "John only had the biophone." He gave Gage a sour look, then continued. "John gets there and starts setting up to call it in, and all of a sudden the guy pulls up short and points a gun at John." Roy paused and swallowed. "The 'victim' gets up, perfectly fine, grabs my arm, and puts a gun to my temple. Next thing I know, I'm being marched back to the Squad and pushed into the driver's seat. A couple seconds later, the other guy runs up, jumps in, and tells me to drive or he'll blow my head off." Hours after the fact, there was only a slight tremor in Roy's voice as he related the story, but Kel heard it, and a shiver ran down his spine as he thought about how close DeSoto had come to dying that morning as well.

"That would be after the 'other one' tried to cave my head in with his gun," John clarified.

"How'd you get away?" Kel wanted to know. He had heard from the officers that the two men, who had robbed a jewelry store the afternoon before, had been apprehended hiding in the bus station men's room. He couldn't fathom why they had not given Roy the same vicious treatment they had inflicted on John.

"Bad aim," Roy said. "They wanted me to drive the Squad because they knew nobody would look twice at it, and the police would let a fire truck pass through any roadblocks. When they told me to pull over, one of them took a swing at me, but I guess I flinched, or there wasn't enough room. Anyway, he got me on the shoulder instead, but I just acted like I was out. And they took off."

"Some guys have all the luck," John muttered sullenly.

"Oh, I don't know," Kel said. "You got the benefit of a guardian angel Good Samaritan, so I'd say you were pretty lucky, too." At John's confused expression, he added, "A woman named Julia Warren came to your rescue. She held it together pretty well until help arrived. You'd be in much worse shape if it hadn't been for her. I can play the tape for you later."

John frowned. "I thought I was hallucinating that. I kept hearing a girl's voice telling me to open my eyes and to stay with her. She sounded a lot like my mother used to when. . . " Kel was pretty sure Gage hadn't meant to let that last bit slip out, and smiled a little as John made his face go blank and dropped his gaze to his blanket. Then he looked up hopefully. "Hey, Doc. This Julia, is she – is she pretty?"

Kel stifled the growing smile and answered, "I really don't know, Johnny. I only heard her voice on the biophone. Sounded smart and calm, I'd say. But, I believe she has a boyfriend," he added gently, and watched the hope die a quick death. He didn't add, You got her to take off her shirt for you, though, so there's that.

After a second, John shrugged philosophically. "Figures. I'd still like to meet her, though, if I can. Tell her thanks."

"I think I can manage that," Kel said. In point of fact, he had already arranged for Julia Warren to come by the Emergency Department the following morning, both so she could meet John and so Kel could extend his own heartfelt appreciation. He thought about how much he took for granted in his role at Rampart. Here, he was surrounded by professionals who not only spoke his language, but also had medical skills of the highest caliber. He had state-of-the-art equipment and the finest specialists in every discipline on every floor. He had the solid support and expertise of the best Nursing Supervisor in the County, and paramedics in the field to be his eyes, ears, and hands. He was protected by orderlies and security personnel in every contact with the public. He had every advantage in his medical bubble.

But those same paramedics on whom he relied went into each situation blind. They responded to every call, no matter how dangerous the neighborhood or how isolated the location. They almost always did it without police escort, and, as Kel had discovered today, with only tenuous contact. They never knew who or what awaited them at the other end of the call. He had never considered before today just how vulnerable and brave they really were, even when they weren't running into burning buildings.

And maybe every once in a great while, like today, he came across a 'civilian' who matched their bravery with courage of her own.

He sighed and looked at his watch. "Okay, gentlemen, five more minutes of visiting time, then Roy, you need to go home and get some rest. John, well, you won't be getting much rest with the hourly neuro checks, I'm afraid, but I want you to do your best. I'll be back to check on you later."

As Roy nodded acquiescence and John summoned a pout, Kel added, his voice fierce, "And don't ever scare me like that again." Then he tucked that bit of emotion back into its box, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving two surprised paramedics in his wake.