Just Another Day: Chapter 7
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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12:35 p.m. on May 14, 2012, Back at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California
The medical clinic at the complex is swarming with activity at the moment. First, there is James Hoffner, as they now know the identity of the intruder on their campus. The man has a broken leg, and – his intentions notwithstanding – he must be taken care of. He has the attention of Nurse Emily Carson.
True to his word, the man has not provided any information to the crew other than his first name and last name. He has not deviated from his 'I ran out of gas' story, and other than that, he has buttoned up tighter than a clam.
Still, he must be cared for before they decide what to do with the injured man.
Willie Crockett, on the other hand, has the attention of Nurse Gail Simmons, who was with him on the chopper, and . . . well, everyone else in the now-crowded room.
Willie is sitting atop one of the attending tables, stoic as ever. Nurse Simmons has just finished adding the final stitch – five total – over his left eyebrow, after applying a couple of deadening shots to the area. Crockett, no stranger to stitches, didn't even acknowledge the shots, as he is somewhat used to stitches without the joy of an accompanying deadening agent.
Now, however, all of the attention is on the now bare-chested man and the history that is painted on the enforcer's body.
Richard Castle is silent, taking in the sight before him, giving a squeeze to Kate Beckett's hand. Mike Monroe stands next to Lindy Matthews, who simply nods her head in respect to the man on the table.
"Jesus," the blonde security woman mutters to herself.
Sam Carlos, however, stands next to the patient . . . his enforcer . . . his friend, and there is a different look that adorns the face of the San Francisco businessman – slash – mobster.
Kate Beckett recognizes this look. She slowly disengages her hand from Richard Castle's and walks toward her long-time college friend and places her left hand atop her old friend's shoulder.
"He has been through the ringer," she whispers to Carlos.
"He is a soldier," Lindy Matthews replies softly, drawing a nod of respect from the enforcer.
"He is my friend," Carlos remarks, and the emotion in his voice is clear to all . . . including Crockett. It is not often that Carlos sees this man so vulnerable, and it is not a pleasant sight.
Crockett's back and chest is a war zone, one that can only be described as something resembling a Hebrew slave from ancient Egypt or a black slave from the south who has been whipped and beaten. His back has multiple scars, and his abdomen has a long scar that can only be caused by a knife. A couple of pock marks indicate where bullets have likely been removed.
"My God," Castle exclaims under his breath, shaking his head at the sight in front of him. He and his friends cannot be blamed for all but thinking Sam Carlos' enforcer to be invincible. The painful sight in front of them obliterates such thinking.
Crockett is fully aware of the stares, and the cause of the stares. It is a reaction he is accustomed to when being attended to by medical professionals. When asked how he got this scar or that scar, his reply is always the same.
"You do not want to know."
He can tell what everyone is thinking. He is aware of the surprising impact his unveiled body continues to illicit for first-time viewers.
"I would wager that your body is somewhat similar," he tells Lindy Matthews as he glances at the blonde woman.
"And yours also," he turns to Mike Monroe. Monroe merely nods his head. He had a similar reaction the first time he was fortunate enough to witness an unveiling by Matthews for entirely different reasons.
Gail Simmons snaps everyone back to the present moment, as she begins issuing orders.
"Help me get him to his feet and over to the X-ray machine," she tells Mike Monroe, pointing toward the machine in question, which is located in the small glass office adjacent to this examining room.
"We are extremely fortunate you just happen to have an X-ray machine here, Richard," Carlos remarks.
"It only makes sense, Sam" Castle answers softly, his voice low and almost reverent. "Every single woman here – every one of them – has come with wounds. With injuries."
"And sometimes those injuries can't be seen," Kate adds. "They are internal. Like our friend here."
Carlos merely nods his head in agreement, marveling once again at the foresight put into this place, and the fact that no expense has been spared, medically, aesthetically, or in any other manner.
Mike Monroe helps to get Willie Crockett off the table, now noticing how the bigger man is leaning more heavily on him and breathing more heavily.
"Yeah, broken ribs," Monroe thinks out loud.
"Probably," Willie agrees.
"Done this often?" Monroe asks.
"More than the average bear," Crockett chuckles.
"Well, you are more than the average bear," Monroe laughs out loud, drawing a laugh from Crockett and more stares from those in the room as Crockett enters the glass enclosed area and makes his way to the table. Monroe assists the slightly-larger man as he attempts to lie down, while Gail Simmons maneuvers the portable unit over Crockett.
"Help him move a little more to the right," Simmons motions with one hand, while eye-balling the alignment.
Monroe helps the large man get into position, listening as his breath continues to get more raspy. He knows their friend is in serious pain.
"You ready, Doc?" Monroe asks Nurse Simmons. "Let's get this done and get some serious pain-meds into our friend here."
"Michael, for the eleventh thousandth time, I am not a –"
"Can you two save this little disagreement for a different time?" Crockett asks the duo, with a wistful smile.
"Say no more," Simmons replies. "Monroe . . . Out!" she tells the security chief as she moves behind the protected area. As soon as Monroe has cleared out, she begins giving instructions to their patient.
"I need you to take a deep breath and hold it, in three . . . two . . . one," she tells Crockett. Seconds later, you hear the slight hum of the machine.
"Ok, let it out, Mr. Crockett," she continues. "I need to take a couple more. It won't take much longer, I promise."
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12:35 p.m. Same time, Same Day - Across the bridge, back in the Mission District in San Francisco
The paramedics are having more than a little bit of difficulty extracting Detective Jennifer Blackard from the wreckage. Her car is damaged on both the driver and passenger sides, and completely inoperable. She is fortunate that the driver's side damage is in the rear of the vehicle and not the front area where she is still sitting, somewhat trapped.
The driver's side door is wedged against the brick wall of the building she spun into roughly thirty minutes ago. She guesses she was unconscious for a good ten minutes before coming to consciousness because of a stranger who is banging on her passenger side.
Unfortunately, that door is caved in, and not budging.
"Let's see how we can do this, Miss," the stocky paramedic tells her from the backseat. The man had been able to enter through the passenger side rear door, and is now trying to navigate precisely how to get Jennifer Blackard out of the car, given the odd angle that her left arm dangles.
"Damn," she winces against the pain. "Same injury as Rick. What are the odds of that?" she wonders to herself, only half-hearing the words of the man who is trying to communicate with her, from the backseat behind her.
"Miss, can you understand me?" the paramedic asks again.
"I hear you . . . I hear you," Blackard replies. "Stop yelling, my head hurts enough already."
That tells the paramedic everything he needs to know.
"Ma'am, I need you to use your good right arm, your right hand," he begins. "I need you to lean forward, and hold on tight to the steering wheel with your right hand. I am going to break your seat, so we can lean you back and get you out of here."
"I understand," she answers, nodding her head. She leans forward and grips the steering wheel with her good hand.
"Ready," she tells the paramedic. She hears a loud crunching sound as the man almost-too-easily rips the front seat backward, unhinging it. He lays it as flat as it will go, and then moves forward, taking her in his arms with both hands.
"I know this is going to hurt, but I need you to lean back now, until you are lying flat," he tells her.
"Aaargh!" she screams out as her body leans backward, but her left forearm more or less stays where it is.
"Arm splint!" the paramedic yells out through the open rear passenger door at his colleagues. They are going to need to stabilize the detective's arm before extracting her. A plastic splint should do the trick until they can get her to the hospital, get film and most likely surgery. He knows that a traditional cast is likely not going to work here, and she is probably looking at an external apparatus.
Minutes later, ignoring the grunts of pain, he has applied the splint to stabilize her arm.
"Okay, Miss . . ." he asks.
"Blackard," she replies. "Detective Jennifer Blackard."
"Oh okay, detective," the paramedic replies, now with a renewed sense of urgency and caution. No, she is no more valuable than anyone else, but it is a small fraternity between the San Francisco Police, Fire and Paramedic units. The paramedic immediately recognizes one of their own.
"Got a detective here," he mentions to his fellow paramedic who is readying the mobile cart that will be used to transport Blackard to the ambulance.
"Understood," the young woman replies, now barking something unintelligible into her mobile radio unit on her shoulder.
"Okay, Detective Blackard," the paramedic continues. "My name is Steve Abrams. I've got you. We are going to pull you as carefully but quickly as we can out of here."
"Is that gasoline I smell?" Jennifer asks suddenly, moving her head to try and see her surroundings – an impossibility as she is lying flat.
"That's why I said quickly," Steve answers, with a slight smile. "We don't have time to dally, so I apologize in advance."
With that, the stocky paramedic grabs Jennifer Blackard with both hands, and begins pulling her out of the disabled car, ignoring her cries and moans as much as he can.
"Almost there, Detective," he tells her. "A few more feet."
Seconds later, she is lying on the mobile cart, being moved quickly on wheels toward the waiting ambulance. She sees fire personnel now moving in toward her car, with hoses.
"My bag?" she asks, knowing her wallet, her phone, her badge . . . everything important is in that purse.
"Already got it," Steve replies, placing the brown shoulder-strapped purse alongside the detective on the mobile gurney.
"Thank you," Jennifer replies, now closing her eyes against the searing pain, as she feels the gurney being lifted into the ambulance. She hears the doors close, and once again idly wonders how her friends are doing across the bay. Suddenly, her eyes snap open once again, as her reality slaps her solidly in the face.
"My brakes!" she thinks to herself, remembering now the source of her accident.
"My brakes were cut," she says out loud, and only now do the questions begin pounding, knocking at her door, as the San Francisco detective now begins to wonder who would want her dead, and resort to such tactics to ensure her death.