White sister

Chapter 17

Alexa would not commit suicide!

But her words and the gunshot were still ringing in my ear. After a few seconds, I shook out of it and dialed the communication section at LAPD. I got a watch commander, who identified himself as Captain Doug Chang.

"Captain, I have a police emergency," I shouted. "I need an immediate phone check on this line." I then gave him my badge and home phone number.

"What is this regarding?" He seemed hesitant to run the trace.

"A possible police shooting. The call came in on this line. Officer down. I need an immediate trace on this number with the time the call was placed!" I shouted. "I'm heading out, so when you get it, call me on my mobile phone."

I gave him that number and hung up. Then I sprinted to my car, threw it in reverse and squealed out of my driveway, hitting my neighbors' trash cans and knocking them over. I punched the shift into Drive and powered up the alley toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. I had a vague hunch where Alexa was, so I took a chance and hit the 405 South.

Somebody inside the car was saying, "No. No. No." In a second, I realized it was me.

My cell rang and Doug Chang was back on the line. "Last call at ten-thirty this morning, only a few minutes ago, from area code three-one-oh. Five, five, five, six, seven, eight, four."

"Where is that?" I screamed.

"Compton," he answered.

"Okay. Get me a trace on that number from the reverse directory. I need to confirm the address. Call me back."

I was pretty sure I knew where she was. I transitioned onto the 105 East and put the pedal down. In seconds I was doing over a hundred miles an hour. I passed people like they were parked, putting my life and everybody else's on the line.

I was on Long Beach Boulevard when Doug Chang got back to me. "The number traces back to Four-twenty Cypress Street," he said.

"Roll an ambulance to that address right now."

"It's rolling."

I was going almost seventy. I couldn't get the monstrous idea that Alexa had committed suicide out of my head. I was going so fast, I overshot the house and hit the brakes half a block past, squealing rubber as I brodied to a stop. Then I hit reverse and fish-tailed backward, slamming into the curb in front of David Slade's house. I opened my car door and ran for the backyard. The front door was double locked and the quickest way in was through the broken back window. I reached the spot, jumped up, and shimmied into the guest bedroom, landing awkwardly on the floor. I gathered my feet under me and ran through the house.

"Alexa! Alexa!" I shouted, as I ran.

I found her in Slade's bedroom, covered in a spray of blood and cerebral spinal fluid. She was shot in the head and splayed backwards on Slade's big, unmade, king-sized bed. I ran to her.

Ragged pulse, shallow breathing, irregular heartbeat. And then, while my fingers were on her carotid artery, I felt her heart stop.

"Oh shit," I moaned as I grabbed her nose, pinched it shut, and leaned down, blowing two breaths of air into her lifeless body. After that, I rose up and did fifteen chest compressions. Blood, CSF, and little shattered pieces from her skull were all over the bed. The gun was her backup piece. A blue steel Spanish Astra, which had flown out of her hand and was lying against the headboard. Why had she packed two guns yesterday morning? We were on a training day. Had she known this was coming all along? I was in anguish as I kept up the CPR.

"Please," I mumbled and blew more air into her mouth and did more chest compressions. The Lord's Prayer became a silent mantra in my head.

And then, the distant wail of a siren. Seconds later, I heard the ambulance pull up in front. I had to leave her for a minute to let them in. I blew air hard into her lungs one more time and then sprinted for the front door, threw the latch, and screamed: "In here! Hurry, damn it! I'm doing CPR!"

Two EMTs ran up the steps carrying a medical kit and a light metal stretcher with folding wheels. As they charged past me I shouted, "Back bedroom!" then followed. They had already resumed CPR when I arrived in the room a second behind.

"AVPU unresponsive," the lead man shouted to his partner.

"Please, please don't let her die," I pleaded.

The EMT continued yelling instructions. "Gimme some four by fours," he commanded. "Gotta cover this hole. This is gonna be a scoop and run."

The other medic had just finished snapping on rubber gloves. He grabbed a large piece of cut gauze and a bottle of saline solution. He put the gauze pad over the exit wound in the back top of Alexa's head, then poured saline onto the pad.

Then he shouted, "Gimme the EPI, start an IV. We gotta get her to the truck fast."

The second EMT opened his case and retrieved a syringe of epinephrine. The paramedic shot it into a bottle of saline and started an IV.

"Will she make it?" I croaked as they got the IV started and continued CPR, using an oxygen bottle.

"Shut up and let us do this," the lead man snapped. Then he laid the stretcher on the floor and brought it up to bed height, and they made the transfer as he said to his partner, "Call trauma at Big County and tell them to have a neurosurgeon and a crash cart ready. Tell 'em we have a full arrest coming in." The second man triggered a shoulder mike and made the request.

"We can't intubate her," the lead said. "We gotta try and get some vitals going." They started out with her on the gurney.

"She's my wife," I said, trailing in their wake. They were working furiously and had dialed me out.

Then we were outside. I'd seen the drill half a dozen times before. She needed to be revived instantly or it was over.

I ran behind them and tried to follow her into the ambulance.

"You can't go," the lead man commanded.

I snatched my badge out of my pocket, shoving it into his face as I pushed past him into the back.

All the way to the hospital, the inside of the ambulance was a turmoil of medical procedures and shouted instructions from the radio emergency medical officer at the trauma ward. The EMTs told the REMO there was no pulse or respiration. The REMO said give her this, give her that. Take lactated ringers. Put the paddles on. Shock her. The second man yelled, "CLEAR." A zap, and Alexa arched her spine up to meet the charge. The EKG remained flat.

"She's flat-lining. No help from the defib," the paramedic shouted.

"Dial up the charge," the REMO instructed. "Try again."

All the way there, I was pleading, "Please don't let this be happening."

We got to County-USC in less than fifteen minutes. The EMTs ran her out of the back of the ambulance, pushing the rolling gurney into the trauma ward. I climbed out to follow, but my legs gave out underneath me. I went down on the hard concrete and couldn't get back up. Emotional shock? Traumatic paralysis? Whatever it was, for a moment I couldn't move. I just laid behind the ambulance, moaning.