Sheriff Orman didn’t speak, instead concentrating all his energy on driving the cruiser at high speed over the winding Wisconsin back roads, his siren blasting the woodland quiet to shreds, although we didn’t overtake a single vehicle. He took one curve too fast, and Alison moaned. It was the first sound she had made since being shot. The sheriff tried to check on her through the rearview mirror, but she was too low on the seat.
“We’re almost there, Alison,” I told her.
We drove another mile before the sheriff said, “Did you call her Alison?”
I didn’t reply. It wasn’t a good time.
We were Code Ten when we rolled to the emergency entrance of the three-story Saginau Medical Center. Code Ten means sirens and flashing lights. It was a good thing we had them, too, because without them the hospital staff would not have known we were coming. No one had bothered to warn them—not the sheriff, not his deputies. Some people just don’t react well to catastrophe.
Two doctors, male and female, and two nurses met us at the door and helped us transfer Alison from the back seat to a gurney. I discovered later that the doctors were husband and wife. Both had agreed to work in a rural community for three years in exchange for medical school scholarship money. The National Health Service Corps sent them to Saginau, population 3,267, the seat of power in Kreel County. Here they met, married, and decided to stay after satisfying their obligations. He was from New Jersey, she was from New Mexico. She gave the orders.
“Goddammit Bobby, you should have told us you were coming,” she scolded the sheriff as she examined Alison. Her husband was taking blood pressure and pulse.
“Can you hear me?” the wife asked Alison. “What’s your name, honey? Do you know who you are?”
Alison’s answer was just above a whisper: “Don’t call me honey.”
“Pulse is one twenty-two, blood pressure ninety-six over fifty-eight,” said the husband.
“Okay, here we go,” the wife warned her husband and the nurses. “Gunshot wound, right side, midlobe, no exit. She has blood in her mouth, she’s vomiting blood. Hang a liter of D-5 and lactated ringers. Run it wide open. Wake up pharmacy. She needs to be dosed. I want an antibiotic that really cuts the pus. Call X ray. Tell ’em to bring the portable. I want a full set of chest films and a flat plate of the abdomen. She doesn’t sound good. I want respiratory therapy down here right away. Put her on 0-2. CBC type and cross-match for six units. Get an NG tube into her.”
“Should we put in a catheter?” the husband asked.
“First things first. We’ll take her directly to OR. Let’s roll, people. Stat!”
I understood “stat.” It’s an abbreviation of the Latin word “statim,” meaning “right fucking now!” The rest was all Greek to me.
They wheeled Alison down a dimly lit corridor and into a room designated simply Room One, where we were not allowed to follow.
“She’s in good hands,” a nurse informed us. The sheriff apparently wasn’t so sure and tried to stay with the gurney. The nurse stopped him, using both hands and all her weight to keep him from crossing the line of yellow tape on the floor that separated the receiving room from the rest of the emergency facilities. Reluctantly, he spun away and went to look out the door.
The nurse took a deep breath. “You can clean up in there,” she told me and gestured toward a rest room with her head. That’s when I noticed for the first time the blood that stained my hands, my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, my Nikes. I nodded and headed toward the rest room, stopping first at a water fountain. While I was drinking, the sheriff slapped a handcuff over my left wrist. I protested, but he wasn’t listening. He pulled me to a set of metal chairs that were anchored to the floor and wound the other cuff around an arm. Well, at least I could sit down.
He abandoned me without comment and stood vigil just behind the yellow tape, the tips of his black boots toeing the line, his eyes fixed on the closed operating room door. He stood there, not moving, for nearly twenty minutes, until the ambulance arrived with Deputy Rovick.
The receiving nurse poked her head inside the operating room, and soon the woman doctor emerged and went over to Gretchen. She loosened the tourniquet and examined the deputy’s wound.
“I know you’re hurting, but there’s someone else who needs me more right now,” the doctor said “Do you understand?”
Gretchen nodded.
The doctor gave quiet instructions to the nurse and then told Gretchen, “We’ll give you something for the pain, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. I wouldn’t leave you otherwise.”
The deputy nodded again, and the doctor directed the ambulance drivers to wheel Gretchen into Room Two. Orman clutched the doctor’s elbow. She pulled away. “I need to scrub,” was all she said. She returned to Room One.
A moment later Deputy Loushine burst through the door like he’d had a running start.
“The scene has been secured for CID; we have bulletins on the car,” he announced.
“What about the plates?” I asked.
“They belong to a ham operator in the next county,” he answered as if he worked for me. “The sheriff over there is moving on it for us.”
“What about witnesses, Gary?” the sheriff asked his deputy.
“Just Gretchen, Mike, and him,” the deputy answered, indicating me. “The workers inside The Harbor claim they didn’t see anything.” He said to me: “Gretchen said you got off four rounds at the vehicle.”
“Hit it, too,” I replied.
“You’re under arrest,” the sheriff told me.
Loushine caged me inside a large tiled holding cell that resembled a locker-room shower. It was empty of all furniture except a lidless toilet that was hidden from outside view behind a low wall in the corner. The floor sloped gradually to a drain in the center of the room. Overhead, fluorescent lights were protected by a metal grating. The sole window looked out across the corridor to the fingerprint station. A blind was on the outside of the window. I sat on the floor in the corner directly across from the door. My hands were cuffed behind my back. I sat a long time. And as the hours flowed away, I found myself doing something I hadn’t done for years, not since my wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver. I prayed. I prayed for Alison, beseeching God to intervene on her behalf. But just as hard, I prayed for myself—prayed that I wasn’t responsible for bringing the shooters down on her.
The sheriff arrived several hours later—at least I was guessing it was several hours. I had lost all track of time. Using the wall for support, I managed to shimmy to my feet. My legs were stiff from sitting, and I tried to stretch them as best I could without the use of my hands.
“How is she?” I asked.
The sheriff closed the door to the holding cell, thought better of it, and opened it again. He stepped out into the corridor and drew the blinds across the cell’s window. When he reentered the cell, I noticed that he was no longer wearing his jacket, Sam Browne belt, holster, gun, or badge.
“So it’s going to be like that,” I said.
“You’re going to answer my questions,” he told me.
“Gladly,” I said.
Only the sheriff didn’t ask any. Instead, he paced relentlessly in front of me, his hands clenched, then pointing, then resting on his hips. His face was red and twitching; his lips were pushed forward bearing his teeth; his breathing was fast and shallow. He was displaying all the classic signals of the first stage of aggression and ritualized combat—assault is possible—that I’d been taught to recognize while training to become a police officer. If I had been in uniform, with my hands free, I would have given him a good whiff of pepper spray.