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Message-ID: <49347asstr$1096906201@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Sacking the Quarterback by Al Steiner (no sex) 2/3
Lines: 2014
Date: Mon,  4 Oct 2004 12:10:01 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Hello to all.  It's been awhile since I've posted anything, but I continue
to get emails asking me for more of my writing.  In particular, since
posting "North of the River" and "Collateral Damage", I'm asked for samples
of my "normal" writing.  This is one such example - a short story I composed
and published under my real name about a year before I began publishing here
as Al Steiner.  This is not a sex story.  I know this is a site for that
genre and by posting this here I am off-topic and I apologize in advance to
all who are offended by this.  Please do not send me email asking where the
sex is.  You are warned in advance that there is none and if you're not
interested in seeing my normal writing you should move on to the next story.
I have changed the name of this story and certain geographic details to
hinder identification of myself, but the main plot and everything else
remains as I initially composed it.  As always, please let me know what you
think.  I will be posting this in three sections over the next week or so.
My email address has changed for the third time now thanks to the spamming
machines.  The new one is do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com



Please send all comments, positive and negative, to this address.  I will
respond to as many as I can.  Peace to all,



Al Steiner









SACKING THE QUARTERBACK 2/3

By Al Steiner









South Maldonado, known locally as South Mall, was a crime ridden,
unincorporated area of Marshall County that Jason knew well.  He had worked
there both as a rookie patrol officer and a rookie field supervisor.  Full
of dilapidated motels, skuzzy apartment complexes, liquor stores and porno
shops, it was criss-crossed by narrow avenues and streets badly in need of
maintenance where hookers and drug dealers strolled with near impunity.
Part of the plan Jason and Janet had concocted required the purchase of some
rock cocaine and South Mall was the ideal place for such a transaction.  As
carefully as they had planned everything, Jason, in his wildest estimations,
had not planned for more than thirty minutes to complete this particular
phase of the operation.  But after nearly ninety minutes cruising around the
dangerous streets attempting to purchase what he needed, he was frustrated
and angry, and very much aware of the time slipping away from them.  The
problem was not the lack of drug dealers on the streets.  On the contrary,
the unseasonably warm weather had brought them out in droves.  The problem
was that he had been unable to convince a single dealer, and he had tried
five times so far, that he was not a cop.  After the fifth refusal he
slammed his hand down on the steering wheel in frustration.



"What the hell are we going to do?" he asked Janet.  "We don't have much
time left."



"Maybe you could, you know, get out of the car and let me go buy it.  I
don't look like a cop do I?"



"No way," Jason said firmly, shaking his head.  "Too dangerous.  Maybe we
should just forget this part of the plan."



"I wouldn't advise that," Janet warned.  "I'd say that the cocaine is
integral to the plan working."



"Damn," he muttered, putting his hand to his head and leaning onto the
steering wheel.  After a moment's thought, he came to an impulsive decision.
He dropped the car into gear and pulled quickly out of the liquor store
parking lot they were in.  "I guess it's time," he said quietly, "to
approach this problem from a different angle."



"What do you mean?" she wanted to know, not liking the way he had said that.



"You'll see," he replied cryptically, pulling down a side street.



It took him less than two minutes to find what he was looking for.  A young
black man dressed in a trench coat was hanging around next to a boarded up
apartment building.  Jason's eyes, which knew what to look for, spotted the
other man, who was the real dealer, lounging in the shadows around the side
of the building.  The real dealer would have the main supply.  The man out
front, he knew, would only have about forty or fifty dollars worth of rock
on him.  But that was all Jason needed.  He pulled the car to the curb,
undid his seatbelt and waved the man out front over to him.



"Stay in the car," Jason said to Janet.  "This'll be over in a minute."



"What are you going to do?" she asked, alarmed as the dealer strolled
casually over.



He didn't answer her, simply rolling down the window.



"What's up, my man?" the young black asked him, pleasantly enough.



"I need some rock," Jason said simply.



"Shee-it," the dealer told him.  "Then you best go find yourself a rock
dealer, officer."



"You think I'm a cop?" Jason asked quietly.  By now this was becoming
routine.



"You gots the cop stink all over you, Homey," the kid said, shaking his head
in amusement.



Jason smiled, opening his door and stepping out in one quick motion.  The
kid stepped back in alarm but thankfully did not try to run.



Jason drew his off-duty 9mm and, holding it at waist level, pointed it at
the kid.  "You're right, Homey," he said.  "I am a cop.  Now put your
fuckin' hands on the car."



"Hey look, man," the kid started, "you can't..."



"Now, asshole.  Now!"



The kid obeyed.



"You!" Jason yelled in the direction of the real dealer.  "In the corner
over there.  Police Department!  Get your ass out here, hands in the air!"



As expected, Jason heard the sound of running feet rapidly retreating down
the small alley next to the building.  That was fine with Jason, who had no
interest in the dealer other than not wanting to worry about him taking a
pot shot at him with the gun he undoubtedly carried.  He turned to the kid
before him, putting his hand on the back of his neck and pushing him down on
the hood of the car.  Sliding his gun back into its holster he began to pat
the kid down.  "You strapped, Homey?" he asked.



"Naw man," the kid answered dejectedly.  "I don't carry no piece.  What's up
with this shit, man?  They repeal the motherfuckin' ninth amendment?"



"It's the fourth amendment I'm violating here," Jason replied.  "Go back to
civics class."



Satisfying himself that his young charge was not carrying a weapon, he
returned his hand to the left front pocket where he had felt several vials.
He pulled them out, taking a quick look to confirm they were what he thought
they were.  They were small plastic vials with red lids.  Inside of each
were two small, off-white colored rocks about the size of an undernourished
pea.  He stuffed the three vials into his left front pocket and stepped
backwards.



"Stand up and turn around," he told the kid.  "Keep your hands down to your
side."



The kid did as he was told.



"How much are those three vials worth?  Sixty?"



The kid nodded, obviously confused by the turn of events.



Jason reached in his pocket and withdrew the wad of twenties he was
carrying.  He peeled off four of them and handed them to the kid.  "Here's
eighty," he said.  "Forget this little incident ever happened."



The kid looked at the offered bills for a moment, not moving to take them.
"What the fuck kinda shit is this, man?" he asked.



"Nothing that concerns you," Jason told him, pushing the money towards him
again.  "Take the money and try not to be so suspicious.  It's unbecoming."



Finally, the kid took the money.  Jason jumped back into the Volvo and
roared away, not even pausing to put on his seatbelt.  Behind him, the young
drug dealer stuffed the money into his pocket and wondered if anyone would
ever believe him if he did tell the story.





+++++





At ten minutes to six, Jason wheeled the Volvo to the curb just outside one
of the CSUF parking areas.  From where they were it was but a short walk to
the gymnasium complex where Buckingham worked out.  The sun had set for the
evening bringing the first wisps of the evening's fog bank with it.  On the
main street behind them the traffic was heavy as college students and
workers tried to get home on the congested artery.



"Last chance to back out," Jason told her, watching her eyes.  "Are you sure
you want to go through with this?"



"Yes."  She nodded.  "Maybe I'm crazy.  This has been a crazy day.  But I'm
sure.  How about you?"



"I'm in," he said without hesitation.  "You got your list?"



She held up a small piece of paper, reading off of it.  "A jar of baby food,
a pack of chewing gum, a ballpoint pen, a package of steel wool, a
disposable lighter, a bottle of rum, a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.  Pay
cash."



"Right."  He smiled.  "And when you go in the motel room?"



"Wear my gloves, wear my hat, don't take off my jacket.  Clean all of the
supplies that I bought with soap and water in the sink."



"I'll make a criminal out of you yet," he said, immediately regretting it
since that was precisely what he was doing.  She didn't seem to notice the
bad taste of his remark however.



"And you?" she asked.  "Have you got everything you need?"



He patted himself down quickly.  "Three pairs of gloves, my hat, my gun, my
cellphone.  Short list."



Though both of them had cellular phones and would keep them turned on, they
had decided not to use them unless they needed to abort their plan for some
reason.  Using them in Fresno would leave an electronic trail that they had
been there, something to be avoided at all costs.



"Good luck," she told him, suddenly finding herself near tears for no reason
that she could put her finger on.  "And be careful.  I know you're a badass
cop and all but he's a young guy in excellent shape that works out six hours
a week.  Don't drop your guard."



"You don't have to worry about that," he assured her, opening the car door
and feeling the brisk evening air on his cheek.  "I'll see you in about an
hour and a half."  He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips and then
stepped out without another word.



He walked slowly onto the campus and into the gym parking lot, wearing his
hat and keeping his face turned down, but watching everything carefully with
his eyes.  This was the most critical part of the plan.  Anybody taking the
slightest notice of him would bring the entire scheme to a crashing halt.
He realized that part of him, the part that realized how deadly serious of
an endeavor he was embarking on, hoped that just that would happen; that
this mad errand would be brought to an end before it went too far to stop.
The parking lot, however, was dark and deserted as he strolled casually
across it.  Only ten or twelve cars, all parked near the front, occupied the
lot.



He went quickly to an area of concealment on a small, grassy hill just
outside the paved parking lot; the same place he had watched Buckingham's
comings and goings from during the reconnaissance portion of the plan.  It
was well outside the reach of the nearest lightpole and shielded by two
evergreen bushes.  Only thirty-five feet or so away from the silver Mercedes
that belonged to his quarry, he felt he could reasonably expect to sit there
unobserved and unnoticed, even if one of the campus cops made a cruise
through the parking lot.  He sat on a small rock, careful not to get any mud
or grass or bush fragments on his clothing, and waited.



 From time to time, as he waited, watching the front of the building, someone
would leave, usually carrying a gym bag of some kind, and walk out to their
car or stroll off across the campus towards the dorms.  Twice, a new car
pulled in, parking near the front and disgorging young college students
intent on utilizing the facilities they were entitled to.  No one seemed the
slightest bit aware of his presence less than fifteen yards away.
Seven-thirty rolled around, the time that Buckingham usually emerged from
the gym, and there was no sign of him.  Seven-thirty rolled slowly on to ten
minutes to eight and still there was nothing.  Jason took this as a
particularly ominous sign.  The routine, his most favored ally, had
apparently changed.  Why?  What did it mean?  What else would change?



The answer came five minutes later when Buckingham finally strolled through
the double glass doors of the gym.  Dressed in an expensive looking leather
jacket and slacks, his blonde hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd
just taken, all of Jason's previous doubts disappeared in an instant,
replaced by the bright red hatred he felt whenever he gazed upon the brutal
bastard's face.  But there was a problem.  He was not alone.



"Goddammit," Jason muttered under his breath.  Of all the lousy luck.
Emerging with the quarterback were two shapely young women, one blonde, and
one brunette, both dressed in loose-fitting jeans and colorful sweaters.
Both appeared to be quite young, probably freshmen, and both were giggling
at some remark the witty Chad Buckingham had thrown at them before the doors
had opened.



"So what do you think?" Chad asked them, his voice exuding arrogance much
like a high priced fashion model.  "That sound like the makings of a good
Friday night to you?"



Jason barely heard him.  He simply watched helplessly.  He would now have to
sit here and watch the object of all of his planning drive away.  He would
then have to call Janet on the cell phone and tell her it was off; that
they'd failed due to a stupid quirk of circumstances.  He supposed they
could try again some other night but he knew that they probably wouldn't.
They would never be able to work themselves up to this level again.  Aside
from that their alibi, that they had holed up in the Hilton for a little
love-fest, would never stand up.  It was supposed to be a spontaneous event,
garnered from the month that the two former lovers, he and Janet, had spent
in close proximity with each other.  Having it happen twice would stink to
high heaven to any cop looking over the case.  So with a matter as simple as
two attractive freshman distracting Buckingham's attention, it was all over
with.  Buckingham would never even know how close he had come.



In the parking lot, the two girls were giggling again.  One of them was
saying something about changing her clothes first and the other one was
nodding in agreement.



"You're both fine the way you are," Buckingham assured them, grinning his
all-American grin.  "It ain't no fashion statement you know."



"Just give us the address," one of them, the blonde told him.  "We'll be
there in about an hour or so."



Buckingham recited an address to the two girls.  Jason recognized it
immediately.  It was the frat house where the quarterback and some of his
teammates lived.  The place where his daughter had been raped.  Jason had
tailed him there enough to know it by heart.  Apparently there was another
party there tonight.  Big surprise.  Instead of provoking fresh rage
however, he felt only impatience.  He simply wanted the three of them to
leave so he could make his phone call and start putting this night, this
useless night, behind him.



So sure was he that the plan had failed, Jason almost reacted too late when
things took a turn for the better.  After a few more giggling remarks, the
two girls strolled off, gym bags in hand, not into the parking lot as he had
expected, but around the corner of the building towards the campus
dormitories.  Suddenly Buckingham was alone in the parking lot.  It is
perhaps fitting that his fate became sealed because, instead of going
immediately to his car when the two girls left, which would not have given
Jason enough time to act, he stood and stared at the retreating derri�res
until they had disappeared, whistling softly in appreciation.



"Son of a bitch," Jason muttered in wonder, getting quickly to his feet as
Buckingham walked to his car.



There was a double beep as the alarm was deactivated and then Buckingham was
opening the passenger door and tossing his bag onto the seat.  Jason moved
quickly and silently, still trying to digest his good fortune, pulling the
9mm from his belt as he approached.  He took one more quick glance around,
seeing no one else in sight, and then sprung into action.



"Buckingham," he said quietly, from behind.



Buckingham, perhaps lost in sexual fantasies that involved the double rape
of the two girls he had just been talking to, had not heard him approach.
He turned around, not the least bit alarmed, probably figuring it was one of
his admiring fans, and then he spotted the gun, which Jason was holding near
his waist.



"Look, man," Buckingham started immediately, throwing his hands up in the
air.  "I don't have any money.  I just..."



"Shut the fuck up," Jason hissed.  "And get those fucking hands down.  Put
'em by your side."



Buckingham did as he was told, looking at Jason fearfully.  "Look..." he
started again.



"Shut your ass," Jason said.  "You say another word and I'll kill you where
you stand.  Do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it without any
commentary.  Understand?"



"Yeah," he said, his voice trembling.



"Put your car keys on the roof."



He did so.



"Throw that gym bag in the back seat."



That was done also.



"Now get in the car," Jason ordered.  "Slide over into the driver's side
keeping your hands in sight at all times."



A slight hesitation.



"NOW, motherfucker!" Jason barked.



Buckingham quickly did as he was told, sliding awkwardly over the Mercedes'
gear shift and center console until he was situated in the driver's seat.



"Put your hands on the steering wheel and keep them there," Jason told him,
picking up the keys with his gloved left hand.  He took one more glance
around to see if anyone was watching.  He figured that the entire
confrontation had taken less then fifteen seconds but still, fate had a way
of ruining the best-laid plans.  Seeing no one, he sat down in the passenger
seat, keeping the gun pointed at Buckingham the entire time and closed the
door behind him.



He tossed the keys into Buckingham's lap.  "Start it up."



Buckingham's mouth twitched into an O, about to form the word "where".



"No talking," Jason ordered.  "Just do it."



With trembling hands, he picked up the car keys and fumbled with them for a
minute, trying to find the right one.  Jason debated telling him to hurry
the fuck up, every second the spent in the parking lot was extremely
dangerous since someone could come out of the gym at any time, but he
figured that that would be counter-productive, scaring the prick into
fumbling them more.  After what seemed an eternity, he located the proper
key and inserted it into the ignition.  The car roared to life at once.



Jason, with his left hand, reached up and pulled the seatbelt down over him,
latching it securely into it's clasp and pulling it tight.  Buckingham,
probably automatically, reached his left hand up to do the same.



"Put that hand back on the steering wheel," Jason ordered.



"Just putting on my seat belt," he squeaked defensively, slamming his hand
back down as if he had touched something hot.



"You won't need it if you don't crash," Jason told him.  "Take your left
hand and put the car in reverse."



Awkwardly, Buckingham reached down across his body and popped the gearshift
down one notch.  Jason ordered him to back slowly out of the spot and then
to put the car in drive.



"Now," he said, once this was done.  "You will drive out of the parking lot
and out onto the road, heading for Highway 99.  You will keep your hands on
the steering wheel, at ten and two, just like driver's Ed, at all times.
You will obey all traffic signals and speed laws.  And you will follow my
directions to the letter.  If you screw with me in any way I will empty this
gun into your stinking guts and bury you up in the mountains somewhere.  Now
go."



Jason directed him to Highway 99.  There was one bad moment when, just prior
to reaching the onramp, they stopped at a red light and a black and white
California Highway Patrol car pulled in and stopped at the light in the
adjacent left turn lane, preparing to turn in the direction that they had
just come from.  Jason could see Buckingham's eyes light up as he spied the
cruiser.



"You make any move what-so-ever to attract the attention of that cop and
it'll be the last thing you ever do," Jason told him levelly.  He was
bluffing of course.  If Buckingham tried to jump out of the car and run to
the CHP officer it would be all over.  Jason had no intention of murdering
the quarterback in front of a cop.  But apparently the bluff was a good one.
The CHP officer's light turned green and she made the left turn, passing
less than ten feet in front of the Mercedes.  She never even glanced in
their direction and Buckingham made no attempt to signal her, neither
overtly nor covertly.  Presently their light turned green and they continued
on their way, heading south on the freeway.



Jason directed him to take the downtown exit and then guided him through the
streets until they reached the Motel 6 parking lot.



"Pull in here," Jason told him.  "And follow the parking lot around to the
left."



"What are we doing here?" Buckingham asked desperately, disobeying Jason's
order to keep his mouth shut for the first time since the college.



"You'll find out soon enough," Jason replied simply.



He had Buckingham park the car directly in front of the room.



"Now shut off the engine, take out the keys, and put them on the roof of the
car."



Buckingham attempted to do this but Jason had left out the necessary step of
rolling down the electric window first and they had to backtrack.  When the
deed was done, Jason directed him to sit in the car with his hands on the
wheel.  He looked out the Mercedes' windows, taking in every place he
thought that they might be observed from; the rest of the parking lot, the
windows of other motel rooms along this wing, the street that passed by this
section of the parking lot.  Seeing nothing, he unsnapped his seatbelt and
stepped quickly out of the car, slipping his right hand, which held the 9mm,
into the pocket of his jacket.  He walked around the back of the car,
keeping one eye on Buckingham's hands, which remained firmly on the steering
wheel as directed, and the other on the surrounding terrain, which remained
as deserted as it had been at first glance.  Stopping next to the rear
driver's side door, he snatched the keys off of the roof and stuck them in
his front pocket.  He then opened up the front door, pushing it all of the
way open.



Stepping back two steps, keeping the gun in his pocket pointed towards the
front seat, he said, "Slowly step out of the car so that you're facing out
over the roof.  Keep your hands to your sides and don't make any sudden
moves.  It'd be a shame to have to shoot you now after we've come so far."



Buckingham did as he was told, using exaggerated motions, until he stood
facing out across the empty parking lot.  Jason then ordered him to turn
around and walk slowly to the door of room 47.  He carefully kept his
distance as this was done knowing that if the large quarterback were able to
get hold of him at any point, he would get his ass kicked and worse.



"Now knock two times on the door.  Knock, knock," Jason told him.



Buckingham raised his fist and hit the door two times.  Jason then counted
slowly to ten and then directed him to knock three more times.  That was the
signal for Janet to open the door.  After a moment the doorknob turned and
the door creaked open.  As Jason had directed her, Janet pulled the door all
the way open and stood with her back pressed tightly against the wall of the
motel room, holding it open.



"Now walk quickly into the room," Jason said.  "And stop once you get to the
middle."



But Buckingham didn't hear this.  He stood staring at Janet's face, his own
face, which was pale with fright, marking recognition.  "I know you," he
whispered to Janet.  "Where do I know you from?"



"Get the fuck in the room!"  Jason barked, looking around the parking lot
nervously again.  "Now!"



Jerked out of his daze, Buckingham walked slowly into the room, his head
turning to remain on track with Janet as he did so.  When he was out of
reach of both Janet and himself, Jason followed him inside and closed the
door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief now that the most difficult part
of the operation was over.  He saw that Janet had arranged the chairs in the
room as he had instructed, one near the television counter, one next to the
bed.  On the television counter itself stood the two liter bottle of Pepsi,
a bucket of ice, and a fifth of Bacardi rum.



"Have a seat," Jason told him, gesturing towards the television chair with
his left hand.  His right hand, holding the gun, was now out of his jacket
pocket and pointing at Buckingham again.



Still staring at Janet, obviously trying to place her, he walked over to the
chair and sat down.  Once he was safely planted in the chair, Jason sat on
the edge of the bed keeping his right hand and the gun in his lap.



"How'd it go?" asked Janet, her face showing relief at his safe arrival.



He nodded.  "Next to perfect.  There was a small delay at the gym.  Romeo
here was chatting up a couple of freshmen girls.  But they were kind enough
to go about their business leaving us to ours."



"I'm glad you're okay," she said, her voice even.  "I was... I was worried."



He smiled weakly, turning to Buckingham, who was staring at them pointedly,
his handsome blue eyes full of fear and confusion, like a deer in the
headlights of a car.



"What is this all about?" Buckingham asked, speaking to Janet.  "I mean...
well if it's money you want I can get it for you.  My family is...."



"We don't want money," Janet interrupted.  "What we want is you."



"What do you mean?" he whined.  "Who are you?  I know you from somewhere.  I
know I do."



"You've never met me before in your life," Janet told him, sitting down in
the chair next to Jason.  "But you have met my daughter before and she looks
an awful lot like me."



"Your daughter?"  Buckingham said, his voice conveying that he was, with
those two words, already gleaming what this was about.



"My daughter," Janet said.  "You met her at a frat party about a month ago,
where you brutalized and raped her and then left her bleeding in a dorm
room."



His eyes widened almost comically.  "Look," he said carefully.  "I don't
know what that little bitch... uh what your daughter told you, but I never
laid a finger on anyone that night.  Like I told the cops, I was..."



"Shut up," Jason said.  "Spare us your story.  We know you did it and you
know you did it.  We're not lawyers or a jury or the media you're dealing
with here.  We're parents of one of the girls you raped and you're going to
pay the price for that.  A price you should've paid a long time ago."



"But I didn't..."



"I said shut up!" Jason ordered, raising his voice.  "We know you did it.
There will be no discussion about your guilt or innocence in this room.  We
have already established your guilt in this matter beyond a reasonable doubt
as far as we're concerned.  You are not undergoing a trial here, asshole.
You're undergoing punishment."



It took almost twenty seconds for that word to sink into Buckingham.
Finally he squeaked, "Punishment?  What do you mean?"



"All in good time," Jason told him.  "Everything will become clear as the
night progresses.  In the meantime, have a drink."



Buckingham blinked.  "A drink?"



Jason nodded.  "Of course," he smiled.  "We're not uncivilized here.  My
research has taught me that you're a rum and Pepsi man."  He waved to the
table where the potables sat.  "And it just so happens that we have an ample
supply of that on hand."



He looked at the drink mixings beside him, noticing them for the first time.
"No thanks," he said carefully.  "I'm trying to quit."



Jason raised the gun up, pointing it at his face.  "Oh, but I insist."



Buckingham went slowly about making himself a drink with hands that trembled
like a paint-shaker.  He threw a handful of ice into the plastic motel glass
on the stand and then dumped Pepsi on top of it.  The Pepsi fizzed wildly,
some of it spilling out onto the simulated wood grain surface.  When it
settled down, he opened the Bacardi and poured in an amount approximately
equal to a capful.



"Oh come now," Jason told him.  "We don't have all night here.  Dump out at
least half of that soda and fill the glass up with rum."



Buckingham looked at him carefully.  "Dump it?" he asked.  "Where?"



Exasperated, Jason yelled, "Drink it, toss it on the carpet, put it back in
the bottle.  I don't give a shit!"



Jerking at Jason's words, he spilled about four ounces on his hands.
Another six or so ounces he quickly drank down.  He then poured rum into the
glass until it was full.  The resulting concoction was no longer the deep
brown of Pepsi but an almost clear shade of amber.



"Drink it down," Jason ordered.  "Quickly."



Buckingham did as he was told, not even grimacing as he swallowed.  Although
the 50/50 mixture would have burned Jason or Janet's throats and probably
been unpalatable, Buckingham reacted no differently than if he was drinking
water.  Jason figured that they had probably hit upon just the proportions
he normally used when drinking.



Over the course of the next twenty-five minutes, they forced him to drink
down six more of the rum and Pepsi drinks.  The level in the Bacardi bottle
had dropped down to approximately half.  Buckingham's hands ceased to shake,
undoubtedly due to his intoxication, and he did not seem nearly as nervous
as he had been before.  Jason, though he had not consumed a drop, was also
more relaxed.  Though the large quarterback was more likely to try something
now that he was soused and his better judgement was impaired, Jason and
Janet had both dealt with more drunks than anything else in their respective
careers and knew how to handle them.  Though full of bravado, their
coordination would be shot to hell, leaving them incapable of carrying out
any scheme they thought of.



Buckingham tried nothing physical while consuming his drinks.  What he did
do was plead and beg the two vengeful parents to cease whatever plan they
were considering.  He could pay them, he said.  He was genuinely sorry that
things had, "gotten a little out of control that night".  He had changed, he
sputtered at one point, had started going to church and helping his
community.   When that track didn't work, he tried threats.  His parents
were both lawyers, he told them.  Not only would he sue the pants off of
them and see them in jail, but also he would take their house, their car,
their boat, and their investment fund.  He told them that his parents had
Mafia connections.   Jason and Janet said nothing to each other, their only
words orders to Buckingham to mix another drink or to shut his ass when he
got to loud or too vocal.



When the glass was empty for the seventh time, Jason turned to Janet and
asked, "What do you think?"



She looked Buckingham, who had slouched down considerably in his chair, over
for a moment and then nodded.  "I think he's ready for step two."



"I agree," Jason replied.  "Any more booze and he's not gonna be coherent
enough.  Where's the stuff?"



Janet pulled the brown paper bag she had gotten from the grocery store up
from it's storage space beside the bed.  There were damp spots on the bottom
of it, probably from the excess water that had resulted when she'd washed
everything.  Jason peered inside it for a moment and then pulled out the
pack of chewing gum.  He opened it up and removed two of the slices.



"Here you go, hero," he said, tossing them across the room to Buckingham.
"Chew on those."



"Wha-fuck for?" he mumbled, picking them up off of the floor.



"You'll see," Jason assured him.  "Just put 'em in your mouth and start
chewing."



While this was being done, he reached back into the bag and removed the baby
food jar, which Janet had carefully dumped and washed out, the box of steel
wool, and the ballpoint pen.  From his pocket he removed an all-purpose
utility knife.  He set the gun down in easy reach and considered telling
Buckingham that he could have it back in his hands in less than a second if
he, Buckingham, decided to try anything.  But the quarterback didn't even
notice.  He was concentrating all of his energies on coordinating his jaw
muscles to chew the gum.  With the pliers extension of his knife, he quickly
pulled the innards out of the ballpoint pen and deposited them in the bag.
With the knife extension he poked two holes, about a quarter inch in
diameter, in the lid of the baby food jar.  He then put the knife away and
slid the hollow tube of the pen through one of the holes.



"You do that pretty good," Janet, who had been watching, noted.



He shrugged lightly.  "Saw enough of them when I worked South Mall," he told
her.



Turning to Buckingham, he said,  "How's that gum doing?  Nice and chewy
now?"



"'S'all-right," he muttered.



"Good," Jason replied.  "Now I want you to take it out of your mouth, and
with an underhanded throw, toss it over onto the bed here."



Buckingham looked at him for a moment with his blurry, bloodshot eyes, and
then did as he was told.  He threw badly, bouncing it off of the edge of the
bed.  It landed on the carpet and bounced once.  Jason bent over and picked
it up with his gloved hand, grimacing in disgust.  It smelled of spearmint
and rum.  He applied it to the hole in the jar where the pen tube was
protruding, making an effective seal that would keep air from leaking out.
Once that was done, he opened the steel wool box and ripped a small piece
off.  This he wedged in the other hole in the jar's lid.



"My masterpiece," he said, holding it up for Janet's perusal.  "One genuine
South Mall crack pipe."



"Crack pipe?" Buckingham slurred.  "Wha-fuck that fer?"



They both ignored him.  "Shall we move on?" Janet asked.



He nodded.



Janet reached in her purse, which was on the nightstand, and removed a small
plastic device known as a "memo-minder".  This was a hand-held digital
recording device designed to be used by business people.  The idea was they
could speak into it whenever they thought of something they would want to
remember later.  The two conspirators had a different use for the device.



Twenty frustrating minutes later they finally had what they needed and Janet
began preparing the next step in their plan.  Next to the bed in the room
was a large duffel bag, the same one she had used in the Life-Flight supply
room.  She picked it up and nodded to Jason, who stood up.



"Yo, Chad," Jason said to the drunken quarterback.



"Wha-now?" he muttered, startled out of a doze.  "More talkin into da
fuckin' mic-a-phome?"



"No," Jason answered.  "We have something else in mind for you now."



"Have him take off his shirt," Janet interrupted.  "It'll make the last part
easier."



"You heard the lady," Jason ordered, stepping closer.  "Take off your
shirt."



"Yeah, yeah, " he mumbled, pulling the sweater over his head and finally
off, after getting it stuck around his arms twice.  He tossed it to one
side.



Jason carefully stepped closer and rested the barrel of his gun against
Buckingham's right eye.  This served to sober the quarterback up
considerably.  "Look, man," he said.  "Whatever you're..."



"Shut up and listen," Jason told him.  "My companion is going to be doing
some things to your left arm there.  While she's doing that, you will remain
perfectly still.  By that, I mean you will not so much as twitch a muscle.
If you make any motion that I perceive as threatening in any way, I will
pull the trigger on this gun.  Do you understand?"



"Yeah," he breathed.



"And do you believe that I can pull this trigger before you complete
whatever cute move you were trying?"



"Yeah."



"Good," Jason said.  He nodded to Janet.



She carried the duffel bag over to his left side and set it down, kneeling
down next to it.  She unzipped the bag and removed an IV start kit, a 10cc
syringe, and a small package that contained a saline lock, which was used by
hospitals to secure an IV site without hanging a bag of fluid.  Quickly and
methodically, as if she was doing it in the emergency room, Janet installed
the saline lock in the antecubital vein of his left arm, securing it with a
single piece of tape.  Buckingham, aside from a small twitch when she
stabbed in the needle, did not move a muscle.  After completing this, she
dumped all of the trash into the duffel bag and withdrew five feet.  Jason
lowered the gun and backed up four feet himself.



"You think I should hook him up now?" she asked Jason.



"No," he replied after a moment's thought.  "Let's wait a few."



Jason reached into his pocket and pulled the three crack vials out.  He was
about to open them up when a thought struck him.  "Shit!" he barked.



"What?"  Janet wanted to know.



"I forgot to wash my prints off of these," he told her, handing them across.
"Jesus Christ!"



Janet looked at him, worried.  "It's okay," she told him soothingly.  "You
remembered."



"Yeah," he said, disgusted with himself.  "But I almost didn't.  Have I
forgotten anything else?"



"Jason..."



"Maybe we should stop this right now," he said.  "Before it's too late."



"It's already too late," she reminded him.



He looked at her for a moment, wishing for the first time that they had
never gotten into this.  "You're right," he told her.  "Just getting cold
feet."



"Understandable," she said, carrying the three vials over to the sink.



"What the hell are you two talking about?" Buckingham, slurring slightly
again, asked.



"Nothing," Jason snapped.  "Just sit there and be quiet."



Janet washed the vials and returned them to Jason, who popped two of them
open and dumped the contents out onto the counter.  He then walked over to
the bed and retrieved the crack pipe and the lighter from the bag.  He
carried them back to Buckingham and set them down.



"Ever used these before?" he asked,  "Or do you need a lesson?"



His eyes looked from the pipe to the cocaine rocks to Jason and then back
again.  Jason could see the eyeballs jerking with nystagmus, the telltale
sign of a drunken person, as they tracked back and forth.  "Wha-fuck ish
thish all abou'?"  Buckingham asked.  "You gimmee drunk an' now you wammee
to smoke crack?  You tryin' to fuckin' overdoshe... overdose me?"



"No," Janet answered truthfully.  "Not exactly."



"So you ever smoke this shit or what?" Jason asked.



"No," he replied indignantly.  "I don' smoke that shit."



"Good time to learn."  Jason smiled.  "Pick up the crack pipe and one of the
rocks."



He did as he was told, dropping first the rock and then the pipe to the
carpet.  After a moment's pause he picked them up again.



"Now put the rock on top of the steel wool and smash it down a little bit."



When this was done Jason directed him to apply the lighter to the rock,
keeping it lit the whole time, and to inhale through the exposed tip of the
ballpoint pen tube.  After fumbling with the lighter for a moment, he did
just that.  The rock did not actually burn but converted to a colorless gas,
which was sucked down into the baby food jar and up through the pen, into
Buckingham's lungs.



"Hold it in," Jason prompted, watching his face.



The effect was immediate and impressive.  A flush crept up his neck, moving
northward, filling the pale face with color.  His eyes lost the drunken
sheen, becoming brighter, more alert, the pupils dilating to nearly twice
their normal size.  Jason was impressed with the speed the cocaine took
effect.  Though in his twenty years of law enforcement he had seen a
thousand people under the influence of the drug, he had never once seen
someone actually smoke it.



"Wow," Buckingham said, exalted, his facial expression resembling that of a
teenager experiencing his first orgasm.  He seemed about to say something
else for a moment, then simply uttered, "Wow", again.



"Pretty good shit eh?" Jason, who remained standing five feet back, training
the gun on Buckingham's head, asked.



"Yeah," he whispered, nodding.  "I mean, wow."



"It had better be," Janet, who was reaching into her duffel bag again, said.
"For as much as you paid for it."



"Have another one," Jason said.



"Another one?" Buckingham asked.  "Now?"



"You know it," Jason told him.  "Like I said, we're not uncivilized."



While the quarterback began eagerly setting up another hit, Janet whispered
to Jason,  "I'm gonna hook him up now.  It's almost time."



Jason nodded.  "Okay," he said.  "But be careful.  The rock's probably taken
some of the edge off of his drunkenness."



"I will," she promised, withdrawing a set of black cables from the bag.  At
the end of each cable was a snap-on electrical fitting.  The other end of
the cables was connected to a Life-Pak 10 portable cardiac
monitor/defibrillator that sat, screen outward, in the duffel bag.  From one
of the pockets on the monitor case, she pulled out a flat package made of
airtight plastic.  On the front of the package were the words: "HANDS FREE
DEFIBRILLATOR FAST PATCHES".



Early in the planning process Jason had suggested, as Buckingham himself had
a few minutes before, simply forcing the quarterback to overdose on rock
cocaine.  Janet had nixed that suggestion as impractical knowing that,
despite its horrid reputation and the scare stories that were constantly
circulating within the media and in school anti-drug campaigns, it was close
to impossible to ingest a lethal dose of cocaine.  Especially when you were
talking about a young athlete in his prime.  The body simply metabolized it
faster than it could be ingested or inhaled.  Those that did die from a
single dose were usually found to have some sort of congenital heart
problem.  So Janet had come up with the plan that she was now initiating.



"I'm ready," she told Jason, after tearing open the package.



"Okay," he said, and then turned to Buckingham, who had just finished his
second hit.  "Listen up, hero."



"Yeah?" he said, smiling, presumably enjoying the effects of the cocaine so
much that he'd forgotten he was in mortal danger.



"My companion is going to be doing a few things to you," Jason explained.
"Don't interfere with her in any way."



"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure," Buckingham assured him.  "I won't fuck with her."



"Good," Jason nodded.



Janet carefully approached from his right side.  She snapped the cables onto
the two defib pads and then, one by one, peeled them off of the plastic
backing and applied them to his chest; one directly in the center of his
sternum, the other on his left flank.  Buckingham offered no resistance.
Once they were in place, she stepped back and turned on the Lifepak,
switching the selector dial to the "PADDLES" position.  After a few brief
self-checks, the screen began giving her a read-out of his heartbeat,
picking up the impulses through the patches.



"His heart rate is about a hundred," she told Jason.  "Let's have him smoke
one more rock."



"You heard her," he told Buckingham.  "Fire up another one."



"Again?" he said happily, picking up the pipe and the lighter.  "Okay."



After his third hit, Janet reported that his heartrate had increased to
one-twenty, probably about double what his normal resting heartrate was.
His face was as red as a Washington apple and his pupils were nearly the
size of dimes.  His mouth was twisted up into an exalted grin, as if he was
experiencing Nirvana.



"I think we're ready," Janet said, giving Jason a serious look.  "It's time
to shit or get off the pot."



"Do it," Jason told her.



Reaching into her duffel bag, she withdrew two brown and white packages,
each an inch and a half wide by four inches in length.   "EPINEPHERINE" was
printed on each one.  She opened them up.   Each contained a pre-filled 10cc
syringe, which she quickly assembled and sat on the floor next to her.  She
then dropped the empty boxes into the duffel bag.



"Now that's adrenaline, right?"  Jason asked, watching as she lifted the
first syringe into the air.



"Right," she answered, pulling Buckingham's left arm, the one with the
saline lock in it, towards her.  "A synthetic version of it anyway.  It's a
powerful stimulant that will make his heart severely irritable.  I'm gonna
give him twice the normal dose."



"And you're sure it won't be picked up on the tox screen?" he asked again,
even though they had discussed this point a hundred times.



"I told you," she explained patiently.  "Not if the paramedics show up and
do their job properly."



"Let's hope they're competent around here then," Jason said.



Buckingham, completely oblivious to the conversation going on next to him,
was staring at a cheap picture of an oceanscape that hung on the wall over
the bed as if the secret of the universe could be found there.  He offered
no resistance and in fact didn't even seem to notice when Janet poked the
needle on the end of the syringe into the saline lock in his arm and
depressed the plunger.  That done, she quickly picked up the other syringe
and repeated the procedure.  Once this was done she dropped both empty
syringes into the duffel bag.



"How long does it take to work?" Jason asked.



"It should be less than a minute," she told him, and then shrugged
doubtfully.  "I've never given this to someone who was awake before though."
Epinephrine, in the hospital setting, was used almost exclusively in cases
of cardiac arrest.



They watched.  Jason peering at Buckingham's face, Janet at the screen of
the Life-Pak.



"I think it's working," Jason said less than thirty seconds later.
Buckingham's face, although he wouldn't have thought it possible, became an
even darker shade of red and sweat began to form at his forehead, dripping
down in small drops.



"Yep," Janet confirmed.  "His heart rate has picked up to one-sixty and he's
throwing all kinds of premature beats."



"I feel funny," Buckingham mumbled strangely.  "Dizzy."



"This is it," Janet announced, reaching into the dufflebag for the
Life-Pak's controls.  "Are you ready?"



Jason nodded.



She set the defibrillator to 360 joules of energy and pushed the charge
button.  From within the bag a high-pitched whine, similar to that from a
camera flash attachment, began to emit.  After about ten seconds, it
abruptly cut off.



"Charged," Janet said automatically.  She then looked at Buckingham, who was
now sweating profusely and swaying from side to side.  "This is for
Chrissie, you piece of shit."



She pushed the two discharge buttons on the monitor.  The electricity
coursed through the paddles and into his chest, stopping his heart
instantly.  Buckingham jerked one time, emitting a startled scream, and then
slumped forward as if struck in the back of the head.



"Did it work?" Jason asked.



"Hold on," she replied, staring at the monitor screen.  His reading had gone
flat, which was expected since the purpose of defibrillation was to stop the
heart.  The important part was what happened next, after the heart had a
chance to reset itself.  As she watched, the flat line slowly became wavy
and irregular, indicating that the heart was fibrillating, or quivering
wildly, unable to achieve an organized rhythm, and therefore not supplying
the brain or any other vital organ, including the heart itself, with oxygen.



"It worked," she announced.  "He's in V-fib.  The adrenaline and the cocaine
have got his heart so irritated it won't resume normal beats."



Jason exhaled the breath that he had been holding.  A large part of him, the
cynical part, had been convinced that this crazy scheme would never work.
"Now what?" he asked.



"Now the clock is ticking," Janet told him, noting the time on her watch.
"The American Heart Association says that brain death will occur twelve
minutes from the cessation of oxygen.  We'll give him five.  While you make
sure everything is cleaned up, I'll keep watching the monitor to make sure
he stays in fib.  Then we'll make the call.  The paramedics should get here
five to seven minutes after that."



"What if they're early?" Jason asked, his own adrenaline pumping now as it
finally came home to him what they had just done.  "What if they get here in
three minutes?    Shouldn't we wait the whole twelve?"



"No," she said, shaking her head violently.  "It's too risky.  You have to
trust me on this.  The paramedics need to find him while he's still
fibrillating.  That won't last more than fourteen minutes or so, even with a
young, healthy heart like his.  They won't defibrillate a flat line if
that's what they find, and the coroner will be forced to wonder why he has
burn marks on his chest."



"But what if..." Jason started.



"I know what I'm doing!" she nearly screamed.  "Despite what the AHA says,
if he goes without oxygen for more than five minutes, even if they get him
back, he'll be brain damaged beyond repair.  He won't be able to tell anyone
what happened here.  Now make sure everything is ready to go!  Time is
short!"



Giving in, Jason stood up, reholstering his gun for the first in nearly
ninety minutes.  Moving quickly, though cognizant that his life and career
depended on how efficiently he cleaned up the motel room, he stowed
everything, every piece of evidence that they had been there, in the paper
bag and placed it by the door.



"How we doing?" he asked, walking back over to Janet.



"Still in fib."  She reported steadily.  "Two minutes to go."



He made one more circuit of the room looking for anything that they might
have forgotten, looking for stray hairs that might have fallen from beneath
their caps.  He found nothing.



"Five minutes," Janet announced.  "Let's move quickly."



She ripped the two fastpatches off of Buckingham's chest and dropped the
cables into the duffel bag with the monitor.  A slight film had been left
behind.  Jason grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom counter and wiped away
as much as he could, dropping the cloth into the duffel bag when he was
done.  Janet pulled the single piece of tape that held the saline lock in
place off of his skin and then removed the catheter from his vein.  A single
drop of dark blood oozed from the hole.  She dropped the catheter, with the
tape still attached, into the bag.



"Get the glass ready," Janet told Jason.



He nodded and set the glass that Buckingham had been drinking out of on it's
side on the counter.  They muscled his chair ninety degrees to the right, so
that his left arm was parallel to the counter.  Once in position, Jason
picked up his arm and raised it above his head, making the unresponsive
quarterback look like he was trying to ask a question in a classroom.  He
checked his aim for a second and then slammed the arm down on the table.
Buckingham's inner elbow struck the glass, shattering it into a thousand
pieces, which sprayed onto the floor and across the counter.



"Let me have a look," Janet commanded, taking the arm from him.  It was
crisscrossed with cuts from the biceps to the forearm.  Small pieces of
glass protruded in several places and three of the cuts looked quiet deep.
None of them did more than ooze a few drops of blood since Buckingham's
heart was not beating and therefore providing blood flow.  "Looks good," she
said absently, picking up one of the larger pieces of broken glass from the
counter.  She located the small hole where the IV catheter had been
installed and rubbed the glass fragment across it, tearing the skin open and
obliterating a piece of forensic evidence the medical examiner would have
found quite interesting.



"Done," she told Jason.



"Let's get him on the floor," he said.



Unceremoniously, they tipped his chair over to the right, spilling him in a
heap to the cheap carpet.  He lay there on his side, not moving, not
breathing.



"Now the call?" Jason, who was very eager to make an exit, asked.



She nodded.



Jason walked over to the bed, where the memo-minder sat next to the
telephone.  "Go check outside and make sure the coast is clear," he told
Janet.  "And no more talking."



While she moved to do that, Jason picked up the handset and the memo-minder.
He dialed 9-1-1 and put the earpiece to his ear, keeping the mouthpiece
turned upward.  The phone rang two times and a gravelly, male voice
answered.  "Fresno County 911, what is your emergency?"



Jason removed the phone from his ear and placed the speaker of the
memo-minder against the mouthpiece.  He pushed the play button and
Buckingham's drunken voice issued forth,  "I'm not... not feeling good.  I
need some help."



He then dropped the phone to the floor.  Faintly, he could hear the
operator's voice saying,  "Sir?  Sir?  Tell me what's the problem?  Sir?"



He looked over at Janet, who was poking her head outside.  She caught his
eyes and gave him a thumbs-up signal, indicating the parking lot was empty.
"Let's go," he mouthed silently.



Janet picked up the paper bag by the door.  Jason dropped the memo minder
into the duffel bag and then picked it up, hoisting its considerable weight
over his left shoulder.  Moving as silently as possible he walked to the
door and then stopped in his tracks as a thought struck him.  Janet looked
at him questioningly, her expression one of desperate impatience.  He held
up a finger, indicating just a moment, and then trotted quickly across the
room.  He picked up the second motel glass from the sink counter and carried
it over to the television counter, stepping carefully over Buckingham.
Forcefully he threw the glass down on top of the glass fragments from the
first glass.  It shattered loudly, exploding fresh glass fragments around
the room.  Satisfied, Jason walked back to the door, stepping outside into
the foggy night.  Janet, breathing a sigh of relief, slowly and quietly
closed the door behind them, leaving it, as they had discussed, partly ajar
in order to facilitate the entry of the emergency personnel.



As they walked quickly around the side of the building towards Janet's
Volvo, she asked,  "What did you do that for?"



"It occurred to me that they might wonder why there was no sound of breaking
glass on the 911 tape since that was supposed to have happened after he
called."



"Oh."  She nodded, pulling the keys from her pocket and remotely opening the
trunk.  "Good thinking."



As they piled the duffel bag and the paper sack into the Volvo's trunk, they
heard the faint sound of sirens, still distant but growing louder, piercing
the night.  They passed a silent glance at each other and then quickly got
into the car.  Thirty seconds later they were out of the parking lot.
Thirty seconds after that they were on Highway 99 heading south.





+++++





The first to arrive was Engine Company 13 of the Fresno City Fire
Department.  They had been dispatched to the "unknown medical aid" call and,
armed with the address and room number of the motel room from the 911
tracing system, pulled up in the red zone outside room 47 less than four
minutes after Janet and Jason had shut the door.  The two men and one woman
of the fire crew grabbed their medical aid gear and trudged
unenthusiastically up to the door.  Calls to motel rooms were a frequent
occurrence for them and usually it turned out to be nothing more than a
drunk with some imagined complaint that they would have to baby-sit until
the ambulance and/or the cops arrived.



"Fire Department!" the captain yelled impatiently, pounding on the door with
one hand, holding a metal clipboard under his other arm.  "Did you call?"





When he knocked he noted that the door was ajar, so, when he received no
response from within, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside.  He took
one look at the young quarterback lying on the floor and said disgustedly,
"Aww shit."



They entered the room, setting their gear down on the bed.  The engineer and
the young female firefighter walked over to the unresponsive figure and
rolled him onto his back, hearing the crunch of broken glass beneath him.
The firefighter, noting that their patient was not breathing, felt for a
carotid pulse.  "Nothing," she reported to the captain.



"All right," he said, resigned.  "Let's drag him out of that glass and start
CPR."



While the firefighter and the engineer grabbed his legs and muscled him six
feet closer to the door, the captain radioed fire dispatch on his portable
radio updating them to the fact that CPR was now in progress.  The
information would be passed along to the responding ambulance whose siren he
could now hear.



They worked methodically, all of them veterans of many CPR calls.  The
firefighter began chest compressions while the engineer quickly assembled a
bag valve mask and hooked it up to their portable oxygen tank.  When it was
assembled, he placed it over their patient's mouth and began forcing oxygen
into his lungs.



The red and white ambulance pulled up two minutes later.  The paramedic and
the EMT, both females in their early twenties, removed their gurney and
their equipment from the back of the ambulance and hurried into the room.
The two crews, both from different agencies, knew each other well, having
responded together many times in the past.



"What's the story, Cap?" the paramedic asked automatically, though she could
plainly see what most of the story was.



He shrugged.  "Don't know, Mary," he replied.  "We just got here and found
this guy dead on the floor.  We started CPR as you can see.  No one else was
in the room."



"Looks like he was having himself a little party," Mary replied, pointing to
the counter where the crack pipe and the rum bottle were sitting.



"Oh yeah," he replied.  "Didn't even notice that before."



Mary quickly took command of the scene.  While her partner began setting up
an IV line and the engineer and the firefighter continued CPR, she hooked
the patient up to her heart monitor, using a set of fast patches, which she
placed in exactly the same place as Janet had earlier.



"Any idea how old he is?" she asked as she turned the monitor on and waited
for it to grace her with a reading.  "He looks pretty young to have just
dropped dead."



"Haven't checked," he said, noting on his clipboard what time the monitor
was applied.  "See if he's got a wallet or something."



Mary ran her gloved hand over the quarterback's buttocks, locating and
removing a leather wallet from the right side.  "Here you go, Cap," she
said, tossing it over.  "Okay, hold CPR for a second," she told the fire
crew.



They stopped their respective actions and she peered at the monitor screen,
noting the wavy line of ventricular fibrillation.  "He's in fib," she
announced.  "Gonna shock him.  Continue CPR while it's charging."



She set the monitor for 200 joules of energy and pressed the charge button.
The high-pitched whine began to issue.



"Oh shit," the captain exclaimed behind her.  "I thought he looked
familiar."



"What?" Mary asked, looking up.



"This is Chad Buckingham," he said, showing her the driver's license he had
pulled from the wallet.



The name meant nothing to Mary, who was about as interested in football as
she was in having electricity applied to her genitals.  "Who the hell is
Chad Buckingham?"



"Quarterback for Fresno State," the captain replied.  "He's famous in these
parts."



"This is Chad Buckingham?" asked the engineer, who was squatting on his
knees awaiting his next instruction.  He seemed shocked by this revelation.



The captain nodded and keyed up his radio again.  "Engine 13, can you please
have the battalion chief respond to our location?"



Mary, not caring that her patient was famous, made sure that everyone was
clear of him and pushed the two discharge buttons.  Buckingham's heart
stopped for a moment and then resumed fibrillating.  She charged the machine
up to 300 joules and then shocked him again.  This time his heart stopped
and did not resume, remaining in a flat line rhythm that meant all
electrical activity had ceased.  It was not an uncommon result of
defibrillation.  Especially when several minutes had already passed.



"All right," she said after watching the flat line for fifteen seconds.
"He's in asystole.  Resume CPR."



Mary moved on to the next step, performing her actions with mechanical
precision, the result of having done them a thousand times in practice and
actuality before.  She placed a breathing tube in his mouth, threading it
down through his vocal cords, so the engineer could pump the oxygen directly
into his lungs instead of losing half of it in his stomach.  She then
started an IV in his right arm; the one without all of the glass cuts in it.
Once the IV was in place, she injected a dose of epinephrine and atropine
into it, drugs that were supposed to, in theory, get the heart beating
again.  As she expected, they had no effect.  His monitor reading remained
flat as a pancake.  When she had done all she could do on scene, she told
her partner it was time to go.  Her partner retrieved their flat, a carrying
device on their gurney, and brought it into the room.  They rolled him onto
his side, placed the flat beneath him, and then rolled him back.  They then
lifted the flat, with Buckingham on top of it, and carried him to the
gurney.  He was wheeled to the ambulance and placed inside.  Mary, the
engineer, and the firefighter climbed in the back while Mary's partner,
after retrieving all of their equipment, jumped in the front.



"I'm gonna stay here," the captain, standing at the back of the ambulance,
told his crew.  "Until the BC gets here."



He slammed the back doors of the ambulance and a minute later it pulled
away, heading for the closest hospital with its red lights flashing and its
siren blaring.



During the six-minute trip, while the fire crew continued CPR, Mary injected
three more doses of epinephrine and two more of atropine.  Buckingham's
heart continued to do nothing in response.  When they arrived at the
hospital and transferred care over to the doctor and the nurses, Buckingham
was worked on for nearly forty minutes.  This was perhaps thirty-five
minutes longer than they would have bothered if Buckingham had been anyone
else, but since he was something of a celebrity, they gave him the extra
twenty miles.  It was of course in vain.  Despite the injection of nine more
doses of epinephrine, including a desperate high dose consisting of six
times the amount normally given, two doses of Sodium Bicarbonate, one dose
of Isupril, two experimental defibrillations even though it wasn't
indicated, and a failed round of external pacemaking, Buckingham's heart
refused to regain any kind of electrical activity.  The emergency room
doctor, who knew he was going to end up on the nightly news and was already
going over his speech in his head, finally pronounced him dead.  It would be
a day that would live in infamy for Fresno's sports fans.



Meanwhile, the fire captain, who had stood faithfully outside the motel door
deflecting all inquiries from the curious bystanders drawn by the presence
of the fire engine and the ambulance, was explaining to his battalion chief
why he had called him out on a routine medical aid call, interrupting the
movie he had been watching on HBO back at the firehouse.



"Chad Buckingham?" the chief exclaimed, shocked.  "Are you sure?"



The captain handed him the driver's license.  The chief perused it for a
moment, shaking his head.  "Son of a bitch.  You don't think he'll make it?"



The captain shook his head.  "Barring a miracle," he said, "he's pretty much
toast."



"And you say that there's a rock pipe and booze in there?"



"Yep."



The chief sighed.  "All right.  I guess we'd better get the cops out here to
at least take a look."





+++++





"Chad Buckingham?" exclaimed the startled Fresno Police Department patrol
officer.  "No shit?"



"No shit," the battalion chief assured him.



Before he even entered the motel room he engaged in the common police
practice of dumping the responsibility upward.  He radioed for his sergeant
to respond.  The nightwatch patrol sergeant, a forty year old female with
sixteen years on the job who was about as interested in football as Mary the
paramedic, responded with the second-most common exclamation heard that
night: "Who the hell is Chad Buckingham?"



When it was explained to her, however, she became more interested.  "Let's
take a look inside," she told her young subordinate.



They entered the room, looking around at the scene before them, careful not
to touch or disturb anything.  Her eyes, trained by years of viewing crime
scenes, could note nothing in particular that was a cause for concern.
There were empty IV packages, empty drug boxes, a tourniquet that looked
like a dead snake, and broken glass everywhere.  She noted the crack pipe,
similar to a thousand she had seen before, the crack vials, and the bottle
of rum sitting next to the Pepsi and the plastic bucket of melting ice.
Never the less, something that she could not quite put her finger on was
setting off little alarm bells in her head.  Maybe it was the fact that the
victim, if that's what he was, was famous, or maybe it was instinct.  Maybe
a little of both.



"Keep the room sealed," she told the patrol officer, "and stay out of it.
I'm gonna call homicide and have them come out and take a look."









To be concluded very soon

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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