Autumn - 3. Human Touch

Flynn was a bear of a man. He stood as tall, and weighed as much, as the largest linebackers playing in the National Football League. His body wasn’t cut and ripped with clearly defined muscles, but bulky, like a Turkish or Eastern European power-lifter. His size, dark skin, shaved head, and full black beard gave him an intimidating appearance. More than once, people had crossed the street as they approached him on a sidewalk, apparently fearing the hulking man.

The guy, however, broke every possible stereotype held against those who looked like him. He married his high school sweetheart as soon as he returned to South Carolina, following four years in the United States Army. They had both worked hard—he as an automobile mechanic, and she as a nurse—until they were able to afford a modest house in their hometown of Florence.

They were parents to a seven-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy, whom they both doted on. Dallas knew many black children in the south were born in poverty, were raised in poverty, and died in poverty. Discrimination and lack of opportunity for descendants of slaves were still common in his home state. He had sworn to himself his kids would have a better and easier life than he had experienced.

Although he was an extremely competent auto repairman, he realized fixing cars, as an employee, would be a hard way to save a significant amount of money. He and his wife wanted to build a large enough egg-nest to provide an education for the children. He worked at a local shop in Florence for some time, then signed on with a large regional trucking company, went through its training, and obtained his Commercial Driver’s License Class A.

For the following few years, he spent more time driving up and down the east coast of the United States, than at home with his family. It was hard being away for many days at a time, but the big guy believed in making sacrifices in the present, to ensure a better future. While on the road, he didn’t go out drinking, gambling, or chasing women, as many of his fellow truckers did. He spent his downtime working out or reading. He lived frugally; he and his wife saved as much of what they earned as they could.

After a few more years on the road, he expected to have enough saved to return to Florence, and do what he loved best: repair automobiles. His previous employer had offered him a position in the garage, whenever he wanted it, along with the chance of buying into the business. The owner was older, hoped to eventually retire, and allow Flynn to take over entirely when the time came. Owning the shop would provide the money needed to pay for his kids’ education.

Traffic around the nation’s capital was usually bad; on Friday afternoon, before the last long weekend of the summer, it was atrocious. Many people had left work early to get a jump-start on the holiday. They were most likely thinking ahead to upcoming plans: the beach, the mountains, backyard pools, cookouts, or any of a thousand other things. Paying attention to their driving was not at the top of the list, Flynn thought.

The large reception area of the emergency room at George Washington University Hospital was filled with the redolence of pine-scented disinfectant. The source of the somewhat pleasing odor appeared to be a middle-aged guy wearing blue coveralls, who walked around the brightly lit space, pushing a plastic cart filled with cleaning supplies. He sprayed surfaces visitors might touch, wiping them dry with sheets torn from the roll of paper towels secured to the handle of his cart. The used sheets he crumpled, tossing into a container lined with a plastic bag. His routine was interrupted as alerting sounds and announcements emanated from the public address system. He stopped his cleaning, quickly walking away from the room, pushing the cleaning cart ahead of him. A few minutes later, he returned with a different one. This one had stacks of linens on the lower shelf. The top of the cart had clear plastic bins, with bandages, gauze rolls, and boxes of gloves visible through the sides. The supplies were apparently kept at the ready for emergencies such as the present one.

The station the television set in the room was tuned to had interrupted its regularly scheduled programming to report on the police officer shooting in Chinatown. The image shown was of an attractive, young, African American woman, holding a microphone, standing across the street from what was described as the scene of the crime. The increasing noise made it hard to hear the report, but the crawling line at the bottom of the screen stated the shooter was still on the loose. Yellow police tape could be seen blocking the sidewalk, keeping crowds of people away, while an Asian couple stood at the door of the Sum Yeung Gay restaurant.

This coverage was in itself interrupted, when the image switched to a man and a woman sitting behind a desk in a studio, which was then replaced with an aerial view of a multi-vehicle accident on an expressway. Standing close to the wall-mounted set, one could hear a commentator say the images being broadcast live from their news chopper, were of a multi-vehicle pile-up on Interstate three ninety-five. The road’s heavy traffic, which slowed average speeds on the expressway, prevented a terrible accident from turning into a horrendous carnage. Even then, preliminary reports claimed three individuals had lost their lives. A truck driver, a man identified only as Flynn, had survived and been airlifted to MedStar Washington Hospital Center in Georgetown―the largest private hospital in the city. Fifteen others were being transported by ambulance, to GWU Hospital. Names of the victims were not being released pending notification of next of kin.

The announcement heard in the room declared alert: Trauma Yellow. As if struck by a jolt of electricity, the medical center’s personnel rushed to action. The janitor stopped his cleaning and exchanged his cart for one filled with medical supplies. Security guards asked those waiting in the area to move closer to the walls while clearing a path for the injured by moving chairs and plants out of the way. Orderlies arrived, pushing wheeled stretchers, and formed a line outside the building entrance, on the sidewalk beneath the covered driveway. Police officers interrupted their vigil for their injured comrade, to move their vehicles out of the access lanes, making room for the onslaught of ambulances and patients presaged by the alert and the broadcast heard over their radio.

The hospital’s chief trauma surgeon had planned on leaving work early on Friday; he delayed his departure when informed a police officer had been shot. He was already in the emergency area because of this, when he was told about a large number of victims from the pile-up on the way to his facility. He had ordered the alert condition which mobilized the medical center’s staff. As doctors, nurses, orderlies, and anesthesiologists reported in, they were organized and reminded the day could become one of the most intense experiences of their careers.

He stressed this type of crisis was rare, but the last time a gunman had made an attempt on a U.S. president's life―more than three decades ago―hospital personnel was mobilized similarly. GWUH trauma surgeons were the ones who operated on President Ronald Reagan and other victims. The surgeon and his colleagues met every month; ensuring the hospital had enough doctors and nurses on backup, in case of a crisis, was essential. But the medical center didn’t organize drills, because as the press was told afterward if one planned for such an instance, then they were in all likelihood destined for failure. Those events were just chaotic, and no one ever knew what to expect.

John Paul, CJ, and his dads stood in a corner of the waiting area, expecting to hear news on Tommy’s status sometime soon, as the influx of injured people began. The slightly crowded space became even more so. Police personnel, also waiting for news of the injured detective, stood aside so as not to interfere; some jumped in to assist, helping to bring victims with minor injuries into the facility. In what might best be described as organized chaos, the surgeon in charge of triage directed the critical cases toward operating rooms. His loudly spoken orders were audible over the cacophony and followed at once. Those suffering only cuts and scrapes went to regular emergency workspaces to be treated by nurses, and wait until a physician became available for a more thorough examination.

Their view of the main entrance was blocked, by the many people between them and the doors to the department; JP and his friends failed to notice the two young children brought in by police officers. The dozing boy and girl were taken by two orderlies, who quickly whisked them away, to a quieter area. Both youngsters had been rescued from the wreckage of one of the cars, found securely strapped into child safety seats. The vehicle they were traveling in had collided with a trailer truck rig, they were tossed about a bit, but the restraints held, and they were unharmed. The hysterical crying had eventually subsided, once they had tired themselves out, leaving both exhausted and asleep.

Doc stepped out of Detective Kennedy's recovery cubicle, and headed towards the area he suspected his friends were. In the corridor, he met up with the hospital’s trauma chief, who had just walked out of an operating room next door. The two physicians, friends for a long time, greeted each other as a patient was wheeled out of the same space the chief had come out of. A white sheet was draped over the man’s mid-section; his left arm was connected to an intravenous line, leading to a clear plastic bag hanging at the side of the gurney. His face and arms had a couple of small bandages, and the right leg was elevated and in a cast. The man’s muscular, hairy chest seemed familiar to Doc.

“Howdy, chief, what’s going on? I’m surprised to see you here on the Friday afternoon of a holiday weekend.”

“Hey, Matt, bad car crash on the three-nine-five. We have three dead, one survivor in critical shape airlifted to MedStar, and fifteen others brought here. Most of those had minor injuries. That guy was one of the worst cases, but he’s going to be just fine.”

“Y’all mind if I take a look? I think I may know him. Have you identified him?”

“Sure did, bud. We got his name from the wallet first responders found in his pants. They had to slice his jeans off to treat the leg, after cutting him out of the vehicle. The seatbelt, and the airbag, saved his life when the car rolled over.”

Doc walked over to the gurney, nodded to the orderly waiting with it in front of the elevator doors, and looked at the patient’s face. There was no need to read the identification bracelet to identify the man, he did know him. Doc closed his eyes, shook his head in disbelief, and covered his mouth with his hand. He hat to muffle the loud curses he uttered in frustration.

“Matt? Do you know him?”

“Yeah, the cop who was shot today is one of my closest friends. Adriano here is the manager of the place our group uses as our regular hangout. And this guy’s as nice a person as you could ever meet. This fucking day keeps getting worse by the minute.”

“Sorry to hear that, man.”

“Do you know if his wife, or their twins, were involved in the accident?”

“Boy and girl? About four or five years old?”

“Yeah, that’s them!”

“Both kids are okay, a couple of bruises, but fine otherwise. I was told the woman driving the car was pronounced dead in the ambulance, while in transit.”

“Goddamn!” What a lousy, crappy day, thought Matt. He stood still, closed his eyes again, and tried to calm himself before walking toward the reception area in search of his friends. Deciding the gang had enough to worry about over the injured Detective, Doc thought it best to withhold the news about Adriano and his family until later.

The good news about Tom Kennedy’s condition and prognosis was met with sighs of relief from the group of friends. CJ and John Paul had sobbed a bit, visibly relieved, and shedding grateful tears. Doc led them to the Intensive Care Unit, where each one was allowed to spend a few minutes with the sleeping detective. They had moved over to the small waiting area afterward. Brett had taken CJ to their house in Georgetown so he could shower, and would bring food for everybody. Doc excused himself so he could run to his office, promising to return after he looked in on another couple of patients.

When he returned, he found Dragon, King, and Danno eating with the other men. He motioned for the three new arrivals to meet him at the nurses’ station and gave permission for each one to also spend a few minutes with the injured police officer.

Walking back to rejoin the rest of their group, he whispered in Danno’s ear, asking him to stay behind, once the others departed. He suggested it might be best for him not to mention the request to anyone else. The tall Hawaiian nodded his agreement with a questioning expression on his face.

They stepped into the middle of a family discussion, as CJ argued with, and convinced his fathers, he could spend the night at the hospital. Doc said goodbye, let them know he needed to check on another patient, and discretely motioned for Danno to join him.

As the surgeon had told Matt, Adriano’s wallet and phone were found in his clothing, after he was cut out of his car. The paramedics handed over all the accident victim’s personal belongings, following their delivery of the man to the hospital. An administration department employee logged them and stored the retrieved items for safekeeping. The orderly turned the phone on, before putting it away, and was rewarded with a lock screen displaying ICE information. ICE—for In Case of Emergency—was an abbreviation used to identify the person to be notified should such it be needed.

In Adriano’s case, there were listings for ICE 1, ICE 2, and ICE 3—his wife, parents, and employer. Calls to the wife’s number transferred to voice mail, so the parent’s number was then tried. Mr. Tomassi answered, confirmed he was Adriano’s father, and was informed about his son’s involvement in an automobile accident and his condition. He asked about his daughter-in-law and was told she’d not been in the car with her husband, but callers had been unable to reach her. Mr. Tomassi said he and his wife would be leaving New Jersey within the hour and would be in Washington sometime that evening.

The food was all gone, CJ had cleaned up the leftover mess, and his fathers had left. JP told the boy he was going to take the advice printed on his black T-shirt―FEEL SAFE AT NIGHT SLEEP WITH A COP―and went to sit with Tommy, while CJ settled himself in the waiting room to read.

“Caleb, would you make sure the curtain in room four remains closed? I’ll explain why before I leave.” Doc stood with Danno on one side of the nurses’ station.

“Sure thing, Doctor.”

“Bubba,” he said to Danno. “What with Tom’s shooting, today’s been a shitty day already, and I’m fixing to make it worse for you. Adriano and his family were in a horrible automobile accident this afternoon.”

“What? No! You mean the one on the interstate that’s all over the news?”

“Well I ain’t watched TV all day, but that’s probably it. The twins are fine, a couple of bruises and scared, but fine. They're on a different floor. I ordered they be given a mild sedative, to help them sleep through the night. Adriano’s case was a bit more serious, but he’ll recover. The car’s seatbelt and airbag saved his life. He was unconscious, trapped inside the car, as first responders arrived―they had to cut him out of it. He has bruises all over his body, some cuts on his face from glass shards, and a broken right leg. The fractured bones have been set, pins attached to hold them together, and the leg was placed in a cast. There was no damage to tendons or ligaments. He’s here in room four but will be transferred upstairs after the morning shift comes in. I’m having him placed in the same room as his kids. His wife, however…”

“Oh no, fucking shit! You gonna tell me she died?”

“Sorry, bud. She didn’t make it. They tried to save the baby, but they were both dead on arrival. Her body was taken to the morgue. She ran head-on into an overturned truck, the twins were in their child seats in the back. That saved their lives. Adriano’s car was clipped by one of the two trailer rigs which caused the accident. It rolled over, ending upside down on the side of the highway.”

“Fuck! Can I see him?”

“Sure thing, but as I said, he’s heavily sedated at the moment. All vital signs are normal. I don’t foresee any long-term physical effects. His parents were notified early this afternoon, and are on their way from New Jersey. They should be here sometime soon. The receptionist in the lobby will text me when they arrive, and I’ll have her direct them to the twins’ room. I’d like you to be there with me when they arrive.”

“Definitely. They’re the nicest people. You can see where my man got his great disposition.”

“Let’s take look in on him, I want to check Adriano’s chart for a minute, and we can head over to see the kids.” Doc grabbed a folder from the nurses’ station and closely followed by Danno, walked into Adriano’s room. The big Hawaiian headed straight for the man’s bed, grabbed his hand, and spoke to him in a soft voice.

“Hey, buddy, it’s Danno. Doc’s here with me and he tells me you’re going to be just fine. We’re going up to see the twins in a minute, they’re also in the hospital, but they’re un-hurt. They’re just keeping an eye on them overnight. Your mom and dad are on their way and should be here soon, I’ll bring them to see you when they get in. You just rest and get better, okay?” Doc was standing at the door, having already finished with the chart, waiting for Danno.

On their way out, he dropped the chart off and spoke to the nurse. “Caleb, let me tell you why I want the curtain in Mr. Tomassi’s room closed…”

Angelo and Antonia Tomassi made one stop between their residence in New Jersey, and George Washington Hospital, in Washington. They bought gasoline for their car, coffee for themselves, and used the restroom. During the drive, Tonia Tomassi called the hospital several times to inquire about the condition of her son. After positively identifying herself, she was told Adriano had a broken leg which the orthopedic surgeon had operated on and placed in a cast, but otherwise had just minor injuries. He was in stable condition, but sleeping under sedation, so she was unable to speak with him. The deeply religious woman repeatedly crossed herself, thanking Saint Adrian and the Virgin Mary for answering her prayers.

Several calls to their son’s place and their daughter-in-law’s mobile phone went unanswered, leaving both of them concerned, and leading Mrs. Tomassi to renew her praying of The Holy Rosary. She sought divine intervention, in ensuring the safety of the couple’s grandchildren, and their mother.

“Where could she be? I’m so worried, Angelo.” It was the umpteenth time Mrs. Tomassi asked the question of her husband.

“Please, Antonia, relax. I’m sure she’s okay.”

“But what if she’s hurt? Why is she not answering her phone?”

“Look, we were already told she wasn’t in the car with Adriano. We know they were going away to the shore this weekend, and we know what traveling with two kids is like. The twins were probably driving her crazy. She either forgot the phone at home or most likely its battery ran out of power. Hopefully, the authorities were able to get hold of her, and she’s already back in Washington, or on her way there. Let’s not worry for now; I’m certain it’s nothing.”

The receptionist in the hospital’s lobby directed Mr. and Mrs. Tomassi to the floor Dr. Calhoun had requested they be sent to. As they approached the nurse’s station, they recognized Danno, who stood talking with a man wearing a physician’s white coat. They had met their son’s employer previously when they had visited their grandchildren.

Angelo Tomassi, at 60, was a physically fit man, with a full head of white hair, a bushy beard, and chest hair showing through his open-necked shirt. He maintained an active lifestyle, something he instilled in his three sons from an early age, which resulted in his good health and strong body. The Italian-American businessman, along with his oldest and youngest sons, owned and operated a small pizza chain, back home in New Jersey.

His wife, Antonia, was five years younger, remained an attractive woman, who had apparently passed those genes to her boys―all three had turned out to be handsome men. Once her sons had grown, Antonia went to work in the family business, handling bookkeeping responsibilities, and all paperwork.

“Angelo, Antonia, it is so good to see you. Allow me to introduce you to Dr. Matthew Calhoun, he’s my doctor, and has treated your family since Adrian joined us at Rogo’s.”

“Ma’am. Sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your son and grandchildren are some of my favorite patients; it’s always a delight to see them. Let me assure you that, while banged up after the accident, they’ll recover from their injuries.”

“Oh thank goodness. What a relief to hear they’re okay. Thank you for taking care of our family, Doctor. Can we see them? Are all four of them on this floor?”

“Ma’am, your son is in the Intensive Care Unit, he had surgery to repair a broken leg, which is now in a cast. He’ll be transferred up here, to the same room the twins are in, as soon as possible. We’ll take you to their room in a minute. They have some minor bruising, but otherwise, they're perfectly fine. We have them sedated, so they won’t wake up alone. However, I’m sorry to tell you your daughter-in-law did not survive, and neither did the baby. She was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident.”

“Nooo, nooo, nooo! Oh God, why? Oh no, please...” The woman spoke through her sobs, tears streaming down her face, as her entire body visibly sagged. She was helped to a chair by her husband, who sat beside her, embraced her, and softly spoke to her. He tried to ease her pain, the best way he could think of, with a little human touch.