Dissection

Cristina LePort

Sujets

• Political
• Politics
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Bancroft Press
• Date de parution: 07 mars 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781610885591
• Langue: English

Extrait

DISSECTION
A MEDICAL & POLITICAL THRILLER

Cristina LePort, MD
Copyright: Cristina LePort, MD, 2022. All rights reserved This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, people, or institutions is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
Cover Design: Alex Kirby ( www.misterkirby.co.uk ) Interior Design: TracyCopesCreative.com Author photo: Brystan Studios (Aliso Viejo, CA)
978-1-61088-557-7 (HC) 978-1-61088-558-4 (PB) 978-1-61088-559-1 (Ebook) 978-1-61088-560-7 (PDF) 978-1-61088-561-4 (Audiobook)

Published by Bancroft Press “Books that Enlighten” [phone] 4527 Glenwood Avenue La Crescenta, CA 91214 www.bancroftpress.com
Printed in the United States of America
To my husband Peter, the best thing that ever happened to me.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: The Warning
Chapter 2: Tombstones
Chapter 3: Dissection
Chapter 4: Left Main
Chapter 5: Federal Bureau of Investigation
Chapter 6: The Patients
Chapter 7: Biophysics
Chapter 8: The Lab
Chapter 9: FDA
Chapter 10: Code Stroke
Chapter 11: The Perp
Chapter 12: Silvana
Chapter 13: The Morning After
Chapter 14: The Heartbeat
Chapter 15: The Wait
Chapter 16: The Choice
Chapter 17: Fear
Chapter 18: Investigation
Chapter 19: Cause and Effect
Chapter 20: Sisters
Chapter 21: Jack Mulville
Chapter 22: Football and Biscuit
Chapter 23: The Hyzaars
Chapter 24: Foam
Chapter 25: The Last Supper
Chapter 26: Preparation
Chapter 27: Designated Survivor
Chapter 28: State of The Union Address
Chapter 29: Prisoner
Chapter 30: Aortic Dissection
Chapter 31: Choices
Chapter 32: Potus
Chapter 33: Rocket’s Red Glare
Chapter 34: The Biscuit
Chapter 35: Patrizia
Chapter 36: Bombs Bursting in Air
Chapter 37: Aftermath
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
THE WARNING
D r. Rajesh Nirula stopped chewing on his hamburger. All his attention zeroed in on a sheet of tan paper. Folded in two, it had the thickness and size of a birthday card. Nirula had seen and held such cards many times in his forty-three years of life. His first thought: My birthday came and went three months ago. His second thought: Why would the card show up in my hospital mail-slot without a return address or even my name on the envelope?
But it was the card’s message that turned his face muscles limp: “YOUR HEART ATTACK WILL ARRIVE WITHIN 1 HOUR.”
A heart attack? The leading cause of death in the world? A chill went through the doctor’s spine. Just last week, to satisfy his curiosity, he had run his heart attack risk profile through an algorithm. The results: His chances of having a myocardial infarction any time soon were less than 1%. How could this stupid card be right? Then he remembered: Up to 25% of people who suffer heart attacks have no known risks beforehand. His heart paused and pounded as this possibility invaded his consciousness.
His entire life flashed through his mind: India’s misery, America’s richness, the pizzas he had twirled in college, medical school, emergency medicine at the Washington D.C. Capitol Hospital, and the most beautiful American girl he had ever seen who was now his wife.
The doctor’s eyes hadn’t blinked once since reading the card for the first time. The black spread of words on the tan paper had seemed to acquire a life of its own, shouting a scornful threat to everything he had accomplished so far.
Nirula reflected briefly on his two children. Despite his job as an emergency room physician facing deadly traumas and illnesses every day, he had never given much thought to leaving the kids behind at an early age. In fact, he had never felt mortal up until now. What would his family do without him?
Something on the paper suddenly drew his attention. Just below the word “will” was a small gray disk. With one finger, he briefly touched it. Burning hot.
“Shit,” he said as his fingertip turned red. He clenched the card and quickly surveyed the busy cafeteria crowd. Nobody seemed to have heard him. He ran his hand through his hair. Still thick. He took a deep breath, then began massaging his closed eyelids. Good genes, exercise, and avoidance of unhealthy substances had kept his body in shape. He was still in his prime. Or so he had assumed before today.
After a moment, Nirula opened his eyes and stared at the burger. The yellow cheese had solidified, droplets of fat spotting the dish below. His heart protested in his throat. Not the best cardiac-prudent food. The smell of fried grease drifted from the grill and hung in the air. A fleeting sense of nausea bloomed from his stomach. Was the card a joke? Who would send him something like this? Fear receded like a wave from the shore and crashed into anger.
Suddenly, he had an idea. Those Congressional idiots had gone too far. First the ban on large sodas, then the trans-fats prohibition. Washington DC was becoming worse than New York City. Congressmen often asked the Capitol Hospital’s doctors for advice. Just because Nirula had expressed his support of legislation against fast foods didn’t mean they had to use him as a guinea pig for such scary advertisements. Who were those morons trying to convince with this crap? A message like the one on the card would only piss people off, push the public to hurriedly eat more junk food before the government made it disappear. Nirula sighed and glanced at his watch. His lunch break had taken longer than planned. January was a busy month in the ER. After the holidays’ intoxications, arrhythmias, heart attacks, and suicides came the flu season, which was now in full swing.
He flung the card onto the table with a two-fingered gesture underscoring relief and vindication, reassembled his hamburger, and finished it off in four giant bites. The Coke, in several long slurps, was next to disappear. Soon the remnants of his lunch hit the trash can, right along with the tan card.
CHAPTER 2
TOMBSTONES
N irula rushed out of the cafeteria and zoomed through the hospital corridors. He bumped into familiar personnel without acknowledging them, his mind deciding whether to give any more attention to the ominous tan message. By the time the emergency room door closed behind him, the nausea was back. The ER’s familiar turmoil and cacophony usually energized him in his role as master of life-or-death situations. Now noise and confusion overwhelmed him, made him feel weak.
A heavy sickening pressure rose from the center of his chest and spread like an oil spill to reach his jaw. He placed his palms on an empty gurney and bent over. What was happening to him? Was this indigestion? Should he grab a couple of Tums? A red flag, waving in his head, demanded immediate attention. To students and patients, he often told stories about people stricken dead of myocardial infarction thinking that burping was all they needed to do to save their life. Was he in the fits of denial—on the verge of becoming one of those casualties? Doctors were, after all, the worst patients.
Perhaps “seeking medical attention,” as doctors put it, was in order. But what was Nirula going to tell the ER doc—that he had read a card about having a heart attack and was afraid he was having one? That sounded just like one of his crazy ER patients. Oh, wait. He was the ER doctor in charge today.
He tried to move, but his muscles didn’t respond, as if rebelling against an action that could endanger his life. Only his arm went up, and only to wave at the female intern on the other side of the room.
An incremental mixture of bewilderment and dread surfaced on her face the closer she got to him. Nirula touched his forehead; it was cold and clammy. He guessed his color closely matched the green of his scrubs.
“Who’s in charge?” he said, his voice quivering.
The young woman in the white coat stopped. Her mouth hinted at a smile, but dismay chased it away as her eyes widened.
“You are,” she said. “What’s the matter, Dr. Nirula. Are you feeling sick?”
“I mean,” he said, then placed his right fist on his chest to counteract the vice-like pain behind his breastbone. “Who’s the senior resident? I’m afraid the cafeteria food is finally killing me.”
“Doctor.” She pointed at his clenched hand. “You’re giving me what you taught us to be the universal sign for chest pain. Are you having chest pain?”
He nodded. The woman’s fair-skinned cheeks got paler. Her eyes roamed around, searching for something or someone.
“It’s probably nothing,” Nirula reassured her, as sweat poured from all his pores and tight pain slithered along his left arm down to his pinky. “But let’s grab an EKG, just in case.”
She fetched the machine herself, eyes darting back at him, full of concern. Good for her. She didn’t wait for the tech. Great intern. He was in good hands.
In his new role as patient, Nirula crawled up on the gurney. Being “on the other side” was a new experience, and not one he relished. Screw the idiot who said that suffering one’s own illnesses made them a better doctor.
Curtains were pulled. His scrub shirt went up to expose the part of the chest where the worst symptom seemed to be originating. He noticed a moment of hesitation in the young woman’s fingertips when she started applying electrodes to his skin. A mentee wasn’t supposed to see her mentor’s naked body parts. Her doctor-patient relationship was clashing with the student-mentor one.
The sticky leads tickled his skin, but Nirula didn’t laugh. He held his breath to make sure no chest motion would interfere with the instrument’s work. The machine spat out his fate with a buzzing noise that seemed to last forever. He read his diagnosis in the blue eyes of his intern. The woman swallowed hard and sighed. She looked around again, this time with the jerkiness that comes from panic. There’s no good w