Do No Harm Or Injustice

Crime Fiction by C.D. Baxter

Marquis fired potshots from his Glock as the rattlesnake wound across the floor toward the pile of ballooned-up black tar heroin tucked inside his living room fireplace. He’d come home jacked-up, nodding in the entryway. The heaven of his high vanished once he blasted a round into his right foot after looking down and seeing the viper slither between his Timbs. 

The other shots went wild. One stray bullet popped a bare bulb in a lamp while a few others struck the walls and floor, driving splinters up from the hardwood. The last slug ricocheted and smashed through a window. A thud sounded against the neighbor’s siding.

A voice from outside hollered, “Ah, hell no,” while Marquis lay on the floor in pain, worrying about the whereabouts of the other snakes. 

He’d ordered three timber rattlers from a trapper down in Pawnee County who sold them illegally to buyers around the Midwest. Underground zookeepers, freaky holy rollers, and basement incels flush with their parents’ credit card bid up the prices, making it tough on Marquis to get them cheap.

He was a man who didn’t trust technology, like the kinds of gizmos younguns monitored on their smartphones. He liked to keep his supply safe the old school way, through fear.

By the time Omaha PD rolled up, he was on the verge of passing out. The sharp crack of the deadbolt getting kicked through the doorframe startled him out of his misery.

He looked up and saw two Gang Unit detectives walk in with their weapons drawn. They wore Kevlar vests over camo t-shirts. Badges hung from their necks by metal links. Their jeans, faded like a working man’s, were stacked up on Iron Ranger boots. 

The detectives looked around the living room and saw the multi-colored latex bundles in the cold fireplace. They heard a rattle shake from under the grate. Their pistols stayed out.

“Fuck is this shit, Mendoza?” Marquis groaned. He knew them by name. They’d been trying to flip him into an informant over the past year. “Ain’t no EMTs out there? God damn thief came in and busted one in my foot.”

“Marquis, you stupid bastard,” Detective Mendoza said. “Using rattlesnakes to protect all that H. Thief, my ass.”

Detective Schmidt kicked the Glock towards a far wall, away from Marquis. “How many more you got?”

Marquis’s vision blurred as the pain spiked. “Three altogether. Don’t know where the other two at.” He wanted to get to a hospital, fast. His foot was burning hot. It felt like the bones were fractured into a thousand pieces. “Call me an ambulance.”

“Not yet,” Schmidt said. “You aren’t dying, so we might as well talk. Just us fellas.”

“Rotten dicks. How’d you know to come?”

Mendoza motioned a thumb at the shattered window. “Neighbor has our cards. Gave us a call when he heard gunfire. We’ve been waiting for a chance like this.”

Marquis gritted his teeth, mustered up all the energy he could, and turned his head toward the broken window. “Hey, fuck you, Larry! Snitching-ass bitch!”

The voice from outside answered, booming deep, “What you get when my house catches one. They better haul your ass to jail before I get my double barrel and pepper your mother-fucking flop.” 

The yelling tired Marquis out. “Get me to a hospital,” he murmured.

“Hear us out,” Mendoza said.

Schmidt leaned over Marquis. “How much longer you gonna survive as an independent? Bloods kicked you out. Crips don’t want your dumb ass.”

Mendoza picked up his partner’s cadence. “Lone gun like you gonna do something stupid and start a gang war. You’re getting too old for this shit.”

“Man, fuck you.” Marquis didn’t have much left. He’d just lost his dope, his gun, and his snakes. But he wasn’t about to lose his pride. “You two ain’t never gonna break me.”

Mendoza and Schmidt looked at one other. Through their eyes, they exchanged messages. Schmidt holstered his pistol and took out his iPhone.

“Should we take him to Doc?”

“Yeah, get him fixed up real nice.”

Marquis breathed relief. “Bout fucking time.”

“Taking you to Cornhusker Ortho, ER.”

The name registered in Marquis’s mind. “Nah, man. Not West Omaha. Haul my ass to Bergan or CHI North. They closer.”

“Don’t think so. You need special care.” Schmidt pounded his thick fingers on the touch screen. The whoop sound effect from the dispatched text sent a panic down Marquis’s spine.

“I know y’all ain’t taking me to Doctor Death. Fuck that bitch, and fuck you, too.”

After cuffing Marquis and reading him his rights, Schmidt grabbed a fire iron and poked around the heroin pile while he waited for the doc to text back. Mendoza stood with his weapon at low ready, on the lookout for snakes.  

***

Dr. Maher was scrubbing out of surgery when her phone lit up, buzzing on the counter next to the sink. Blood mixed with water and ran pink down the drain. A few drops had dried purple on her baby blue-colored scrubs. She toweled her hands, unlocked the screen, and read Detective Schmidt’s text.

You on call? Looking to drop off emergency gunshot. Foot.

 Schmidt and Mendoza were the only police who had her direct contact. They didn’t abuse the privilege and respected her hours. If she took one of their arrestees, they compensated her fairly with thirty grand, cash. They said it came from the kitty. She never asked how their account got filled.

Yeah. Busy night.

The two Gang Unit cops weren’t like other law enforcement who brought in wounded prisoners, handcuffed to gurneys.

Uniformed patrolmen tried to prove something by undermining her authority, calling her by first name or pet names like “babe” and “toots.” The Feds were the worst. They brought in high-profile patients and hollered at her to make sure their captives lived long enough to testify before a federal judge. One FBI agent even had threatened her with prosecution if his arrest died on her operating table. 

But, Dr. Maher had a low tolerance for abuse. She got enough bullshit from the other surgeons in her practice. Out in the entrance of Cornhusker Ortho was a directory with pictures of all the clinic’s physicians. She was the only woman up on the board, and one of only three trauma surgeons.

Her case numbers were higher than the other docs, yet they still questioned the number of hours she worked in the clinic’s partner meetings. Her call schedule was all sorts of fucked up, too. Working every New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July, and Christmas. Those were the busiest days for trauma surgeons as people in Omaha got drunk, broke bones, crashed cars, and blew themselves up.  

The operating room was her territory. If anyone disrespected her while working, law or not, she’d tell them to fuck right off, loud and clear. Hot shot doctors and federal agents hung their heads low, unsure of what to do after getting told off by a woman in power. She got a kick out of limpdicking the hardcases. 

Need your hands on this one.

Schmidt and Mendoza wanted her skills for the patients they brought in. Having gone through a ranked medical school, and a fellowship at Cleveland Clinic for orthopedics, she was elite. If needed, she could perform sleight-of-hand when it came to fixing bones. 

The cops never asked that she outright kill anyone on the operating table. That setup wasn’t possible as her partners wouldn’t hesitate to report her to the Nebraska Medical Board. Her license would get stripped, and she’d get sent to prison.

Mendoza characterized their deal as “handing off dirty birds with broken wings. All we ask is that they get mended, but not too good. The street isn’t a habitat for the weak. Raptors and vultures will pick them off eventually if they don’t heal back to one hundred percent. You know, circle of life and all that shit.”

Dr. Maher took her commitment to medicine and the community seriously. The “or” between “harm” and “injustice” in the Hippocratic Oath provided enough wiggle room for the deals with Schmidt and Mendoza. She’d fix their prisoners, but in a way that prevented future wrongdoing.

Plus, the cash payments would help get her out of the ortho clinic by way of early retirement. To her, it was nothing but a good ol’ boy, small dick club. Some days, it even felt like a jail. A few female interns had called her a trailblazer. That may be, but an early retiree sounded sweeter to her ears.

OK. Bring it in.

She was waiting outside an empty patient room when the detectives entered with their detainee. They hadn’t busted through the doors, flashing badges and demanding assistance. The two police were always cool and reverential. But, the man cuffed to the wheelchair was yelling his head off. He hollered about crooked cops, corrupt docs, and how the clinic was a bunch of bullshit.

Dr. Maher led them into the room after they wheeled him down the hall. She closed the door, giving them privacy and secrecy.

“Doc, this here is Marquis,” Mendoza said. “Dumb fuck got high and forgot he was a pet owner. Tried to do a little snake hunting with a nine.”   

Marquis looked at Dr. Maher. The muscles in his face contorted with anger and discomfort. “Think I don’t know how you do, maiming bitch? Word about you been on the street for months.”

Schmidt slapped Marquis across the face, hard. The sharp sound of the smack bounced around the room before the atmosphere quieted down to a tense silence. Dr. Maher felt hate radiating out of Marquis’s eyes. 

She bent down to examine his foot while Mendoza grasped the pressure points in the back of his neck. The dressing on the wound was good. When they first met, Schmidt told her about his time as a medic in the Army Rangers in the early 2000s. He held her skills and credentials in high regard, knowing a thing or two about medical care himself.

“Mr. Marquis, I’m a physician and take my duties seriously. The quicker we get you checked out, the sooner you’re in surgery and on the road to recovery.”

“Trick-ass bitch.” Marquis let out a yelp as Mendoza applied pressure with his fingers.

“What do you think, Doc?” Schmidt asked.

“I can get the fix in,” she said. “We’ll get the nurses working on his prep.”

Mendoza winked at his partner and released his hold on Marquis’s neck.

“Have you given him anything?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Schmidt said. “He was all fucked-up when we arrived on the scene.”

Marquis snapped his finger loudly and said, “Want me a consultation.”

“We’ll get you a lawyer, post-op,” Mendoza said. 

“Nah, man.” Marquis pointed at Dr. Maher. “With her. Man’s got a right to talk with a sawbones before he gets cut.”

“Anything you got to say, say it in front of us, shitbird.”

Marquis looked up at Mendoza. “You think I’m hustling for extra Percocet or some shit? Got information that pertains to her and her alone. People in my line of work talking. I hear things. Like about her house in the Dundee hood and that Audi she driving. Where she walks that furry-ass dog around Zorinsky Lake.”

Schmidt registered the scare in Dr. Maher’s eyes. He reached out for Marquis’s foot and pressed his thumb on a splotch of red that was seeping through the bandages. The scream was muted by Mendoza’s hand.

“Wait!” Dr. Maher took in this information, and the scene in front of her with horror. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

Schmidt released his grip, but Mendoza kept Marquis muzzled. “This rat bastard is trying to punk you. Get you scared.”

“He knows what I drive and where I live. You two aware of that?” She looked from one cop to the next. They glanced at each other in response.

“Well…sort of. Our job is to assess threats and deal with them accordingly. You’re not in any real danger with him. He’s just a dope dealer, singing out of his asshole.”

Her fear stalked the room. The others sensed it, too. The detectives told her they had her back while Marquis smiled with his eyes, trying to shake his head against Mendoza’s hold.

“Give me five minutes alone with him.”

“Doc, that’s not safe.”

“He’s cuffed to a wheelchair and can’t stand up without help. I’ll keep my distance. You two stand outside the door.”

Schmidt and Mendoza exchanged glances once more. Mendoza held up two fingers and said they had as many minutes. Then the detectives left the room.

Marquis squirmed in the wheelchair. “Come closer. I don’t want those mother fuckers hearing one got damned word.”

“This is as close as we’re gonna get. Talk, please. Who’s after me?”

“Nobody, yet.” Marquis lowered his voice to a hushed tone. “There’s rules in the game I play. You don’t put a hit on neutrals. Be like shooting at the Red Cross.”

“So, why are people talking about me?”

“Cause you getting involved.” Marquis pointed at the closed door. “Those dirty-ass police are dragging you in deep. You’re gonna find yourself on a side you keep this shit up.”

“Those detectives aren’t dirty, you are.”

“Bullshit. They came to my crib where I had damn near a kilo. Think I’m being charged with possession or intent to distribute? Hell no. They nabbed my ass for buying a threatened animal species in the state of Nebraska.”

“That’s none of my business.”

“But they paying you, right? Shit is your business, bitch. It’s your bread and fucking butter.” Marquis leaned forward in the wheelchair. “Where you think your payoff money comes from? Those assholes loaded my dope in their trunk. That’s not going into any evidence room. I don’t play ball with those mother fuckers, so they sell my product to the gangs at a discount rate. Then they pocket the proceeds. Gang Unit acting like they cold war CIA or some shit. Believing a balance between organized groups will keep the peace, less violence. They don’t want dudes like me striking out on my own. Less competition and disruption for the big players. So, they hire you to fuck me up. Make it easier for outfits to catch up with me once I get sprung from Douglas County Corrections.”

“What do you want from me, Mr. Marquis?” This new information was playing in her head on a loop. Each repeated reel ended with a gun to her head.

“Fuck you think? Make a deal with me. You fix me up right, I’ll cool the heat around you. We’ll be partners.”

“How do I know there’s real heat on me?”

“Shit, check your reviews on Healthgrades.com. Who you think been putting up those one stars? Calling you “Doctor Death”? Mendoza and Schmidt don’t tell you about the families and friends your patients got when they drop ‘em off, do they? They don’t care bout you. You keep on doing deals with them, you’re gonna wind up getting killed in a carjacking or mugging someday. And they won’t be around to protect your ass cause they using you. That’s for damn sure.” 

“And I can trust you?”

“Way I see it, I’m the only one you can trust. We in the same boat. You fuck me up and I’m done, dead. But that shit will catch up with you. I’ll leak it to the boys before I’m out that you working for one gang or another. You’ll be dead, too. Just’ll take a little longer, that’s all.”

A fist pounded on the door. Schmidt yelled that time was up, then him and Mendoza entered the room.

“You ready, Doc?” Mendoza asked. 

She kept her eyes on Marquis. “Yeah, stay with him while I get my team ready. He’ll head to x-ray before the OR.”

After prep was completed, Marquis stared up at the bright-ass bulbs in the operating room from his supine position on the table. A handcuff was on his wrist, real tight. Dr. Maher, her team, and the Gang Unit cops wore caps, masks, and shoe covers. All the coverings were light blue, matching their scrubs. 

Dr. Maher stood over her patient. “We’re going to put you under now, Mr. Marquis.  When you wake up, you won’t feel the pain right away. That will come, though. The medical staff at corrections will have your results along with prescriptions and the recommended physical therapy routine. Recovery will take up to five months.”

“You’ll be in County for that shit, asshole,” Mendoza said, then popped a piece of gum in his mouth, under the mask.

Marquis turned his head and looked the detectives over. “Nice booties, mother fuckers.” 

Dr. Maher nodded at the anesthesiologist who placed a clear mask over Marquis’s nose and mouth. He started a countdown from ten.

When he heard eight, Marquis’s head got fuzzy. It felt like he was getting the good shit.  He didn’t remember anything past six.

***

Dr. Maher sat in the physician’s lounge of Cornhusker Ortho, sipping on a SmartWater. She thought about two conversations that happened before her call started. The first was a yeller with Cornhusker Ortho’s chief of surgery about the number of ER patients she operated on who weren’t covered by insurance. Her partners wanted her to turn down the uninsured, but she wasn’t about to deny someone in need of care. It didn’t matter how many battles it created between the clinic and the patients’ families. The important thing was that they were healed.

The second was with Detective Schmidt the day before. He’d first texted a request to talk about a worrisome development. The he called to iron out his concerns.

“We spotted Marquis walking around Lake Street. He looks spry enough to run a marathon in the snow. What the fuck, Doc?”

“Look, I did my job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I take it that’s why you’ve been ghosting us.”

“Just been a busy few months. Things are picking up and I won’t be able to take additional drop offs in the future.”

“That’s how it is, huh?”

She sighed. “I’m tired.”

There was a pause, then Schmidt said, “Well, you owe us a refund. Someone will be there tomorrow to pick it up.”

“I’ll be here on call.”

“So long, Doc.” The line went dead.

Dr. Maher had expected the pickup to have been done earlier in the evening. It was getting close to two in the morning. Call was unpredictable and she didn’t need any surprise guests stopping by.

She took a sip from the water bottle and thought about the Henry Doorly Zoo fanny pack in her locker, stuffed with thirty grand. 

The bills were untouched, still bundled in bands. She knew they’d call back eventually, looking to recoup their cash. She was looking forward to getting rid of the money and ditching the relationship with the Gang Unit cops. 

It would take a little longer to retire, but not much. The goal was to be done by the time she was 53 years old. Not bad. She could dodge the shit that other doctors would try to force feed her for a few extra years while avoiding getting killed by drug dealers.

Her phone vibrated. She unlocked the screen and looked at her messages. There was a new text from Detective Schmidt’s number.

Emergency gunshot coming 2 u. Hip. Maybe somewhere else. Cant tell.

She felt a hot burst of anger start at her ears as the typed.

NOT TAKING IT. NO ROOM IN MY SCHEDULE.

Well. He coming in anyway.

From outside the breakroom, she heard a commotion down the hallway. A loud voice was screaming for a doctor. The heat of her anger cooled as her training took over.  

“I got an emergency here. Police officer shot, need assistance. Now goddammit, now!”

She ran down the hall with the phone in her hand. A large cop she didn’t know, with a badge pinned on his Carhartt jacket, balanced Mendoza on his shoulder like a human crutch. 

She asked what had happened as a staff member wheeled a gurney over to the group. They laid Mendoza down and started wheeling the bed toward the OR.

“Mendoza was in the area, off duty,” the cop in Carhartt huffed as they jogged down the hall. “He got caught by a drive-by a few blocks away. Was able to call for backup after taking shots to the hip and gut. I was close by, so I brought him here.”

She looked down at the wounded Gang Unit detective. He was in a bad way, bleeding and in shock.

“Where’s Schmidt?” she asked.

The cop said, “He’s dead.”

They stopped moving and stood out in front of the OR. Dr. Maher’s neck went cold. The chill crawled down her skin, all the way to her toes.

“What do you mean, dead?”

“Some fucking crackhead set up a funhouse in the Near North Side. Booby trapped it with snakes. Schmidt got bit a few times.” The man had tears rolling down his cheeks. “Didn’t make it. Venom moved quick from multiple bites. Only a few bags of weed were found in the house, but not the perp. Fucking junkies.” He punched the hallway wall. 

Dr. Maher excused herself and ducked into the locker room. She gathered up her protective clothing. After tying an apron over her scrubs, her phone vibrated again where it sat on the ledge of a metal sink. 

She walked over and checked the message. It was a picture of her house sent from Schmidt’s phone number. Her sheepdog was looking out from the living room window. Underneath the photo was another text. 

He make it in Doc?

I’m calling the cops.

Shit. Cops no good 2 u now. You got a new partnr. Remember?

Marquis. You are healed. That was the deal.

I no.  Butt cant have Dr Death retire just yet. You got a patient to work on.

No. No fucking way.

Pig in there go bye the name Rhoads. Got his contact right here. He not gonna like what u did for me.

What do you want?

Same deal as B4. Only I pay 10k. Now we in biz 2gether.

Youre a piece of shit.

Watch what you say. Snake bite killa dog 2.

***

Marquis hit the settings options under Doctor Death’s contact information and then blocked her. He thumbed through Schmidt’s photos, found a couple dick pics and sent them to a contact named Mom.

Cell phones, shit, he thought. Gizmos will let you down every god damn time. Only way to keep people in check when you’re a lone gun is the old school way, through fear. Take that to the motherfucking bank. 

He walked down Doctor Death’s driveway to the sidewalk then kicked snow out from a storm sewer opening and tossed the iPhone down into its depths.

As he walked toward his car, he looked at the big houses. Some were decorated with Christmas lights that blinked in the early morning darkness. 

---

Bio: C.D. Baxter lives in Nebraska where he teaches history. He puts noir and pulp on his syllabi as they represent the true nature of the “American Dream.” His fiction reflects the true struggles Nebraskans face regardless of background, education, or wealth. 

You can find him at his blog, HERE.

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