AC05 - Death Mask (17 page)

‘And the others?’

‘They’re the unquestioning followers from Milgram’s experiment. But I’m betting that some of them felt guilty for not standing up to the authority figures. Our challenge is to find the player who followed the leader that night in the hotel but feels guilty about it. The one who won’t pull the lever ever again.’

A
nya headed with Ethan through the tunnel into the stadium and towards the team’s bench. The heat contrasted with the cooler temperatures of the last few days. Sun beat down on the playing field and the air was thick with humidity. She peeled off her jacket, regretting the decision to wear trousers.

‘Help yourself to a cold drink any time,’ Ethan said, as if noticing her discomfort. Alongside the bench was a large tub of ice and bottled energy drinks.

As the Bombers warmed up on the field, spectators continued to fill the seats. Women on the sideline, some clad in bikini tops and shorts, carried signs with the names of players.

Gavin Rosseter arrived looking like one of the team, with his polo shirt and trousers matching the colours of the Bombers uniforms. He acknowledged Anya before talking to one of the players with an intense expression on his face. The man jogged on the spot, then took to the field.

Gavin paced, hands on his hips, studying the players as they did short sprints. An older man with grey hair joined Gavin and they pointed and talked intently. He handed Gavin a piece of paper and appeared to be discussing what was on it. Gavin looked over a number of times to where the opposition was warming up.

Ethan stood with his arms folded, legs wide apart. ‘That’s Reginald Pope, the senior doctor – he’s been around for years and is close, well as close as anyone can get, to Lyle Buffet. What they’re up to is a bit like espionage. The doctors try to analyse the injuries the opposition may have incurred in training.’ He pointed across. ‘See number twenty-eight? He’s favouring that right leg. It isn’t so obvious when he walks. Just wait … There he goes. See when he runs for the ball?’

Anya nodded. Ethan was right. The difference was subtle, but would be more obvious to a trained eye.

‘Could be his hip.’ She looked sideways at Ethan. The doctors took notes then spoke to the coach, who wore a microphone headpiece.

‘They’re tipping Coach Ingram off as to what players are vulnerable and how to capitalise on their injuries.’

Anya was dismayed at the idea of causing more harm to the opposition upon a doctor’s advice. It went against all her own ethics, and the first rule of medicine was ‘do no harm’. She wondered how Gavin and Pope justified facilitating injuries to opposition players.

As if reading her mind, Ethan said, ‘That’s what happens when you mix sport, money and medicine. Objectives and roles blur.’

‘Who are they playing?’ Anya was trying to understand the culture.

‘San Diego Chargers. It’s meant to be a pre-season practice game. Part of Kitty Rowe and Bentley Masterton’s vision for a more family-friendly team. Mothers and their kids get in for free.’

Judging by the near full stadium, the promotion was proving a success. Children waved banners with the Bombers’ insignia amidst a sea of green, gold and purple.

The game began. Anya counted twenty-two players on the field, eleven from each side.

Ethan smiled. ‘I can give you a quick rundown if it helps. To anyone who hasn’t been brought up with the game, it can be tough to follow.’

Anya knew there was an offensive and a defensive team and they took turns, and that touchdowns and goals scored points, but apart from that, the game was a mystery.

‘I’m listening.’

The investigator grinned and came to life. He explained the field was a hundred and twenty yards long, a little less in metres, and beyond the goal line was the end line. The ten yards in between was the end zone, which the offence aimed for. If they crossed the goal line with the ball, they scored a touchdown, worth six points. A team with possession had four plays to advance ten yards. If they failed, they lost possession. If they went more than ten yards in a play, they scored four more chances. A goal after scoring a touchdown was worth an extra point, and a field goal scored three points. That covered the very basics, it seemed.

The Chargers kicked off and the Bombers had their defence team on the field. Now the ball was midfield.

‘This is a scrimmage, a bit like one of your rugby scrums. The centre flicks it back to the quarterback, then he and the offensive linesmen block the defence from getting to him.’

Anya watched as the ball moved back and the row of team mates ran head on into their marked opponents. She flinched at the crunching sound of men clashing helmets. Clearly, the centre and surrounding players had to block the defence from getting to the quarterback by any possible means. The ball flew a short distance and the catcher leapt in the air, only to be tackled by three other players on the way down.

‘Ouch,’ Ethan winced. The crowd jeered at the tackle. ‘The running back is a bit slow getting up.’

Anya watched Gavin Rosseter run out onto the field with his tackle box. Play was suspended while he assessed the injured man. The coach was yelling into his microphone, shouting names and instructions. A couple of minutes later, Gavin patted the running back on the shoulder and the man stood to cheers and applause from the fans. Anya felt perspiration trickle down under her collar.

Gavin returned to his position on the sideline and wiped his forehead and hands with a towel. The temperature felt as though it had risen a few degrees in the space of ten minutes. The next play saw possession change. The onfield players came off, and the defence team took their place. Across the field, the San Diego Chargers switched benched teams as well. Ethan handed Anya a bottle of cold water. She thanked him and placed it on her forehead. She wondered how the players were coping with all their protective clothing on.

It seemed like a giant game of chess, with strategies for every possible scenario. Minutes later, the first quarter quickly ended, with neither team managing to score.

Instead of the fifteen minutes she had thought it would take, the quarter had taken over thirty minutes. Each time the play stopped, so did the game clock.

The Chargers and the Bombers switched ends following a two-minute break, and Anya watched a player in purple, gold and green begin to stagger. Gavin had seen the same thing, and was already out on the field. He quickly called for support and two other men helped escort the player from the field. Once they arrived at the benches, Gavin called for a stretcher. Just then, the player collapsed to the ground. Anya instinctively moved to help.

‘Rocket. Can you hear me?’ Gavin tapped on the chest padding. The man moaned incoherently. ‘Did anyone see him get hit?’

The team mates shook their heads.

‘How was he before the game?’

‘Fine, he had breakfast with us and was joking in the locker room.’

‘He said something about stomach cramps when we changed ends,’ another added.

Gavin and two trainers rolled him so the stretcher could go underneath; it took four large players to carry him back to the locker room.

On the floor inside, Rocket pulled up his knees and moaned louder.

‘Can you hear me, buddy?’ Gavin unclipped Rocket’s chin strap and inched off the tight-fitting helmet. Anya felt for his carotid pulse.

‘He’s burning up and pulse is at least one-fifty.’

Gavin was obviously thinking the same thing. Heat stroke was life-threatening, and this player was in critical condition.

He called for the trainer as Anya poured the rest of her water over the player’s head and neck.

‘Quick,’ Gavin instructed. ‘Get us as many bags of ice as you can. He’s really burning up.’

The trainer raced away as Gavin grabbed a blood pressure cuff, which was designed for someone morbidly obese. The man’s upper arm was bigger than Anya’s thigh. She moved to help.

‘BP’s only seventy-five.’

Anya knew the player was now at risk of major organ damage, and would quickly die without aggressive intervention.

‘Someone get the paramedics.’ Gavin grabbed a large gauge cannula and inflated the cuff again. Meanwhile, Anya tried the other arm. The man with the ice appeared; Anya packed two bags between Rocket’s thighs and another in the pit of the arm she held. Something, either the cold or the needle Gavin inserted, caused Rocket to scream, sit up and take a swing at them both. Anya reeled back in time to see the needle pull out of his arm and blood gush from the vein. One of the players who matched the man’s huge size and weight stepped in and put Rocket in a headlock. Another sat on his legs and pressed on a gauze pad while Gavin inserted another cannula. He quickly withdrew three vials of blood before connecting up a bag of fluids.

‘Sorry, doc, he’d never try to hurt you, this isn’t like him,’ the man at the head said.

Anya yanked up the skin-tight shirt to place more icepacks against Rocket’s skin but was hindered by the amount of padding he wore. There were shoulder pads, pads for ribs, neck, thighs, hips and knees, and taped to his forearm was even more padding. She struggled to find skin to come in contact with, so placed
another ice pack in the other armpit. Gloves covered his hands, and his socks and shoes were even taped over, presumably to strap his ankles. From what she could tell, there was nowhere apart from his face that could sweat, and even this was encased inside a helmet.

‘He’s still burning up.’ Anya held a bag of ice to his forehead. ‘We need to cut all the clothes and padding off.’

The trainer reappeared with scissors and began the task. As any new skin appeared, Anya put ice on top of it.

‘Don’t you have ice baths?’

‘Not till this place gets renovated.’

Gavin continued to squeeze the bag of fluid to make it go faster into Rocket’s system. As soon as that neared empty, he switched to a fresh one. The older man from the sideline, Pope, arrived and asked what was going on.

‘Looks like heat stroke. He’s hypotensive, tachycardic and delirious. Apparently he complained of stomach cramps earlier.’

Pope didn’t look concerned. ‘I gave him twenty mil of Buscopan and five of Valium after the first quarter. Buffet was aware he had cramping.’

Anya could barely believe what she was hearing. If the player was ill, he should never have been sent back onto the field. And to give him Valium and Buscopan when he could have been dehydrated was not in the best interest of the player’s health. Gavin exchanged glances with Anya.

‘I’ll ride with him in the ambulance,’ Pope said, ‘and take those bloods with me.’

With one-and-a-half litres of fluid successfully in his veins, Rocket roused enough to ask for a drink. The trainer gave him some sips of ice water and the man who had anchored the patient’s massive legs slid sideways onto the floor.

Anya moved to Rosseter’s side. ‘To diagnose heat stroke, you need to confirm a high temperature. We put bags of ice under his arms …’

‘And he’s got ice in his mouth, so axillary and oral temperatures are out.’

She saw his face drop at the realisation. They’d have to take a rectal temperature, or Rocket faced a barrage of unnecessary tests at the hospital and a questionable diagnosis.

‘Then I’ll wait outside unless you need me,’ Anya said, keen to leave the player with some dignity.

As she closed the door behind her, she heard someone warn, ‘You better know what you’re doing, Doc. Rocket’s not gonna like this one little bit.’

Within minutes the paramedics had loaded Rocket onto a gurney and were running more fluid through his veins. Pope appeared with the vials of blood in his hand, which Anya saw were now labelled.

Once they had gone, she re-entered the locker room.

Gavin’s shirt and hair were covered in sweat and he was packing up the contents of his doctor’s bag. Blood stained his trousers from where Rocket had pulled out the needle in his arm.

‘Thanks for giving me a hand,’ he said. ‘BP’s ninety and his pulse is on the way down.’

The signs were good. Rocket would hopefully survive, if they’d been fast enough to save his kidneys from damage. ‘You might want to wash your hands while I get this lot,’ she said, bending down.

‘Might change my clothes as well.’

Anya closed the bag just as a player came in, cradling his forearm.

‘Doc Rosseter? You here?’

Gavin returned, bare-chested, shirt in his hand. ‘What happened?’ He slipped the polo shirt over his head and pulled it down.

‘Got tackled and there was blood.’

Anya could see bone sticking through the skin. The man had a compound fracture of his arm.

Gavin gently began to examine the injury. ‘Can you feel me touching your fingers?’

The player nodded.

‘Pulses are present and strong. Are you in much pain?’

‘A bit.’

Anya imagined a break like that would be extremely painful.

‘Did you take anti-inflammatories before the game?’

He nodded again, like a child.

That would explain why he wasn’t in too much distress. He already had painkillers in his system when the fracture occurred.

Gavin made a sling and instructed the trainer to take the player to the hospital and wrote down the name of an orthopaedic specialist who would see him straightaway. Before they had left, there was another urgent call for medical attention on the field.

Anya followed Rosseter, who sprinted out the door. With the frequency of serious injuries, she wondered if any of the team would still be standing after the ‘practice’ game. Ethan hurried over to her.

‘It’s Pete Janson. He went down in a tackle, took a hit to the head and hasn’t moved since.’

T
he spectators and players waited for a sign. Anything that would indicate Janson was all right. Gavin Rosseter knelt over him, concentrating on his face. Anya wasn’t sure if he was testing for breath or trying to communicate with the quarterback.

On the sideline, she stood near enough to the coach to hear Buffet give him orders. ‘I don’t care if he’s damn near dead. You’re not carrying him off on a stretcher. It’ll demoralise the team and we can’t afford that right now.’