My Trip to See the Doctor

David Corbett

In over 15 years working as a private investigator, I only faced real physical danger once—and it was a doctor who tried to kill me.

We’ll call him Rob “Doc” Devendra, and in the early 1980s he took a year off from med school to work in a friend’s business. The friend was a San Francisco cocaine dealer linked to the Medellin Cartel. Doc drove 50-100 pound loads of Colombian cocaine from Miami to the west coast. (This was before the Mexican pipeline developed, obviously.)

As job’s went, it wasn’t half bad: The money was unbelievable, and the adrenalin rush as addictive as the coke. But, after only a year, Doc developed an all-too-common medical condition known in layman’s terms as Cold Feet. He realized he could make millions in the drug biz legitimately, writing prescriptions for bored housewives, a future his flirtation with the dark side could ruin. And so he and his Colombian-connected pal parted ways—amicably, as it turned out. Doc returned to med school, became a doctor, and lived a happy and prosperous life—until the summer of 1988.

Doc’s friend the dealer, facing a ten year sentence for trafficking, became a federal informant and began identifying all his past associates and business partners. Interestingly, Doc was not one of the people he named—which is, in legal parlance, a material omission. This made Doc a very interesting fellow to the people the drug dealer did name.

Rule No. 1 of criminal defense: Snitches lie. And in this case Doc was the living proof.

I was retained by one of the defendants, accused of helping the snitch launder his money. My job was to find Doc, interview him, and serve him with a subpoena mandating his appearance at trial.

After weeks of talking with a variety of characters, plus record searches in three states, I tracked Doc down to Hannibal, Missouri, where he had a stake in a small family-practice clinic.

Arriving in town in mid-July, I first drove to his house—common practice, a man at work can always claim he’s too busy to see you—and rang the bell. Shortly his slender, doe-eyed wife appeared, accompanied by a very friendly Dalmatian. I told the wife I was working on a legal matter based out west, and it was important I speak with her husband. I politely declined to say more out of respect for his privacy.

The wife seemed mystified. She told me Doc was out of town but she’d let him know I’d stopped by. I asked when he’d be back. She said she wasn’t sure, then pressed me for more information: Legal matter? Out west? Her husband?

“It really is best,” I said, “if I discuss all this first with Doc.”

I had to assume she was lying, of course, so I kept returning. Sometimes I’d just park down the street, hours at a time, to see who came or went. I followed the wife here and there, noting the make of her car, the one left behind in the garage, where she went, the friends she met. And as I kept re-appearing at her door, she greeted me with increasing alarm. (The Dalmation, curiously enough, always seemed glad to see me.)

Getting nowhere with the wife, I decided to try the father. He owned a small jewelry shop, and had reportedly also, once upon a time, strayed from the law. He was rawboned, blondishly gray with a short-cropped beard. His attitude started out folksy and sly, but when I just kept coming back he grew hostile. He told me to stop pestering him, he’d call the law. I apologized for the intrusions—and called his bluff, returning again and again.

Two days in, frustrated with the direct approach, I decided to get creative. I made an appointment to see Doc at his clinic. Using an assumed name, I complained of lower back pain—which in fact was true, an affliction caused by long hours spent in cars finding, trailing, and surveilling people like Guess Who. I was sitting there in the examination room, complimenting myself on being so doggone clever, when the door opened.

Not Doc. His partner—Asian, soft-spoken, middle-aged. I had—as they say in the biz—been made. The partner asked: “What is this about really?” I calmly, professionally, repeated my spiel. The doctor, feigning puzzlement but clearly disturbed—what kind of trouble was his partner in?—said he would pass word along. I left, sensing I’d at least increased the pressure on Doc to stop delaying and meet with me.

Meanwhile, another far more serious situation arose. It concerned my brother John. He had gone in for an AIDS test, and the results were due. I called, spoke with his lover David, and asked what they’d learned. After a very long pause, David said: “You’ll have to ask your brother.” When I finally spoke with John, he calmly discussed treatments that were available, and assured me there was nothing to fear just yet.

The receiver felt like a stone in my hand. I was devastated.

My love for John had gone through four distinct stages.

One: early childhood—he was my hero, my protector. I adored him. 

Two: age 5 or so to 18, he turned on me from guilt and shame, evoked by his homosexuality, his fear of being found out—he tormented me, tongue-lashed me every day, finding fault with every single thing: my daydreaming, my sloppiness, my books, my interest in sports and military history, my music. I hated him. 

Three: age 19 to early thirties—John came out of the closet, accepted himself, and apologized to me for all those years of vicious, relentless hazing. I abided him, playing the righteous victim, holding on to my resentment like a trophy, even as we got along better and better.

Four: the final two years of his life—I realized my stupidity, my need to let go of that pointless grudge and forgive. I accepted his need to love me and be my big brother, and accepted as well how much I wanted that.

Desperate to return home, visit John, I became even more obsessive in my quest to nail Doc Devendra. I spent the entire weekend going back and back again—the wife, the father, a lawyer who’d incorporated the medical practice, a realtor who’d brokered the purchase of the clinic, an old business partner in nearby Palmyra, names I’d come up with in my searches—letting everyone know I was going stay in their lives on a daily if not hourly basis until the good doctor met with me face to face.

Come Monday morning—feeling exhausted, outfoxed, emotionally spent—I came up with one final plan. I had my camera with me, to take pictures if he fled, and my tape recorder to record all verbal exchanges, in case he tried to claim I’d threatened or extorted him. I parked my rental car in front of his clinic, slumped down into the seat so I couldn’t be seen, adjusted my rear view mirror so I could observe all incoming vehicles. People walking into the clinic could see me, but that was a risk I had to take. I waited. From previous visits I knew that, if he parked behind the clinic, he was trapped.

About forty minutes later, his wife’s gold Honda sped past me down the small side drive. There was only one person in it. A man. Doc.

I turned on my tape recorder, dropped it in my sportcoat pocket, grabbed my camera and the subpoena, then followed him on foot. I turned the corner just as he was getting out of the car, thirty yards away. Seeing me, he jumped back in, threw the Honda in gear. The car sped toward me.

I blocked the only way out.

One often hears it said that there is a difference between courage and fearlessness. The sheer overwhelming and predictable physicality of fear is something the brutal repetition of combat, police and firefighter training is meant to overcome. Blind habit will take over and push you forward into the teeth of your terror when the mind, the hobgoblins and specters of imagination, will freeze you in place. Fearlessness, in this way of thinking, is foolishness. There is no such thing. The absence of fear is lunacy, and its presence can actually be a kind of animal wisdom, as long as your training is there to save you.

Buddhism has a somewhat different take, as I’ve noted before. Fear is seen as the flip side of hope. When we hope for something we reside in a fictional world, projected into the future, a seemingly benign dream that fuels our initiative. And often we fear that we will do something, or something will get done to us,  that will jeopardize this oasis we’ve imagined for ourselves. But it’s a mirage, it never existed in the first place, except as a vessel to hold our wishes. In her book WHEN THINGS FALL APART, which a friend gave to me after my wife Terri died, the Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön writes: “If we want to be free of fear, we must first surrender hope.” 

And so, as I stood my ground, waiting to get run over, I suppose it’s fair to ask: Which was I—courageous, fearless, or just out of hope? In all honesty—and anyone who has been in a high speed car crash (or combat) will know exactly what I’m saying—I was none of the above. What I felt was time distortion, the seconds expanding like deep breaths, and a kind of numbness, tinged with my underlying anger. Marines call this Task Saturation, when you are so focused on what you have to do, your emotions lock down—anger, fueled by adrenalin, is the lone exception. In my case, I was simply so focused on serving that god damn subpoena once and for all so I could get home to see my brother, and so enraged I hadn’t done so already—enraged at myself, Doc, his wife, his father, my brother, God, fate—that I simply didn’t care what happened. The car kept coming, faster. I remember thinking, “Be my guest, asshole.”

At the last moment, the Hippocratic Oath kicked in. The Honda screeched to a lurching stop inches from my body, the bumper grazing my legs. Still trying to scare me, Doc revved the engine to its highest RPMs—this would be the only sound on my tape—as I leaned out at full length across the car hood and tucked the subpoena under his windshield wiper.

I stepped aside. Doc sped away. Only then did I notice I was shaking.

When my report hit the office back in San Francisco, the staff regarded me with a new, somewhat hushed respect. They thought I was remarkably—if, perhaps, crazily—brave. Only then did I realize I’d done something out of the ordinary. And though I wanted to give myself credit, I knew it wasn’t courage or even fearlessness I’d demonstrated back in Hannibal—it was fury. I wasn’t even sure I knew what courage was.

A few months later, I was visiting my brother at his house. He was still handsome then, though increasingly gaunt from the wasting, to where his vivid blue eyes looked haunted. He told me he needed to take a bath, and asked if I would help scrub his back. Karposi’s Sarcoma had left large seeping lesions all across his body. He gingerly settled down into the bathwater. I lathered my hands, and gently washed his back. When I was finished, he said quietly, “Thank you.”

I left him alone, went into the kitchen, told David I’d just helped John bathe. Very calmly, he reached for a special soap dispenser at the sink.

“You need to wash your hands with this. It has bleach in it.”

Every day, David risked his life to care for my brother. He would ultimately die from that devotion.

That’s courage.

So, Murderateros, who was your tutor in courage? How did your lesson play out?

How have you carried the lesson forward? 

Have you been someone else’s mentor in what it means to be brave?

Do you agree that there’s a difference between courage and fearlessness?

Do you think hope is a source of strength, or a house of cards?

Did you ever have your own “trip to see the doctor?” 

Note: I’m in a panic today, preparing for the Book Passage Mystery Conference — specifically, getting ready for my pre-conference seminar, Integrating Acts & Arcs (not to be confused with Implementing Snacks & Snarks) — so I apologize in advance for any tardy responses to comments. I’ll do my best to be prompt.

* * * * *

Review Update: Please excuse the BSP, but Len Wanner, whose The Crime of It All is one of the most engaging online sources on crime writing, recently posted his review of DO THEY KNOW I’M RUNNING?  If you don’t know the book or my work, this is perhaps the most flattering, humbling, gratifying introduction I could hope for. I can die now.

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: I’m a little conflicted. This post made me miss my brother, and I grew up listening to John practicing Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” on the piano — in fact, I’m not sure I remember him practicing anything else — but I just couldn’t bring myself to put it here. (“If I never hear that tune again as long as I live …”)

But Terri’s birthday is coming up (July 23rd), and as a small memorial I’ve decided to include a video of a song she loved, Lloyd Price’s “Personality.” 



I had originally included a performance she and I once watched together on PBS. It’s one of only a handful of times I ever saw a piece of music reduce her to tears — she trained as a concert pianist, it tends to grind the sentiment out of you. I still choke up when I listen to this music alone. It’s as perfect a performance as I’ve ever heard: Martha Argerich on piano, the second movement to Ravel’s Concerto in G. But today of all days they closed that video down, claiming copyright infringement. Phooey, as Terri would say. My apologies to thos of you who tried the earlier link and came up short.

Wait! As Katherine so kindly pointed out, there’s another YouTube version of the Ravel, for the more classically minded of you. Here tis (THANKS KATHERINE)!


25 thoughts on “My Trip to See the Doctor

  1. deborrah k stephens

    just wanted to compliment you on MY TRIP TO SEE THE DOCTOR. your words about your brother were so touching – words escape me. i lost my best friend to aids, so it's especially poignant when someone shares their own experience. thank you.

  2. Jenni

    Very nice tribute to your brother, David. And a very touching story about bathing your brother and his partner's response.

    Wow, so many questions … I had a "trip to the doctor" moment years ago (I was barely out of college – young and naive and stupid) when an attorney sent me out to interview witnesses a client identified as willing to testify on her behalf in a domestic abuse case. I found myself in an extremely touchy situation in a bad part of town in a room full of guns all pointed at me, with bottles of half-drank whiskey and lines of coke on a card table. I'm still not sure how I managed to calm everyone down.

    Tutors in courage, I think of my older sister as she lay awake at night when she was 10 and I was 7, planning how she'd get us out of a war zone in Africa if anything happened to our parents.

  3. Reine

    God David . . . I read this and I swear I was seeing it happen like a movie not words on the screen. So totally engrossing it was.

    I don't know about courage for myself. Really I don't. I don't feel like I have any of that. I just keep going. I know others who have done courageous things, but I don't think any of it came my way. I wish I could see it more clearly, but I can't yet. Or maybe I'm so depressed I can't remember. I have to fight the narrowness of my days. I have to not be angry because the paratransit van costs $6 per trip now. I can't afford to go to Starbucks and write anymore. So I'm pissed. I can't seem to remember whose courage it is that I might even try to emulate. I just keep writing and commenting, keeping in touch with people.

    But my dreams have taken a wicked-bad turn these last few days. There aren't any people in them, just animals like dogs and cats, like my own mostly. My service dog Kendall is in them, and we go for walks,. All I see are my knees and feet and the front of my wheelchair. Kendall's back. The street and the sidewalk. Whatever I might see looking down. It's not really a nightmare, but I wake up sad from it. Like I am all alone. Two . . . three days of this, even when I nap. I need to read more of these stories of courage. Then maybe I will see people again, hear them speak, in my dreams.

  4. Alafair Burke

    I am neither courageous nor fearless but did absolutely love this post. (Also like your acts and arcs, snacks and snarks thing. Made my LOL as the children say.)

  5. Louise Ure

    Too much, too close, too painful for me to put into a blog post David. Thank you for the courage to do it for those of us who can't.

  6. Rae

    Beautiful post, David.

    My Courage Tutor was my stepfather, George. He was a Marine during WWII, part of the landing force on Iwo Jima. During that action, he got on the wrong side of a hand grenade, and lost a big piece of his face, including one eye. He recuperated and went on about his life until one day about 25 years later, some shrapnel that the military medicos couldn’t extract worked its way into his remaining eye’s ocular nerves – and he was blind.

    He could’ve easily been forgiven for crawling into a shell and letting the world take care of him. But he didn’t. He got up every day looking forward to his next adventure, and brought us all along with him. We used to go bowling – he’d use the heaviest ball we could find, we’d point him at the pins, and off he’d go. He got the highest score every time. Great sense of humor, scary smart, kind – absolutely the sort of person I want to be when I grow up. His courage was the kind that doesn’t get much notice, but I think it’s the hardest kind there is – the courage to get out of bed every day and live your life, in spite of really tough obstacles.

    As to your other questions: yes, there’s a difference between courage and fearlessness; yes, hope is definitely a source of strength – if you can’t have hope, why bother? And no, no ‘trip to the doctor’, thank goodness 😉

  7. Judy Wirzberger

    'Why is David Corbett the next big American novelist? Because he knows what he’s doing.'
    Len Wanner

    Amen to that.
    I, too, had pictures flash through my head while reading your post.
    My brother taught me courage. Once a great con artist, he became true husband, brother, friend.
    Suffered through misdiagnosed cancer and died young needlessly, never once bitching at the Fates.

    Great luck at BP.

  8. David Corbett

    Deborrah: Thanks for the kind words, and there were a lot of us who lost the amazing person in their lives to that disease. Not just John’s lover but nearly all his friends were wiped out — an incredible group of smart, funny, generous men. It takes a much larger heart than I can summon most days to forgive those who looked on them and their suffering with indifference — or worse, contempt.

    Katherine: Yes, I saw that the video had glitched about 5 minutes before I read your comment. So I plastered up another song Terri loved, only to come across your remark, and so I decided to put that link up too – today’s a twofer on the jukebox!

    (And there’s an easy way to find out if my books are as good as my blogs … 🙂

    Jenni: I think I’ve been in that room. I figured if nobody’d drawn a weapon yet I was fine. Anger displays are so predictably chimplike, but it does take a certain balance of easy-going-ness and spine to diffuse them. Look too cool, they want to scare you. Look scared, they pounce. I always just stuck to business, let them know I was only there to talk, and if that wasn’t on their dance card, I was outta there. I found if you showed respect but not fear you usually came out okay. Easier said than done, though.

    I bet your sister is an amazing woman, and I wonder what it felt like hearing her voice on those nights — did you feel less afraid? Did you think she was trying to scare you, or being overly dramatic? Did you admire her?

    Thank you, Alafair. So nice to know for once I didn’t sneeze in your margarita.

    Rae: I’ve known men like Rae, and I share your admiration. My godfather had half his rib cage blown away at the Battle of the Bulge. My favorite relative growing up.

    Bit don’t short-shrift the absence of hope so breezily. It takes a rare and, dare I say it, beautiful courage to withstand life’s misfortunes not because things will get better, but because this is life. Did George have hope, or just a lust for every drop of life he could get before the big black shadow swooped down again, this time for good?

    Reine: If you’re looking for inspiring stories, I’m sure Rae’s uncle George will qualify. But we can’t and shouldn’t measure our lives by those of others. They can serve as inspiration, and I think that’s admirable and necessary, but in the end our experience is nothing like the other’s. That is perhaps the inescapable ghost of hardship, it’s loneliness. And that comes through in your dream. If I were to venture a guess, you’re on the cusp of a major change, which of course can be good or bad. Ready yourself, muster your courage, your merriness (of which you have much), and your je ne sais quoi. You have a community here — take solace in it, avail yourself of it. That may feel like small taters some days, but …

    Thanks, Judy. I'll miss you at BP this year.

  9. David Corbett

    oops. Rae — I mean I know men like George. My bad.

    Reine: I also wouldn't give short shrift to the courage it takes to slog or grind or bear up through the days. Just as 80% of success is showing up, persistence — particularly in the face of fear or despair — is the principle element of courage.

  10. Jenni

    Thanks David. You're right about the tightrope walk in those touchy trigger-finger situations. I did a lot of talking in as calm a voice as I could muster, reassuring them that I was there for the client's sake only. I am sure I looked scared out of my mind, but probably was so obviously out of place that they decided further intimidation wasn't necessary!

    My sister is a wonderful woman. She looked out for me and my little sister a lot growing up, and we didn't always appreciate it, but in that situation, I did. It helped, and it comforted me to know she was thinking ahead. Without going into too much detail, she wasn't trying to scare anyone or exaggerate anything – we were having air-raid drills at school, and school was often closed because of the war. There was constant gunfire at night and violence in the streets during the day. Things were happening that made us very aware, even as children. My sister was being realistic. I admired her, looked up to her, tried to emulate her – still do to some extent. 🙂

  11. Richard Maguire

    "the seconds expanding like deep breaths"

    Exactly how it felt, the moments before a head-on car crash I was helpless to avoid. A wonderful post, David. Tense and vivid. Sad, too, in some ways, but very entertaining.

  12. Stephen Jay Schwartz

    David…..David, David, David.
    Such a perfect post. So sad, so intense, so full of life. I was in it, I was there with you on that journey to nail the doctor-bastard. I was with you in the fury. I was with you with your brother.
    I'm mesmerized by your ability to pull from so many sources – from Buddhism to military tactics to specifics of the legal system to medical terminology. It all seems to be there at your fingertips, and it all works in sync to support the themes you discuss.
    You've lived some tough times, my friend. You honor your brother and wife with your writing – they are fortunate to have you to memorialize their lives.

  13. David Corbett

    Louise: You’re more than welcome, my dear. I’d take a lot of pain and angst from you if I could. I hope the piece helped heal, instead of just scratching open a scab.

    Richard: Apparently that time-expansion is total illusion, even in the present. Recent research suggests that it’s only in reccollection – even immediate recollection – that that slowness comes up. We supposedly experience the event in real time, but the emotions jam the memory and slow it down. Now, I know what you’ll tell me (and what I often tell myself). No, I remember what it felt like. But that’s the problem. We remember. And the memory’s all we have left, and it’s false. (Spooky, huh?)

    Jenni. I found myself very moved by your account of your sister. My brother was like that for me when we were very young, and I’m missing him a lot today. This post has dredged up a lot, and I find myself thinking of him quite vividly today. Protective siblings are powerful angels. We’re lucky to have them.

    Stephen: Thank you. I’d happily trade the chance to memorialize them for just one more visit, so I could tell them how sorry I am for every moment of pain I ever caused, and how grateful I am they loved me so much.

  14. Gar Haywood

    Well, hell. What kind of intelligent comment is a man supposed to leave that could possibly do justice to this post?

    Awesome, David. John would be so proud.

  15. Barbie

    David, your life has been something else, hasn't it? It seems like an action movie or a romantic suspense book all around. It's kind of awesome to read. I'm so sorry for the loss of your brother. Big hugs to you.

    I've never had a tutor in courage and a I hardly could inspire someone, as all I've ever done was what I had to do to survive. I don't think it's courage when you go into survivor mode and work in autopilot and you're probably too young to understand what's going on anyway.

    YOU are brave and awesome, though 🙂

  16. Reine

    David, "And that comes through in your dream. If I were to venture a guess, you’re on the cusp of a major change . . . You have a community here — take solace in it, avail yourself of it. That may feel like small taters some days, but …" Thank you. Yes. You have, I hope, some sense of what this digital community means to me. That I am here says that to me. But I know me. So maybe that doesn't come through the empitiness as the fullness that it truly is.

    And you are right. Of course you are right. My husband is facing cancer for the third time. Not the same cancer. But a third and different cancer. But he keeps on. Right now he is working on a volunteer project for our co-housing community. He should be my dose of courage. But I just want to hold him. Keep him. Hang onto him for myself.

    Our oldest daughter has end-stage kidney disease.
    Our oldest son had a brain tumor removed. He is losing his hearing. His great love is playing classical piano. [The Ravel. Thank you.]
    Our youngest daughter has disabling autism.
    Our youngest son, her twin, has less severe autism. We used to say mild. But now while some of its aspects, in the form of skill and focus, served him well in the service — now that he is out, he cannot find work. His social skills are debilitating. I don't know how he did what he did when he did it, but it worked in the service. It does not work now that he is out, and it is deflating him. I struggle to help him find a new and satisfying focus.

    As for my ". . . je ne sais quoi," I might just be a bit too . . . um . . . esprit d'escalier?

  17. David Corbett


    As is often the case, I'm dumbstruck after your comment. I can only think how hard it must be simply to stay focused, let alone accomplish much. Or believe it will make things better. I'm so sorry it's so hard. I don't know why life, karma, the gods, fate has been so rough with you. And I'm at a loss for anything more to add that doesn't seem contrived or evasive or beside the point. But here I think the notion of fearlessness being the ability to forego hope is apropos, the ability to simply live, knowing the consequences, and thus allowing for every moment, every feeling, every experience. or maybe that too is sentimental nonsense — how does one eat? But another Pema Chodron quote that has had an impact is this: Things become very clear when we realize there is no escape. And clarity is itself a kind of solace, though not the kind we're used to, especially in the west.

    I wish I could say something cheerier, and tell you it will all turn out swell. I can say, in the things you've written, I detect a strength unlike what I've encountered in all but a few people. And that again ain't small taters.


  18. David Corbett

    Barbie: There are times when simply surviving, whether graced with insight or not, requires everything, and mustering that ability to simply take the next step, if not courage, is something much like it.

  19. Debbie

    I am so sorry. Your brother's story had me in tears. A friend of mine came out of the closet at the end of last year and is, as of right now, in the hospital, with symptoms that have the doctors baffled. I'd like to see attitudes change. To live to see a time where people no longer have to come out of the closet, but can just be. Be accepted, supported, loved, understood, believed in, appreciated, respected, treated as a person. We have the ability to touch the lives of others though we no longer be, through the memories, and the words of those whose lives we touched. Through your writing, I got to meet your brother. I'm glad that he found love. Thank you for this post.

  20. Reine

    David, focus is what saved me. It rewarded me with new life and the ability to regroup, let go, and move on. Pema Chodron's clarity is as true as her breath. It comes together. It falls apart. I woke up one day and knew I was going to hurt no matter what I did. So instead of staying in bed and hurting I applied to graduate school. It came together. It fell apart. It came together. It . . . .

  21. Susan Russo Anderson

    Beautiful piece of writing, David. I especially enjoyed the segue from serving Doc the subpoena to helping John bathe. And I can hear Martha Argerich playing the 2nd movement of Ravel's piano concerto in G in my head, just as she played it years ago in Paris, playing it now for Terri, and for all of us—the musical equivalent of your post. Susan

  22. JJ

    David, I well know that zone you were in. And I know a part of you remains there. Four times so far in this life I've had phone calls out of the blue from people ready and planning to commit suicide. Several times in the quiet of those moments, I've asked for help to say the right thing. Words came, and four times the right side won. One was a friend who had a shotgun, one was a mother at the end of her rope with a schizophrenic son–she couldn't get him help and feared what he might do so her plan was to kill him then herself. The third time it was a co-worker with lots of pills in rainbow colors. And the fourth time was a young man I knew who had syringes loaded with lethal doses and ready by his bedside. He was drinking himself into enough of a stupor to carry things out and called to say goodbye. Every one of these instances has given me that initial stomach drop then a steely calm. Even though I'm an RN, they don't teach you in training how to talk people down or how to manipulate 2 phones, one to keep the victim talking, the other to get the police there without the patient knowing. You're a brave man to face down a car like that but you're a man of grace for taking care of your brother. I figure how ever it comes, when we win one, we take a deep breath, give thanks, and hope the next one never comes.

  23. Phillip Thomas Duck

    Crap, I wish I could say something intelligent to add to this post, but….well, I'm just totally blown away by everything, every word. I'm not going to stick my foot in the punch. Anyway, I remember reading THE DEVIL'S REDHEAD some years ago and loving it. I think I need to revisit your work, my friend. Awesome post.

Comments are closed.