Jamie Brodie 01 - Cited to Death

through me personally. Liz, please retrieve Mr. Buhrman’s briefcase."
    Harley was still sputtering. “Now, wait just a minute…”
    Dr. Loomis lost her cool a little. If I’d been well enough, this scene would have been entertaining. "Mr. Burhman, I will have no more of this. Are you going to leave now, or should I have security remove you?" She opened the door for Harley, who stumbled out of it. "I want to see you heading for the parking structure. NOW."
    She closed that door, and opened another for the paramedics. I was gasping for breath, but the attack seemed to have slowed in its progression. I wasn't going to pass out this time. The paramedics got me hooked to oxygen and the monitors and strapped me onto the stretcher.
    Dr. Loomis was in full charge mode. "Liz, please, take Dr. Brodie's briefcase and jacket from his office and accompany him to the emergency room. Please report back as soon as possible." She turned to me and patted me on the arm. Somewhere, in the still-oxygenated part of my brain, I was shocked again. "Do what the doctors tell you. Take as much time as you need. I don't want to see you back here until you are well."
    I nodded weakly. "Yes..." breathe... "ma'am." She nodded, and turned to the paramedics. "Off you go, gentlemen."
    Off we went. It only took a few minutes to get to the UCLA Medical Center ER, at the south end of campus. The paramedics rolled me back to a cubicle, and the nurse clipped a pulse oximeter to my finger. I scooted my butt over to the ER bed, and a nurse and one of the paramedics helped me get my shirt off over the IVs the paramedics had started. A very young guy in a short white coat that was way too clean stepped around the curtain. "Mr. Brodie? Dr. Waverly. How are you feeling?"
    Oh, hell, no . I glared, and pointed at him. "Intern."
    "Uh, yeah." The intern looked nonplussed. "So - what happened?"
    The nurse brought the bed's head up to a nearly 90 degree position and propped pillows behind me, then patted them. I leaned back, and she slipped a mask over my face. Oxygen, and something moist. No medication in it yet. I glared at the intern again. "Cologne." Breathe. "Asthma." Breathe. "Boom."
    "Okay." Dr. Intern was writing. "So you had previously been diagnosed with asthma?"
    I made an exasperated sound and looked at the nurse beseechingly. She laughed. "Dr. Waverly, why don't you see if Dr. Suzuki is available?"
    "Right." Waverly gave me a dirty look and left. I snorted. The nurse chuckled. "Yeah, he thinks he's all that. He'll learn."
    "Not..." breathe... "on me."
    The nurse grinned. "Nope, not on you. Here comes the real doctor."
    I’d seen Dr. Suzuki before and was glad to see him now. Suzuki walked in, carrying my chart.
    "Jamie! What happened to you?"
    "Cologne." Breathe. "A lot of it."
    "Does this feel like a typical attack for you?"
    I nodded. Suzuki turned to the nurse. "Can we get an albuterol nebulizer set up, please?"
    "On it." The nurse headed out.
    "Had you been feeling short of breath before today?"
    I nodded. “Thursday. Funeral. Outdoors. Flowers. Smog. More. Inhaler. Since. Then.” The effort of talking was wearing me out.
    "Okay." The nurse arrived with the nebulizer. "Let's get this on you."
    As soon as the medication started flowing, I felt my chest easing. Sweet relief. "Better..." breathe... "already."
    "Good." Suzuki smiled. "You just hang out and breathe. We'll check your oxygenation again in about 15 minutes."
    "Thanks."
    Suzuki left; the nurse was cleaning up my arm around the hastily-inserted IV. “Do you need us to call someone?”
    “Brother. Card in wallet.”
    She handed me my wallet. I pulled Kevin’s card out and handed it to her. “Homicide detective. Wow.”
    “Yeah. Scary.” I tried to grin. “Use my phone.”
    She dialed, listened, and mouthed “voicemail” at me. “Detective Brodie, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER. Your brother is here as a patient and he asked that we call you first. I’ll call his next contact.” She hung up and turned back to me. “Who’s your next contact?”
    Damn. I was going to have to call Pete. I found his number in my phone and handed it to the nurse. She dialed; I heard him answer. “Hey.” He thought it was me.
    “Um, hi, Mr. Ferguson, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER…” She paused. I could hear Pete’s voice, but not his words.
    “Yes, he’s going to be fine, but he’s had an asthma attack. He’ll have to be here a bit longer, but he’ll