Regardless, Maurice's vital signs were surprisingly stable, though I strongly suspected something awful was going on inside his abdomen. I pushed lightly on his belly, and he made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a squeal. No need for a CT scan here - Maurice had peritonitis, and I called the operating theatre immediately.
I rushed downstairs and managed to beat him by several minutes. I was waiting there with the police officers (who apparently had a few questions to ask Maurice), and they seemed to be chuckling to themselves. When they saw me, they asked if I expected Maurice to live. I told them I had no idea, and that it depended on what kind of catastrophe I found.
"Did you hear what happened, Doc?" one of them asked me.
Oh, do tell.
"Maurice here was sleeping with his best friend's girl. His friend found out about them, but he didn't say anything to Maurice, and they just got in his car together. I guess he was planning on driving him to some remote location and then shooting him, but they didn't get that far, so the guy just turned and shot him while they were still in the car."
During surgery I found a series of holes in his small intestine and two in his colon. It took me a bit less than two hours to remove two segments of his small intestine, put the ends back together, and repair his colon. I left the operating theatre and told the officers that I expected him to live.
But the drama didn't end there - Maurice's wife showed up to the hospital later that evening. I spoke to her briefly to tell her what I found and what I did to her husband, and she barely responded at all. Based on the look on her face (which strangely reminded me of the look on MomBastard's face when I was a child and she knew I had done something wrong, I just didn't know which evil deed of mine she had discovered), someone had already told her why Maurice had been shot. I (wisely) decided to leave it alone and not poke that particular snake. I decided simply to be satisfied that Maurice didn't die from his wounds.