Got out just as one of the wheels slipped on the rock.
Fear seized her.
The camper teetered on the edge but did not go over.
Two hours later, around four in the afternoon, a tow truck showed up—they would try to pull the camper up and out.
The tow truck driver knew what he was doing. She would never forget the skidding shrieking sound of metal as the twisted part of the wreckage was pulled up, snapping saplings and grinding over rocks, squealing like a trapped animal. The camper slid upward, banging and shrieking and crumpling as small pieces slivered off and fell like confetti into the ravine.
Laura looked down. It was a long, long way to the bottom. The sight made her stomach flip.
But they had the camper now—they had the evidence inside it. There would be plenty of DNA. The license plate was missing and no registration or insurance paperwork was to be found. They would do a search using the VIN and see what that pulled up.
From the cheap seats, this would look like a slam-dunk, an airtight case—thanks to the photos she already had. But Laura had been around long enough to know that some cases just broke down, for whatever reason. Reluctant witnesses, people who lied for various reasons, and evidence that might appear to show the opposite of the evidence she collected. Many things could go wrong, all the way to trial. Lots of little foul-ups—depending on the presiding judge. You had to be careful. Meticulous. There should be integrity in the pieces she gathered—everything needed to hold together, if she wanted to tell a story. She knew it should be a slam-dunk case. But then, Laura had had slam-dunk cases before that turned out to be anything but.
And the bad guy himself could take off for parts unknown. That had happened before. It was almost as if they could read the cops’ minds—a sixth sense that they were closing in.
Nothing she could do about it—except to have everything ready, and a warrant for his arrest, and the arrest of his sidekick.
She wondered how many different women had slept and cooked in that camper. How many women who left their DNA inside? Women who had disappeared and were never seen again by their friends and family? Identifying the victims would take painstaking work—weeks, months—if she could find their families. It was entirely possible that some of Ladies’ Man’s victims might never be found.
Laura suspected that soon, there would be enough evidence now to arrest him now and hold him for trial, but there was still work to do.
Once the trailer was secured onto the flatbed, they searched the immediate area around the spot where the camper had gone off the embankment, but found nothing except shoe prints, a man’s size twelve, which they photographed. There were no smaller footprints that might have belonged to a woman.
Laura was pretty sure that the woman, wherever she was now, was dead. Perhaps she had been thrown down into the canyon, or dumped somewhere else. They would know for certain when Forensics got the camper. One thing she knew: there was no sign of a struggle, no obvious blood spatters. She used a crime scope light to look for blood—but there was none. Whatever happened to his victims, they were not savaged in the camper.
They worked their way down to the water where the camper had come to rest, looking for a body, or clothing snagged on a submerged log, or anything that might belong to a woman. They found nothing except a cheap, Melmac dinner plate. Laura bagged and labeled it; a possible source for prints, if needed.
Dusk settled over the gorge.
They headed back before darkness surrounded them.
Later that day, they knew the name of the original owner of the camper. It belonged to a woman named Dorothy McKann. Dorothy McKann was a resident of Colorado who died in a hiking accident in New Mexico three and a half years ago.
“Jesus!” Dennis muttered over Laura’s shoulder. “When it comes to old women, this guy’s a one-man wrecking crew."
“Middle-aged."
“Okay, middle-aged."
“And don’t you forget it."
“What’s with the blowback? You’re not middle-aged."
“Not yet, but I will be—if I’m lucky."
They had enough evidence, they had the witness. It was time to make the arrests.
Two days later, with a warrant and a plan put together with DPS SWAT, Laura and Dennis pulled up a couple of blocks from the house. They got out and carefully approached—saw that both cars were in the driveway; the RX7 behind the Lexus.
Laura called in SWAT.
They were there within minutes—the SWAT van and a black SRT vehicle transporting the Special Weapons and Tactics team. They looked scary for a reason. To psych out the bad guys. If they were looking out the window, she imagined it would chill them to their bones. It looked like the military had come to this quiet street. SWAT always projected overwhelming force. She’d already gone over the floor plan and surrounding houses with them, and they knew there was a kitchen door to the back yard and several windows. The yard was surrounded by a high fence.
The SWAT Team was now pouring out of the SRT vehicle and they took positions—some of then running down the side street to the alley and back yard. They ran single-file, like a snake. The rest were at the front door with a battering ram.
Laura and Dennis followed them into the alley, guns ready, if anyone came their way. She and Dennis would stay back—they did not want to get in the way. But both of them had their weapons at the ready.
In the yard now. She heard it—
She felt the air split near her ear and heard the shot—so loud.
“Get down!” she shouted to Dennis.
But Dennis just stepped back, confused. She turned and met his eyes. He looked down, his hand fluttering near his thigh. He looked back at her. Then he sank down, huddled, trying to protect himself—even though it was too late. He put one hand down and started to rise.
STAY DOWN!!!” Laura yelled. Laura radioed for an ambulance. She pulled Dennis behind the alley wall and stayed with him. “Stay down!” she said. He nodded. “Officer down!” she shouted. “Officer DOWN! We need a paramedic!”
A volley of gunfire came from the rear of the house. She called again for paramedics. Her legs scissoring, aware that at any moment she might be hit, she half-shoved, half-pulled Dennis behind the wall, propping him up against it. Blood everywhere.
“Where are you hit?”
“My thigh."
“PRESS HARD WITH BOTH HANDS. Press hard on the wound!” She sank down behind the wall, heart beating hard, trying not to be stunned by this, taking deep breaths. She heard SWAT ramming the kitchen door, SWAT shouting as they poured into the kitchen.
She could practically see it: SWAT bursting through the door and pouring single-file into the house. She knew they were now in the “AOR,” an acronym for “Area of the Room,” all of them filing behind the point man in front. The point man would have already dropped to one knee to cover the rest of them. SWAT was overwhelming. With violent and shocking precision, moving with amazing force, shouting, and very likely terrifying the bad guys within. And here she was, outside with Dennis, talking to him and trying to keep him with her.
“Police! Drop your weapons or WE WILL SHOOT. Drop your weapon. Hands up!!. Do it NOW!! Hands up and away from your body!! DO IT NOW!! If you want to see another day, drop your weapons now! Do it NOW!”
More shots. Someone shooting out a window. Bullets smacking the wall near her—ricocheting. Laura held her fire—she knew SWAT would do its job and Dennis needed her attention now.
Dennis moaned. He was losing blood.
“My leg. I think it’s just a flesh wound." That was Dennis, always joking. But his face was tight, eyes screwed up in his head, and he began to slip in and out of consciousness.
It wasn’t a flesh wound. It was in the thigh, and she feared that it might have nicked the femoral artery.
She radioed the worst distress signal in her life as a cop—999— Officer down. The barrage of gunfire continued, two weapons, one with real firepower. She tore off her jacket and w
rapped it tightly around his thigh, her hand pushed hard above the wound, keeping the pressure on. Hoping backup and medical help was on the way. Laura tried to comfort Dennis and prayed for backup.
She radioed again. The response took forever—forever and a day. She gave them the location, described the scene and the number of shooters. Dennis’s breathing became shallow. She kept talking to him, still hearing the exchange of fire—two things at once—listening for sirens, hoping for sirens. Hurry! From inside the house she heard yelling. Boots on the ground. In the dusk, Dennis’s face was white. He was lying against the wall, propped up. He looked lost. “I think this might be—“
More patrol cars pulled up. Just as she heard the siren, closer. She hoped it was the ambulance.
She radioed again, “Officer down! Officer DOWN!! Over here by the garage, left side! We need a paramedic NOW!”
She saw them coming. She jumped up and waved her arm. Over here!” she yelled. “Officer down!”
More patrol cars pulled up, blocking the street.
EMS! Where was EMS?
Two paramedics ran toward her position in a protective envelope of three patrol officers. Then they were here, taking charge. Laura knew SWAT had done a quick clear. It was likely over. Paramedics worked on Dennis, one of them applying direct pressure through multiple layers of gauze. The other started CPR. Laura stayed out of the way, but she spoke to him, she told him he would be all right, to hang in there. She didn’t know if that was a lie. She couldn’t tell if Dennis was conscious or not as he stared into space. Then his eyes fluttered and he looked at her, confused, trying to talk.
Laura saw the paramedic take a quick pulse on Dennis and heard him report his vital signs. And, “We’ve got to move!”
And then Dennis’s eyes changed again.
“No, Dennis, keep still, you’re going to be all right, just keep looking at me, look at me, you’re going to be all right."
But by then his eyes were fixed on nothing.
She heard boots scuffling, felt the air move as another paramedic squatted down beside Dennis, started to “bag” him with a resuscitation bag over his nose and mouth, the paramedic squeezing the bag and vital oxygen into Dennis. And the other paramedic doing chest compressions. She saw Dennis move and draw a big breath. One of the paramedics held up a gloved hand in the victory sign.
They had him stabilized. She realized that the gunfire had stopped. Two more paramedics ran a gurney toward them from the ambulance parked sixty feet away. They shifted Dennis onto the gurney and moved him to the ambulance. They loaded him in the back of the ambulance.
She heard the crackle of a radio: “We have the house. All clear. One dead, one in custody." She saw two SWAT officers escorting Darnell Hatch, the Ladies Man, out of the house and into a nearby patrol car.
Laura wished she could ride in the ambulance with Dennis, but she knew she had to remain at the scene.
Somebody—one of the paramedics who’d stayed behind—clapped her on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry. He’s lost some blood, but I’ve seen a lot and I think he’ll make it. Uh, let’s have you step over here and sit down so we can get you checked out.”
And then Dennis was gone, gone in the ambulance—and she sat there as everything moved around her.
_________________
About the Author
Hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as “a strong new voice in American crime fiction,” J. Carson Black has written sixteen novels. Her thriller, THE SHOP, reached #1 on the Kindle Best Seller list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. Although Black earned a Master of Music degree in operatic voice, she was inspired to write a horror novel after reading The Shining. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Facebook: J Carson Black Author
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my husband and editor Glenn McCreedy, my First Reader, whose advice helped keep this story on track.
And many thanks to my good friend and fellow author Will Graham, who always came to the rescue when I needed his expertise on computer forensics and criminal investigation.
Ladies Man (Laura Cardinal Series Book 6) Page 10
