Eldridge strode through the doors of St. Luke's Hospital and stopped in his tracks, the chaos before him overwhelming. Row upon row of chairs overflowed with coughing, crying, and bleeding patients, their loved ones demanding attention from the nurses scrambling to triage them in what appeared to Eldridge to be an almost futile effort to restore some order. The din of misery and anger was almost excruciating. He had the impression those waiting were in a competition with each other to be the loudest, in the hopes this may motivate the nurses to take them first. If someone didn’t get control of this room soon, there might be new injuries demanding attention.
Eldridge loathed hospitals.
When he received the call that an attempted murder looked like it may be related to his case, and that the victim was in intensive care, he had tried to think of some excuse to not go, but it was no use. When he was thirteen he had minor surgery and contracted an infection, resulting in further, more serious surgery. Weeks of recovery, his mother and father at his bedside every moment they were permitted, had instilled a deep, illogical hatred of the buildings. Not the doctors or nurses performing their duties, but simply the buildings. His negative memories were rarely of those who attended to him, they were usually quite pleasant, but of the lonely despair he suffered at being there. The featureless, small rooms with their stark white curtains, intended to provide privacy, but merely making a mystery of the sounds from the sick and dying feet away on the other side of the thin sheet of plastic. His mind ran wild as he imagined them dying from the same thing he was afflicted with. Night after night he suffered in silence, sobbing into his coarse, sterile pillow, pleading for his mother to rescue him from his misery, or for God to simply let him die so he could escape his surroundings. After he recovered from the infection, it was months before he was able to sleep through the night, and for years he was tormented with nightmares, constantly reliving the sounds beyond the curtains.
Since then he had set foot in a hospital only once outside the line of duty, and even then it had been a debate. His mother had died in a car accident when he was sixteen, and the year from hell had begun. His father turned inward, mourning his loss and completely ignoring that his son had lost a mother as well. He eventually blamed his son for her death, his grieving mind concluding it was his son’s fault since she was picking him up. He finally lost the will to live and when he had been diagnosed with lymphoma he refused treatment, instead seeing it as a way to reunite with his beloved wife. When his father lay dying in the very same hospital he had been treated in years before, they had barely spoken in a year. A nurse at the hospital had called to let him know his father had days left and that he should pay his respects soon. His debate on whether or not to go had dragged on too long and by the time he reached the hospital his father had already passed, a letter, still not opened to this day, clutched in his hand. He didn't need to open it to know it would be more about how it was his fault his mother had died. They were once a happy family but that last year was misery. Afterward, the solitude of the family home had turned out to be a mixed blessing, the intense hatred from his father replaced by the curse of quiet emptiness.
He sighed and steeled himself for the experience ahead. He tried to make himself as small as possible, drawing in his shoulders and maneuvering himself toward the reception desk, in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid contact with the unwashed masses, his efforts pointless as he finally had to push his way through the crowd. When he reached the reception area, he found dozens of people screaming at the nurses behind the desk, most demanding to know why the wait was taking so long. One guy from NerdTech pleaded with a nurse to give him a pass so he could get to the roof to install some cables, a uniform chatted up a nurse who appeared oblivious to the mayhem, a taxi driver tried to find out about a friend, and finally there was him, the one person not shouting, who didn't want to be there in the first place.
“Quiet!” The roar brought the entire area to a standstill as everyone stopped to find the source of the bellow. Eldridge smiled as he saw who had brought order to chaos with simply her voice. She was huge, at least three hundred pounds, black with short hair, her nurse’s uniform fitting where it touched. She looked like someone who didn't take shit from anyone. The wedding band, long overdue for resizing, made Eldridge feel a twinge of pity for her husband if he ever dared cross her. “One at a time, people!”
Eldridge took the opportunity to raise his badge over the crowd. “Detective Eldridge, ma'am. I'm here to see one of your patients, an Ibrahim Jamar.”
The officer chatting up the nurse rose from the counter he was leaning on. “Detective Eldridge?”
Eldridge looked at him. “Yes?”
“Officer Foster. Follow me, sir. I'll take you to the room,” he said, then, turning to the nurse, added, “and I'll see you later.” She smiled, about to giggle, when she saw the large nurse glaring at her.
Eldridge followed the uniform to the elevators. They didn't have to wait long for the oversized car to arrive. As they entered, Foster pressed the button for the ninth floor as almost a dozen people crowded in. Eldridge pressed himself into a corner and covered his mouth with a handkerchief as the person beside him sneezed and coughed without covering their mouth. He debated whether or not the punishment would be worth it if he shot the inconsiderate bastard. The ninth floor arrived before he had the chance. They exited along with most of the other passengers and headed down the hall toward the ICU.
Eldridge entered, thankful this area was much quieter. He pushed to the back of his mind that these were probably some of the sickest patients in the building. A row of beds stretched the length of the room, each separated by a sterile, white curtain. He shivered. Several beds down a fellow detective interviewed a black woman, a small child gripping her leg, clearly confused at what was happening. They stood at the foot of the bed of a man who had clearly seen better days, most of his body plastered or bandaged, the few exposed areas of skin remaining covered in small scratches or swollen with bruises. How could this possibly relate to my case? He strode toward them, unnoticed.
“Hey, Amber, what've we got?”
Detective Amber Trace looked up from her pad and nodded, a tiny scowl on her face. Eldridge knew full well he hated to hand over a case to someone else, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. “Ma'am, this is Detective Eldridge. He'll be taking over the investigation.” Trace walked over to Eldridge and lowered her voice. “Mr. Ibrahim Jamar, cab driver, was assaulted and placed in the trunk of his vehicle three days ago. He managed to get the trunk open, and get this, jumped out while the cab was doing over forty. Talk about balls of steel!”
Eldridge let out a low whistle. “Desperation does wonders for even the Cowardly Lion.” Trace stared at him, the literary reference lost on her. He decided to continue. “Why am I here?”
“Because of this.” She strode over to a table and pointed at a portable DVD player covered in powder, the lab tech responsible packing his fingerprint kit. “Finished?”
He nodded. “Yup, probably just the family's, but I'll confirm that when I run them.”
Trace nodded. “Okay, get back to Eldridge when you know.” She flipped open the DVD player. “This DVD player was given to the daughter by an unknown male while her parents slept. Watch.” She pressed Play and stepped back. Eldridge watched the video play out then pause on the image of a black man sitting, his vacant eyes staring at his hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him. Eldridge glanced over at the bed nearby, the man's face too bandaged to ID him. Trace nodded. “The wife has confirmed that this is her husband.”
“This looks familiar to me. What am I looking at?”
“This is that subway murder those two punks taped last year. Remember? A whole crowd watched as two perps beat some girl to death because she refused to give them her purse or something like that?”
Eldridge knew exactly what she was talking about. Everyone knew about the now infamous murder. “It looks different somehow.” He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there wa
s definitely something different about the video. He had of course seen the original a year ago, but since it wasn’t his case, had made a point of not watching it again, the senseless brutality it portrayed holding no appeal.
Trace shrugged her shoulders. “Looks the same to me.”
“But what’s this got to do with my case?”
“Look.” She played it again then paused it on a frame showing a woman, her eyes bulging in fear, her mouth open in mid-scream, running from the train. “Isn't that your first DB?”
Eldridge bent over and peered at the screen. “Tammera Coverdale!” Standing back up he looked over at this new victim then at the screen. “Two people that were on that subway attacked in a week? This can't be a coincidence.”
“That's what I thought.” Trace flipped her notebook closed and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “The case is all yours. I've got a DB with my name on it, some S&M gone bad.” She slapped him on the back and headed toward the exit.
Eldridge watched the video once again, then approached the Jamar family, the wife now standing at the head of the bed holding her husband’s hand, the daughter perched on the edge, dividing her attention between Eldridge and her father.
“Hello, sir, ma’am, my name is Detective Eldridge and as Detective Trace said, I’ll be taking over the investigation into who did this to you.” He flashed a smile at the little girl who turned away, her mother patting her on the head. “Sir, are you able to answer a few questions?”
The man opened his eyes a sliver and grunted an acknowledgement.
Eldridge retrieved his notepad and flipped it open to a new page. “What can you tell me about the person who did this to you?”
Ibrahim’s head barely moved, the effort to shake it exhausting him. “Nothing,” he whispered.
Eldridge prompted him, knowing full-well the victim always remembered something that might prove useful. “Was it a man?” Ibrahim nodded. “White or black?”
“White.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“He had large sunglasses on and was sitting directly behind me, I never really saw his face.” His voice faded and he slumped into his pillow as the last of his energy drained away, the effort finally proving too much.
Interview over. Eldridge turned his attention to the wife.
“I’m sorry, detective, but my husband is too weak.” She gently stroked his hand, then turned to face Eldridge, the concern in her eyes betraying her deep love for her husband.
“That’s okay, ma’am. I can interview him another time.” Eldridge stepped toward the table containing the DVD player. “And your name is, ma'am?”
“Fatima Jamar.”
Eldridge motioned to the DVD. “Where did the DVD player come from?”
Fatima frowned. “When I was asleep some man gave it to my daughter.”
Eldridge smiled warmly at the little girl and knelt down so he was eye level with her. “What’s your name?”
“Amina.” Her tiny, high pitched voice was barely audible, half her face buried in her mother’s leg.
“Well, that’s a very pretty name, Amina. My name is Hayden and I’m a police officer.”
She buried her head a little deeper.
“And how old are you, Amina?”
“I'm eight and a half years old.”
Eldridge smiled at her emphasis on the half. “And can you tell me what the man looked like who gave you the DVD player?”
“He looked like you.”
Eldridge chuckled. “So he was white like me?” She nodded. Eldridge stood. “Was he tall like me, or was he short like this?” Eldridge knelt down about six inches and did a silly smile. The little girl giggled and nodded. “So he was short like this?” She nodded. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”
Amina nodded, turning to face him as she overcame her fear. “A baseball cap.”
“Anything else?”
“Sunglasses!”
“That's good! Was there anything written on the baseball cap?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, you did very good, honey.” Eldridge rose and addressed the mother. “I'll have an officer posted here until we get this resolved. If you need anything, or remember anything, just see him and he will contact me.”
Fatima picked up Amina and hugged her. “Thank you, detective.”
Foster watched the proceedings from the doorway, trying to catch every bit of the conversation as it drifted his way. New on the force with only a couple of years under his belt, he knew he wanted to be a detective. And the best way to learn was to observe. He straightened himself as the detective ended the interview and walked his way.
Eldridge leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Stay here and keep an eye on him. I don’t want anybody near him except medical staff. And I want their ID checked.”
Foster nodded. “Will do.”
“I mean it, don't take your eyes off him, even if that piece of ass from downstairs comes up here, you got it?”
Foster‘s cheeks flushed. “Yes, detective.”
Eldridge smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now, do you know where security is?”
“Not sure, first floor I think.”
“No worries, I'll ask at the front desk.”
As Eldridge walked away, Foster hoped the fine piece of ass would find him up here. He was about to get married and wasn’t looking for anything except affirmation he could still catch the eye of a beautiful young woman. The thought of his fiancée however caused a twinge of guilt. Maybe it's best she doesn't find me.
The chaos had returned to the reception area, the nurse who had brought order earlier nowhere to be seen. Eldridge raised his badge over the crowd and yelled to a harried looking nurse. “Where's the security office?” A phone lodged between her ear and shoulder, she jabbed toward a hall to his right, not missing a beat in her conversation explaining to someone why they couldn’t skip the line by phoning the front desk. Eldridge waved his thanks and navigated his way through the crowd in the direction indicated. Around a corner, a janitor prepared to mop what at first Eldridge thought were the spilled contents of a dinner tray. He looked closer and gagged. Puke! Eldridge stifled another gag as the odor reached his nostrils. Bile filled his mouth as he watched the dark, grey, damp threads of the mop slap a load of filthy water atop the vile mass of poorly chewed food. Eldridge covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. “Security?”
The man tossed his head over his shoulder, indicating a nearby door then swished his mop, spreading the mess in a large, wet, circle.
“Thanks.” Eldridge sidestepped the vomit while trying not to look, and approached the plain, windowless door marked “Security”. He knocked. The door whipped open, a portly, grey haired man, who Eldridge figured cared more about securing his next meal than protecting the hospital employing him, glared at him.
“What?”
Eldridge frowned. “I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide,” he said, flashing his badge. “I need to review the tapes for the ninth floor from a few hours ago.”
“You gotta warrant?” asked the man as he poured himself into a seat in front of a bank of monitors.
Eldridge’s blood boiled. He hated arrogance. Bad cop it is. “How long have you been on duty?”
“Six hours. What’s it to you?”
“Then it happened on your shift.”
This caught the man’s attention. “What?” he asked, his voice a little quieter.
“A murder suspect approached the eight year-old child of his intended victim, right under your watchful eye!” yelled Eldridge. “You know what? Forget it! Where's your supervisor?”
The man panicked. “He's on his break!” He started furiously smacking keys. “No need to get him involved. You said ninth floor right? How long do you want to go back?”
Eldridge smiled to himself. “Let's go back six hours and start from there.”
His muscles screamed from fatigue, the pain having turned into a fire that threatened to win out over his d
etermination to eliminate the next target. The complete lack of control at the front desk had meant it took less than three minutes to convince an overworked nurse to provide him a pass. With swipe access to any maintenance area, he had pulled his cap down low and avoided the numerous security cameras. It was almost too easy, the camera layouts easily hacked from the city computers. After arriving on the ninth floor, he entered a maintenance room near the elevators and jammed a chair against the door so he wouldn't be disturbed. He climbed a set of shelves kitty cornering the back of the small room and pushed aside the grate to the heating ducts overhead. The tight fit wasn’t a problem, but the stamped sheet metal had a tendency to bend then snap back into place with a loud pop. Pushing his limbs to the edges, he was able to avoid placing most of his weight in the center, preventing any noise after the first few feet. His spread-eagle technique was quiet, but slow. It took almost fifteen minutes to arrive at his destination, his strained muscles now paying the price.
And unfortunately, by the time he arrived, he had found a cop already there, talking to his target. He had tried to relax his muscles, but thought better of it. He couldn’t risk being discovered—it would end his mission, and that was not an option. He peered through the grate again and his pain was forgotten. The cop was gone. Below him, the bastard from the subway lay surrounded by his family. And no one else.
Time’s up!
Ibrahim lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, the drugs doing their job of dulling the pain and his senses. The world moved in slow motion around him, the dots in the ceiling tiles a swirling blur of incomprehensible patterns he found coalesced into a vortex of shooting, black stars, when he spun his eyes. He smiled then something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Looking at the far wall, he saw something moving. Or did he? Is it the drugs? He squinted. No, it's definitely moving. He saw a vent tile in the ceiling rise from one end. He peered closely, and squinted, trying to focus the blurred image in front of him, still not sure if he was hallucinating. What is that? He stared hard and his eyes sprung into focus for a moment as a hand propped up the tile with something dark and rectangular. Is that a cell phone? He tried to prop himself up to get a closer look, but the effort sent the room spinning out of control. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, determined to bore through the haze. His determination paid off as he was able to focus clearly on what he now knew was a grate in the ceiling, indeed held up by what looked like a cell phone. But it wasn’t the phone that made his heart almost stop.
He raised his arm to point when the first shot rang out. He didn’t actually hear it until after the burst of exploding pillow foam, inches from his head, registered. It all seemed surreal, the room coming in and out of focus, streaks of movement, echoes of screams, and through it all, the dull pain pushed to the background suddenly jumped to the forefront, his shoulder searing in pain as he heard a second shot. The drugs were good, but not good enough. The pain burned through the Demerol fog and he cried out, the entire room screaming into focus, his wife grabbing their daughter, shielding their precious offspring with her body as she looked in horror at his wound, the police officer supposed to be protecting him storming through the door, and the flash from the muzzle as the trigger squeezed for a third time.
Foster stood near the ward door, eyeballing everyone who walked past, but mostly keeping a wary eye out for the nurse, already having rehearsed in his head what he would say to her if she were to come see him. He had decided to play dumb. What? You thought I was interested? But I’m engaged! He shook his head as he thought about it. You’re an asshole! He nodded. And a coward. He harrumphed, catching the attention of an approaching intern.
“Excuse me?”
Foster shook his head. “Nothing, just thinking out loud apparently.”
“I get that way at the end of a twenty-four hour shift, too!” The intern flashed his ID and Foster waved him through. From in the room there was an unmistakable loud cracking sound. Gunfire! Panicked screaming was followed by a second and third shot. He pulled his weapon and raced into the room, shoved the intern to the ground and pointed his weapon at his head while he scanned the room, not certain who the shooter was. He spotted the wife and daughter cowering against the wall.
“Is he the shooter?” he yelled.
The woman, too terrified to speak, looked up at the ceiling. Two more shots came from above him. He saw the cab driver’s body jerk from the impacts as both bullets found their marks, square in the middle of his chest. Letting the intern go, he swung his weapon toward the ceiling and spotted a tile closing over his head. He fired two rapid shots at where he guessed the shooter might be. The second shot ricocheted off a water pipe and reentered the ward, slamming into an oxygen tank at the far end of the ward, the resulting explosion ripping through the room, ejecting the nearby bed, along with its occupant, through the now shattered window.
Foster gaped in horror as a steady progression of explosions moved toward them as oxygen lines and tanks ignited. Grabbing the wife and child, he threw them toward the doorway and dove on top to protect them from the blasts. With flames licking at his back, he closed his eyes and prayed as the woman and little girl underneath him screamed. Within seconds the sprinkler system kicked in and began dousing the flames. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the kid and her mother then ran toward the doorway with them, nearly tripping over the intern’s body, a bed rail embedded in his skull, forever freezing a look of shock on his face. Once safe in the hallway, he turned back to see the sprinklers making swift work of the flames, the oxygen tanks having quickly burned out. It took a few moments for him to realize the bed their witness was in was now a smoldering shell, its occupant unrecognizable. As he turned to check on the wife and child a searing pain in his back jolted him to his knees. “Oh my God!” yelled the mother as he collapsed to the floor, the pain from a piece of pipe protruding from his back at last registering, the adrenaline keeping him going now wearing off.
“That's him!” Eldridge pointed at the screen showing a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses handing Amina the DVD player. “I want to know where he came from and where he—” He abruptly stopped talking as he noticed the coffee in the guard’s cup ripple. The shaking became more extreme, the ceramic cup starting to dance toward the edge of the desk as the vibrations raced up his legs and through his spine. They both watched in shocked silence as the coffee mug crashed to the floor, its contents splashing across the tile, some of it onto Eldridge’s shoes. “What the hell was that?” The fire control panel lit up like a Christmas tree, followed by the rapid beeping of the fire alarm system.
“I don't know! There's fire alarms going off all over the ninth floor!” He attacked the keyboard as he tried to bring up the security camera footage to see what was happening, but every feed showed static. “It’s as if the entire ninth floor has been cut off!”
“Ninth floor,” muttered Eldridge. “Shit!” He wrenched open the door and shoved through the confused masses as he fought his way to the elevators. He squeezed his way through the crowd and managed to find an empty elevator. He hit the button for the ninth floor. Nothing happened. He pressed again, and then the button to close the doors. Nothing. He stepped out of the elevator and found all of the cars had returned to the main floor. Realizing they were now disabled, awaiting the fireman’s key to unlock them, he looked about for a stairwell. He noticed a throng of people streaming out a nearby door and pushed his way through the mass of sheep waiting to be told where to go. “Police officer, make a hole!” he yelled. Nobody moved out of his way, but at least they stopped moving as they stared at him. He maneuvered his way through the door and continued the battle on the stairs. He rounded the bend to the fourth floor and narrowly missed butting heads with the NerdTech contractor he had seen earlier. Pushing him aside, he hugged the wall, climbing one step at a time, eventually making it to the sixth floor where the crowds thinned out enough for him to take the steps two at a time. He raced the final three floors and threw
open the door to the ninth.
He stepped into an assault on his senses. A steady stream of water from the overhead sprinklers had not yet cleaned the stench of acrid smoke hanging heavy in the air around him. He sucked in a full breath of lung searing soot, and, still slightly winded from running nine flights of stairs, coughed as his throat and eyes burned. He opened his mouth to let some water from the sprinklers in then spat it out on the soaked floor. Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it over his mouth and nose as he ran toward the ward where he feared his witness was no more.
The repetitive drone of the fire alarm was slightly hushed by the white noise from the sprinklers, but through it all, the screams of the victims pierced like a dagger through time, the intense desperation from the unseen sources vividly bringing back the memories of his youth, the frantic screams of a teenage boy, crying in pain as four nurses held him down while two others tore away at the packing in his open wound, the dried blood acting as an adhesive between the raw flesh and the cloth bandages. He had screamed for them to stop the entire time they clawed at him, but they wouldn’t. They kept going, those holding his arms and chest trying to calm him, their platitudes unheard over his cries, the others holding his legs in viselike grips, spread eagled as the other two matter-of-factly pulled at the bandages, commenting about the dried blood, and telling the others to hold him tighter. It seemed like an eternity, but finally one of those torturing him stopped the procedure, realizing the pain was too much for a teenage boy to take, and gave him an injection to dull the pain.
He found himself standing at the ward door, now off its hinges, the tears streaming down his face unnoticed by those around him as they mixed with the steady shower from the sprinklers. He shook his head and looked around as the reality of the situation took hold again. Mrs. Jamar and her child were tending to Foster only feet away. He stepped toward them and knelt down. “Are you two okay?” he asked as he did a quick check of Foster to see if he was still alive. He detected a faint, but steady pulse.
Mrs. Jamar nodded. “My husband?”
“I’ll check.” He pointed at Foster. “If you see any medical staff, get them to take care of him.” She nodded and looked for help as Eldridge stepped around the shattered door now lying in the hallway, and entered the room. The mayhem in the hall hadn't prepared him for the horror he now faced. Everything was burnt. Everything. The linoleum flooring was sticky, the slightly melted plastic adhering to his shoes, each step requiring a little extra tug on his part to move forward. The ceiling tiles had been blasted from their now dangling frames, exposing the plumbing and electrical conduits, still live wires sparked from shorts as they reacted to the sprinklers. The fires out, the water now only served to cool the room and wash the walls and contents free from the soot, creating puddles of dirty water at his feet as the floor drains failed to keep up with the steady downpour.
The worst of it was the beds. The still occupied beds. Eldridge looked down the length of the ward, the curtains once separating the patients all burnt away, the rods and hangers the only evidence remaining they had ever been there. He gaped in horror as several bodies moved, moaning in pain, the one nearest him reached out, writhing in agony, his charred body, unrecognizable as once being human, resembling more pork, long forgotten on the barbeque. Eldridge reached out to touch the man but then drew back as he looked at the outstretched hand, the now charcoal black skin hanging loose, almost as if ready to fall off the bone. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he approached the bed Ibrahim had occupied minutes before. One look and he knew there was no hope. The body lay motionless, completely consumed by the flames, only an unrecognizable lump remained.
Eldridge stood at the foot of the bed as a fire crew rushed into the room, one of them grabbing him by the arm and shaking him. “Sir! Sir! Are you okay?” Eldridge stared at the carcass that had been Ibrahim, not registering the arrival. The firefighter jerked him around to face him. “Sir!”
Eldridge looked at the man and remembered where he was. He centered himself as best he could as he tried to push the nightmare around him out of focus. “Yes, yes, I'm okay.” He flashed his badge as his training kicked back in. “I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide, and this is a crime scene.”
“Not 'til we say it's safe. Wait out in the hall, one of your guys is out there.” The fireman pushed him toward the door. Eldridge nodded, took one last look at Ibrahim and stepped back into the hall to find Foster on a stretcher, the piece of pipe jutting from his back preventing him from lying flat.
“Detective,” said Mrs. Jamar, her voice trembling as if she already knew the answer. “My husband?”
Eldridge shook his head. “I'm so sorry.” She burst into tears and collapsed against the wall, screaming in a language he didn’t recognize. Her daughter, not understanding what had happened but seeing her mother crying, wailed as well. Eldridge stood in the hall, slowly turning as he took in the scene around him. Two medical staff pushed Foster toward a now waiting elevator at the end of the hall. Medical and police staff swarmed around him, waiting for someone to coordinate their efforts, no one seeming to be in charge, only the firemen apparently not needing to be told what to do.
What the hell happened here?
He realized that would have to wait. “Listen up!” he yelled. Everybody in the hall stopped what they were doing and stared at the one person willing to take control. “Medical staff, this room seems to have taken the brunt of it.” He motioned toward Ibrahim’s ward. “Coordinate with fire rescue and evacuate any survivors. Police and hospital security, I want this hospital locked down, nobody leaves. Begin a room by room search of this floor for any other survivors that may need help. Anybody on this floor who isn’t supposed to be here, I want immediately detained for questioning. Extend the search up and down, just in case the explosion injured people on other floors. I don’t want anybody missed.” Nobody moved. Eldridge smacked his hands together hard. “Now, people!” Everybody scrambled, this time with purpose.
He sat in his van, taking deep, slow breaths as he tried to calm his still racing heart. It had been close. Closer than he had ever expected. Who the hell expects the damned place to blowup? His final shots had hit the bastard square in the chest. As soon as he saw the shots connect, he scrambled backward in the air duct, narrowly avoiding the returned fire from the cop. The blasts from the explosions had knocked him around a bit, and the confines of the duct had left his ears ringing, but other than a brief flash of heat taking his breath away, he was none the worse for wear. He checked his eyebrows in the rearview mirror. Still there. He took another deep breath. His heart still thumped as if it wanted to escape his chest and flee in another direction, but not from the blast, this panic entirely the result of his second close call.
Way too close!
After exiting the ducts in the utility room, he had fixed his disguise, removed the chair blocking the door, and cautiously exited the room unseen in the confusion. With the alarms and sprinklers in full effect, he joined a throng of people as they made their way into the stairwell. It was on his way down he had his brush with fate. As he rounded a landing, he bumped face to face with the detective he had seen questioning his target, the eternity the encounter dragged on for most likely lasting only seconds. Certain he had been made, his mission over, he prepared for one final fight, but the unceremonious shove he was dealt sent the hunter on his way, leaving the prey to return to its own hunt. He watched the detective continue on out of sight before he rushed out from the building and across the street
A loud squawk on the passenger seat nearly sent him leaping out the open window.
“Yo, Greedo, you there?” came the voice over his cell phone’s two-way radio.
His pulse raced again. He took a deep breath and gripped the phone. What a stupid fuckin’ nickname. “Yeah, I'm here.”
“Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for hours!”
“I turned off the phone by accident, sorry.”
“Yeah
, whatever, you're probably sleeping on the job again!”
He decided to ignore that one.
“Listen, I've got a call for you, I texted the details to your phone.”
He checked his messages and found the call. “Okay, I'll be there in thirty minutes. Out.” He switched off the phone before he had to hear any more from that idiot. Starting the van, he reached up and flicked the switch for the NerdTech mascot on the roof, the darkened logo blinking several times before turning a bright mix of red and white as the bespectacled, ball cap sporting, grinning idiot came to life.
He nearly matched the grin on the roof as he made his escape.
Another one down!
Eldridge stood in a corner of a hospital waiting room packed with uniforms milling about, some whispering amongst each other, some standing alone like himself. None of Foster’s family had arrived yet, his parents apparently on a retirement cruise somewhere in the Mediterranean, his lone sibling a brother serving in Afghanistan. One of the female officers said he had recently been engaged, resulting in a flurry of activity as his fellow officers called everyone they knew to find out who she might be. It took hours, but she was finally located and would be arriving any minute. Eldridge rocked back and forth on his heels, arms crossed, chin held in one hand, as he tried to piece together what had happened. He looked up as the doors to the operating theatres swung open and the surgeon working on Foster entered. All eyes were on the man as he looked around the room for someone in charge. With the brass having stepped out for coffee only minutes before, Eldridge decided that was him, and stepped toward the doctor. “What's the word?”
“He's going to make it,” said the surgeon, a smile on his face. Sighs of relief rippled throughout the room, some officers hugging and thumping each other on the backs, others crying, finally letting go the emotions bottled up during their vigil.
Eldridge let out an audible sigh and looked up to say a silent prayer of thanks. “Can I talk to him?”
The surgeon shook his head. “He'll be out of it for a few hours at least. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Listen, Doc,” said Eldridge as he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I need to talk to him. I have to find out what the hell happened in that room.”
The surgeon lowered his voice so only Eldridge could hear. “I realize that, Detective, but I am not going to jeopardize my patient for the sake of your investigation. Come back tomorrow morning.”
Eldridge knew from the tone of finality in the surgeon's voice there was no point in pursuing it. Instead, he placed his hand on the surgeon’s shoulder and raised his voice. “Thanks, Doc, we really appreciate everything you’ve done here tonight in saving our boy.”
Several shouts of “hear, hear” filled the room and the surgeon nodded his acknowledgement to the crowd before returning to the operating theater. Eldridge headed out of the room, uniforms slapping him on the back as he went by, deciding if he couldn’t talk to his witness, the security tapes would have to do the talking instead.
Arriving at security, he rapped on the door and this time was greeted by a very different man. “Yes?” The man's voice rumbled through the air, so deep Eldridge felt it vibrate through his chest. Eldridge imagined him shaming Barry White with little effort. A tall, barrel-chested man in his early fifties, Eldridge immediately thought either ex-cop or ex-military, or something out of The Green Mile.
Eldridge flashed his badge. “Detective Eldridge, Homicide. I was here earlier reviewing tapes before the explosion.”
“Ah yes, Detective,” said the man. “I'm Stephen Prentice, Head of Security.” He extended a hand that dwarfed Eldridge's. “I assumed you'd be back.” He waved Eldridge in and closed the door behind him, the already small room ever more so with the large addition. “I've had the tapes from the ninth floor already queued up for you, I think you'll find this interesting.” He pointed to a monitor as the guard from earlier hit a key to start the sequence. On it the main hall on the ninth floor could be seen. They watched people run past the camera in a panic as the sprinklers sprayed water in every direction, some of it splashing on the camera dome. Prentice pointed. “Watch this.” Eldridge leaned in as a door inched open, slightly down the hallway. A man wearing a ball cap exited, looked around and strode purposefully toward the stairwell, passing directly under the camera, all the while looking down at the floor. “We think this might be your man.” Prentice pointed at the door. “That was a service closet he came out of, so he must have been the one who set off the bomb.”
“Bomb?” Eldridge looked at Prentice. “Do we have any evidence of a bomb yet?”
“Well, I just assumed a bomb, but you're right, we shouldn't jump to any conclusions yet. Regardless, this man should not have been where he was.”
Eldridge moved closer to the monitor. “Run it again.” The sequence restarted and as the man was about to pass under the camera, Eldridge said, “Freeze it there!” The image froze, showing the top of the ball cap. “Back it up a few frames and zoom in on the hat. There's something written on it.” The guard hit a few keys and the image skipped back. Dragging a mouse he zoomed in on the hat and it filled the screen, the image blurred due to the low resolution.
Prentice squinted at the screen. “I can't make it out, what does it say?”
“I'm not sure,” said Eldridge, frustrated. “Maybe the lab techs downtown can clean it up a bit. Can you follow him to see where he goes?”
“Already did. We don't have cameras in the stairwells but he can be seen exiting on the main floor then leaving the building. After that, we just have him crossing the street and then he's out of camera range.”
“Okay, give me a copy of that footage as well as the footage from earlier and I'll see what we can do with it.”
Prentice picked up a CD from the desk and handed it to Eldridge. “Way ahead of you.”
Impressed, Eldridge took the CD. “You were on the force?”
“Twenty three years before I got shot and had to take early retirement.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Well, twenty three years was about twenty years longer than everybody said I’d last. My mother always said I was too damned big a target.” He laughed, the small room acting as an echo chamber for his cavernous tone.
Eldridge chuckled and glanced at the coffee mug to see if the liquid rippled. He waved his arm at their surroundings. “Some retirement.”
“Ha! You'd be surprised at some of the shit that goes down around here. It keeps things interesting.” He opened the door for Eldridge and extended his hand. “If I can be of any more help, you just let me know.”
“Thanks, I will.” Eldridge left the room and headed back to the ninth floor.
Vinny stood up and stretched his aching back with a loud groan. He and his team had been sifting for hours through what was left of the crime scene after the sprinklers were through. There wasn’t much recognizable left. The bodies had all been bagged, tagged and sent to autopsy. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending how you looked at it, nobody had survived. The few who had survived the initial blast had all succumbed to their wounds within minutes.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps, immediately regretting the twisting motion.
“Detective Eldridge! Trouble seems to follow you.”
“Yeah, it's been one hell of a day,” agreed his friend. “What can you tell me?”
“Nothin' much at this point. I've pretty much ruled out a bomb, though.” He walked over to a twisted piece of metal at the far end of the room, partially embedded in the floor, and pointed. “I think this is the origin of the blast. It’s in the proper position for an oxygen tank, and this looks like the bottom. If this exploded, it probably drove the base into the floor, the rest outward. The other tanks that exploded probably were blown onto their sides and then lit through their lines. This is the only one showing a downward trajectory for the base. I'll know more when I get back to the lab.”
Eldridge nodded. “Not a bomb? That
's good. If this guy graduated from guns to bombs we'd be in big trouble.”
“So this is related to the two DBs from the other day?”
“Looks that way, at least some video we've got suggests it.” Eldridge knelt down to look at the remnants of the oxygen tank. “Oh, and speaking of tape, the security cameras caught somebody unauthorized in the maintenance room down the hall. I need your guys to sweep it, see if you pick up anything.”
“Got it.” Vinny motioned for one of his team to take care of it. “So, what did you make of our two heroes from the other day?”
“What do you mean?” asked Eldridge as he rose.
“You didn't get my message?”
Eldridge shook his head. “What message?”
“Shit, I knew this was gonna happen,” said Vinny, looking up at the ceiling in frustration. “I called your desk and Shakespeare answered, said he'd give you the message.”
Eldridge frowned. “Well he didn't.”
Vinny felt his blood pressure rising. “That fat bastard, he's good for nothing. Why doesn't he just retire or die like the dead wood he is? You know, if I was his Lieutenant I'd had shoved my size ten shoe so far up his—”
Eldridge cut him off. “What was the message?”
“We ID'd the two vics, they both had records. I sent the file over, should be on your desk unless that son of a bitch used it as a napkin. You know, if there was a pile of shit and him sitting on a bench, the flies—”
Eldridge smiled. “I have to interview the victim's wife then I'll be at the precinct.”
Vinny nodded. “I'll finish up here and then I've got to pop home to feed the new dog, she can get cranky if she doesn't get fed on time. Won't take long.”
“New dog? What happened to your old one?”
“Had to put her down.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Vinny shrugged his shoulders. “It's always tough, but sometimes it's for the best.”
“Sometimes.”
Eldridge leaned into the private hospital room on the fifth floor of St. Luke’s housing Ibrahim Jamar’s wife and daughter, both suffering from shock. He was surprised to see they weren’t alone, a familiar looking black man stood at the wife’s bedside, the daughter curled up asleep at her side. It took a moment, but he remembered the man from the reception desk when he had first arrived, the taxi driver asking about a friend. He knocked gently on the doorframe. The man jumped, startling Mrs. Jamar.
“Detective,” she said, her smile weak, but genuine. She motioned at the man. “This is my cousin, Rafi, he helped get my husband the job at the cab company.”
Eldridge nodded to the man, who nodded in return, avoiding eye contact. Shy? Or just shy around cops? “Ma'am, I need to ask you a few questions, if you're up to it.”
“Very well.” She lifted herself up in the bed and Rafi adjusted some pillows behind her back to make her more comfortable. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath and opened them, looking at Eldridge. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Can you tell me what happened after I left the room?”
“Nothing at first,” she began. “I was sitting down against the wall with Amina, resting, when suddenly I heard a gunshot.”
“A gunshot?” Eldridge wasn’t sure why he was surprised. He knew this was no accident. An accident didn’t explain the man in the service closet. But the timing didn’t make sense. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, I’m certain,” she replied, nodding her head vigorously. “I've heard a lot of guns in my life, Detective. There were at least three shots and at least two of them hit my Ibrahim.”
But how did they get past Foster? Twice? “Did you see who fired the shots?”
“No, I didn't see anyone.”
“You didn't see anyone?” How the hell do you not see a man shooting at your husband three times?
“No, but I think it was coming from over my head.”
“What makes you think that?”
“That brave officer, he came into the room and started shooting at the ceiling. That is when the explosion happened.”
Ricochet? “He shot at the ceiling?”
“Yes.”
Air ducts? That would explain the service closet. Was he already waiting when I was in the room? “Did he say anything?”
“No, not that I remember. It all happened so quickly! All I remember is that there were shots, then the policeman entered and fired at the ceiling, then almost immediately there was an explosion and he saved our lives.” She looked down at her daughter and gently squeezed her. “Is he going to be okay?”
Eldridge nodded. “Yes, he's out of surgery and should be fine.”
She let out a sigh of relief. “Please, when you see him, thank him for us, will you?”
“Of course,” said Eldridge. “I should be seeing him tomorrow morning, I'm sure he'll appreciate that.” Fatima smiled. “Is there anything else you can remember that might be helpful?”
She thought for a moment then shook her head. “I'm sorry, Detective, that’s all I can remember.”
Eldridge reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. He wrote his cell number on the back and handed it to her. “If you remember anything else, or need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
She reached for the card and cupped his hand with both of hers, smiling. “Thank you, Detective.”
Eldridge placed his other hand on top of hers and squeezed gently, returning the smile. “Take care of yourself and your little one.”
He nodded at her cousin, then headed for the precinct. He passed the CD with the footage from the hospital over to the computer geeks then dropped himself into his uncomfortable desk chair. Sitting in the middle of his desk lay a file from the lab with a note stuck on it from Shakespeare. The Italian prick had this sent up for you. Left a message on your cell and desk line. Enjoy! Eldridge glanced at his desk phone, the red pulsing light indicating a message, then snapped open his cell and discovered it turned off. Shit! He pressed the power button and a moment later it vibrated, indicating a message. He shook his head and said a silent apology to his partner, remembering he had turned it off during the vigil for Foster and forgot.
He flipped open the file and smiled. Logan Rochester and Aaron Davidson. He scanned their rap sheets and yawned. Public drunkenness. Marijuana possession. Nothing of interest. Stretching, he looked at his watch. This can wait until the morning.
He headed to the stairs and bumped into Trace as she rushed from an arriving elevator. “Hayden! Glad I caught you before you went home. Got something for you.” She shoved a file into his hands.
Eldridge opened the folder and glanced at the case report. “What's this?”
“Remember that DB I mentioned earlier, the S&M gone bad? Well, looks like he's yours.” She snagged the elevator door as it started to close and wedged her foot inside.
Eldridge looked up from the file. “What do you mean?”
“Description fits your latest video and I'm willing to bet the ballistics will come back a match to the other three murders.”
“Family been notified?”
“Yeah, his younger sister found the body.”
Eldridge grimaced. “Shit. She okay?”
“Pretty fucked up when I got there. She apparently idolized him, couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt him.” The buzzer sounded as the doors slowly forced themselves closed. “All the info is there in the file. Call me if you have any questions.” She jumped on the elevator, and added, “Tomorrow!”, as the doors closed shut.
Aynslee sat at her desk, finishing some paperwork after the evening newscast. This part she didn’t enjoy. Paperwork with the entertainment beat had been easy. Actually, mostly nonexistent. But the crime beat? Everything had to be double and triple checked, everything said on-air backed with paperwork. Especially with murders. Legal double-checked her scripts, giving an opinion on almost every word. She had said “alleged” more in the past week than she probably had in he
r entire life.
And she loved it!
Sure she hated the paperwork, but she felt like she was finally doing something useful, something with purpose. The entertainment beat had been one of the most popular news segments, certainly the most downloaded on the website, but that was more a commentary on how pathetic society had become, than with the quality or importance of the journalism. What she was doing now meant something. It affected people’s lives. And if she could figure out what was going on, it might make a difference. It might save lives. She sighed, a smile on her face as she emailed the script for the morning broadcast to half a dozen different people, finally finished for the evening.
The gentle ringing of the phone demanded her attention. She picked up the receiver and before she could say her name, she heard sobbing at the other end. “Hello? Is anyone there?” The sobbing continued. If she wasn’t in the news business, she might have hung up, but she knew this was someone who wanted to tell her something, no matter the state they were in. “Why don't you tell me your name? My name is Aynslee Kai.”
“S-Sarah Hanson.” The voice sounded young, maybe in her mid-teens.
“Hello, Sarah, how can I help you?”
There was some more sniffing, then the rustling sounds of a sleeve being wiped over a nose. “Are you the reporter that has been getting the movies?”
Aynslee tried to hide the excitement in her voice. “Yes. Did you recognize someone?”
“He was my brother.”
Score! But which one? She couldn’t risk pressing too hard, she knew that would scare off her lead. She had to approach this one with kid’s gloves. “And what was your brother's name?”
“William Hanson.”
“And was he your older brother?”
“Yes.”
“And how old are you, honey?”
“Thirteen.”
Aynslee felt a lump in her throat, not sure if she should be talking to a child. Part of her thought she should end the conversation now, but another part knew the poor kid needed to talk to someone, and at this moment, it was her. “What would you like to tell me about your brother?”
“That he was a good person. Don't believe all the bad things that people are saying about him, that he was a pervert.”
The tabloids had gone nuts since she had done her original broadcast. As of a few moments ago, nobody in the press knew the identity of this man, killed while wearing leather pants and a feather boa, a ball-gag stuffed in his mouth. The press painted him as a homosexual deviant, killed either by an ex-lover or in a sex game gone terribly wrong. She hadn't bought into that however. She sensed more going on here; all of the victims were somehow connected, there could be no way Tammera Coverdale, William Hanson and two unidentified teenaged boys travelled in the same sexual crowd.
“I never did believe what was being said, Sarah. Why don't you tell me about him?”
The conversation lasted almost half an hour. There was a lot of repetition, the heartbreaking innocence almost overwhelming her several times. The poor girl was lost, but by the end of the conversation, she seemed to be doing a little better. Aynslee encouraged her to talk to her parents about what she was feeling, and to call again if she ever needed someone to listen. The distraught girl refused to hang up however until Aynslee promised to tell the truth about her brother.
“You have to promise me!”
Aynslee sighed. “Don’t worry, Sarah, I promise you that I will tell everyone the truth about your brother. You have my word.”
The poor girl thanked her profusely before finally hanging up. Aynslee knew however the truth would be something in between an innocent girl’s impression of her big brother, and the harsh reality of adult life. With pages of notes to fill at least a couple of segments, she reopened the script she had just sent, to begin completely rewriting it. But first she needed to confirm William Hanson was indeed the victim.
Eldridge stared at the road ahead of him, barely aware of the traffic around him, more on autopilot than an active participant in the driving process. His car stereo, forgotten on some talk radio station, cut out, replaced by the ringing of his hands-free kit. He grabbed the phone off the passenger seat and glanced at the call display. WACX? Not another video!
He hit the talk button. “Eldridge.”
“Detective, this is Aynslee Kai, I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t, Miss Kai, how can I help you?”
“I just wanted to confirm with you the identity of the victim on the third video. I have it from a reliable source that his name was William Hanson. Can you confirm this?”
Eldridge pulled into a parking spot and opened the folder given to him minutes before by Trace. William Hanson. Shit she's good. “Yes, I can confirm that one William Hanson has been identified as the victim on the third video.”
“Care to make a comment for the record?”
“Sorry, Miss Kai, but I can't comment on an active investigation. Good night.” He hung up and pulled back into traffic, wondering how a reporter figured out the victim’s identity at the same time as they had.
Chelsie sat in the corner, blindly cleaning the dirt from under her fingernails. She had no idea how long she had been there, imprisoned like a caged animal. There was no way to tell the passing of the days, except she was pretty sure she was being fed on a daily basis, and judging by the stomach cramps signaling the start of her period, it had been almost a week. In the entire time she had heard nothing from her captor. He had never said anything to her and didn’t appear to have laid a hand on her since her initial abduction, for which she thanked God every time she thought about it. But this fact made her fearful of what he might ultimately want. If it isn't sex, then what is it? She shuddered at the thought of what his motivation might be.
But the worst part was the boredom. The fear had been pushed to the background, now that she knew the pattern. Every day she was fed. The interaction lasted several minutes, several terrifying minutes, then she was left alone. Now eating and drinking everything offered her, she had regained most of her strength, and had used that energy to explore her surroundings in the dark, groping inch by inch, using all of her other senses to get a clue as to where she might be, and if there was any hope of escape. The painstaking work was assisted occasionally with the lowering of the platform. She had found that if she stood directly under the platform, she had almost a full minute where she could examine her surroundings, before she would have to move. And he was always in the same position, so by moving directly under him, he didn’t appear to notice what she was doing. This tiny act of rebellion now fueled her determination, and had provided valuable information. It was clear she was in a basement or crawlspace dug deeper at some time, and the chain she was handcuffed to was attached to a pole near the ceiling that ran the length of her prison. The only item of interest was a hole with water in it, she had discovered while exploring the hard-packed dirt floor. She used it as a toilet when needed and, when desperate enough, as a secondary source of water, something she wished she had known about days earlier.
Sounds from overhead brought her back to reality. Here we go again. The now far too familiar scraping of something being dragged, followed by the rattle of chains, signaled another feeding. And it was a feeding. Like a caged animal at the zoo, this was her daily visit from the zookeeper. Her initial fear had been replaced by a humiliating desperation, which had now given way to a determination to survive. And for that, she needed her strength. The moment the platform reached the floor, she yanked the water and sandwich from the tray and scurried into a corner opposite the water hole. The length between feedings left her starving, but she knew not to rush things. She used the light to seat herself comfortably, and position her water and sandwich before being left completely in the dark. Then she waited. It only took a few minutes of waiting before she was returned to darkness, and the sounds overhead ceased. She breathed another sigh of relief, her worst fear being the ritual would change somehow, that he may actually c
ome down on that platform one day, and finally do to her whatever it was he had planned.
She took a few moments to collect herself, steadying her rapidly beating heart. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the dirt wall. She unscrewed the cap on her water bottle, and took a sip of the cool liquid, swishing it around her mouth, then spitting it out, in a poor attempt to clean her teeth. She turned her attention to the sandwich, and took a tentative bite. As usual, it was incredible. Each day it was something different. And each day is was equally delicious. She savored every bite of today’s smoked meat sandwich, slightly ashamed of herself for how much she was enjoying it, the added touch of the toasted sourdough bread and Dijon mustard setting it apart from the white bread, packaged sliced meat and mayo she normally made herself.
No matter how long she tried to make it last, it never lasted long enough. Finished, she took a large swig of water and within a few minutes her eyes drooped as all feeling slowly left her body. That’s odd. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached to them. She gave up, and slid across the wall she was perched against, coming to rest in the corner, her head on her shoulder and the cold, dirt wall, fast asleep.
SIX
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 6
