Outside, Foster heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. He immediately reached for the two-way radio on his belt. He scanned the front of the building for its address. “225 East Twenty-Third Street! Shots fired!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Officers need assistance!” He jumped out of the car, and started up the stairs, revolver drawn. Halfway up the stairs, he saw a man race out of the apartment, a knife held in his left hand. Foster aimed and fired once. The bullet slammed into the wall, just inches from the man’s head. The man whirled and started up the stairs toward the rooftop.
Foster hesitated at the top of the landing, then made a right, and rushed into the open apartment. He felt along the wall by the door and found the light switch. He flipped it on, and was surprised to find no one there. Fearing the worst, he shouted, “Freitag? Davis? Valdez?”
“In here!” shouted Chris. “It’s Matt. He’s hurt bad!” Foster hurried through the apartment, and into the bedroom. Freitag continued applying pressure against the wound on his partner’s neck. Blood was everywhere.
“It’s really bad,” said Chris, when he saw Foster. “If we don’t get him to the hospital fast, I don’t think he’s gonna make it. I already called the paramedics.”
Foster untied Valdez’s hands and feet from the bed, then gently removed the sock from her mouth. “Are you okay?” he asked the semi-conscious woman.
Rita’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded her head up and down weakly in response. Her voice was barely audible as she asked, “Did you get him?”
“He’s on the roof,” said Foster. “Chris’ll stay here with you and Matt until the paramedics get here. I’m going after Richter.”
“Be careful,” whispered Rita.
On the rooftop, Richter ran wildly about, searching in vain for a way out. A low concrete wall about three feet high encircled the perimeter of the rooftop. He was trapped. What should I do, Jack? He looked up at the sky for guidance. There was none. He opened his mouth and howled like a wounded animal in the jungle.
Foster heard the noise just as he was opening the steel door to the rooftop. He stopped dead in his tracks, and cocked his gun. Then, slowly, his revolver held tightly in his hand, he slipped through the doorway, and peered into the blackness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the figure of the man with his back to him, silhouetted against the night sky. Foster took a step forward, his feet crunching on the gravel and tar roof. Richter turned toward the noise, and spotted the detective.
“Give it up, Father,” said Foster, in a voice as cold as ice. “It’s all over.”
Richter saw Foster, and raised his hands, dropping the knife. “Don’t shoot me, please,” he said timidly.
Foster kept his gun leveled at the suspect’s chest, approaching him cautiously. “Down on the ground!” he shouted. “Down on the ground! Now! Arms where I can see them!”
Richter did as he was told. Foster reached behind his back for his handcuffs, all the while keeping his revolver aimed at the suspect. “Okay,” he said. “Put your hands behind your back, nice and slow.” Richter obeyed, and Foster quickly secured the handcuffs to his wrists. “Okay. On your feet,” he commanded.
Foster yanked hard on the man’s left arm in an effort to force him to stand, and as Richter stood, the detective relaxed his grip for just an instant. Instantly, Richter swiveled around and drove his shoulder into Foster’s midsection, knocking him off his feet. The police captain landed hard on the rooftop, losing his grip on his gun, which fell to the ground, landing between the suspect and him. Realizing that the weapon was useless to him with his hands cuffed behind his back, Richter kicked hard, and sent the gun tumbling across the rooftop. Foster turned, and when he did, the priest sprinted into the darkness, disappearing behind a maze of chimneys and vent pipes. Foster cursed to himself, and strained his eyes in an effort to adjust his sight to the blackness of the night—but he couldn’t see a thing. His heart pounded a steady stream of blood against his eardrums, the noise all but drowning out any sound that might have revealed Richter’s location. Then, a scraping sound to his right caught Foster’s attention. Was it a shoe brushing the rooftop gravel or, perhaps, just a rat? He crouched even lower, and crept slowly toward the sound, feeling with his hand along the roof’s surface for his gun, while never taking his eyes off his invisible target.
There was a gap between the building he was on and the adjacent tenement. It was only about ten feet wide, but he figured that if a man took a good running leap he could probably make it across. Just as Foster’s hand found the revolver, and his fingers closed around its grip, he heard a sound to his right that caused him to turn. Richter came flying past him from out of the darkness, actually brushing his arm as he ran by. Foster raised his gun and fired at the receding shadow, but apparently missed. The man continued running, sprinting toward the low wall. Foster stood up, and charged after him, shouting “Halt!” as he struggled to aim his gun.
With a loud scream, Richter pushed hard off the surface of the rooftop, and vaulted through the night air like an Olympic broad jumper—his legs pumping furiously in an effort to assist his improbable journey to the other side. At that moment, Foster slipped on the gravel surface, and his gun discharged with a loud roar and a flash of light as he tumbled to the ground. He felt the flesh on the palms of his hands tear, and his face smashed into the rough surface of the tar and gravel roof. He swore to himself and retrieved his gun, before scrambling to his feet. He stared into the darkness, across to the other rooftop, hoping to see the man. There was no one there. Maybe he’d hit him? He couldn’t be sure. Foster hurried over to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. Below him was Richter’s body, impaled, face up, on a wrought-iron fence, several sharp pieces of metal protruding through his chest as he lay staring up at the detective with unseeing eyes.
A shudder coursed through Foster’s body. He knelt down on the asphalt surface and vomited. A crunching noise behind him made him turn. It was one of the responding uniformed officers. Wiping his mouth with one hand, and motioning toward the edge of the roof with the other, Foster said, “He’s down there.”
“Are you okay?” asked the cop.
“Yeah, just great,” said Foster. “How’s Davis?”
“They’re taking the Lieutenant to the ER. It doesn’t look good.”
“Did they leave yet?”
“No, but, if you want to go with them, you better hurry.”
Foster pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth, raising himself to his feet. “How’s the woman?” he asked.
“She’s banged up pretty bad; it’s probably fifty-fifty that she makes it.”
Foster hurried across the rooftop and down the stairs to the street to find the paramedics carefully placing the stretcher with Davis’s unconscious body on it, into the ambulance. “I’ll ride with Matt,” he told Chris.
Another ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics carefully loaded Valdez aboard. Several uniformed officers were busy placing yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter of the building. Freitag glanced down the alleyway and saw Richter’s lifeless form still suspended in mid-air atop the fence in the alley between the two apartment buildings. No one seemed to be paying much attention to it. That suited Chris just fine.
“Come on, let’s get a move on!” shouted Freitag to the EMT inside the ambulance. “I’ll ride with her.”
He clambered aboard the ambulance, and seated himself alongside Rita’s semi-conscious body. The other paramedic got in, and slammed the door behind them. Instantly, the ambulance lurched forward, lights flashing, and sirens blaring, headed toward the hospital.
CHAPTER 71
Along with opening a four-inch wound on Matt’s neck, Richter’s knife had nicked the carotid artery, the main blood supply to the brain; the detective was sinking into a deep coma. One technician maintained steady pressure on Davis’s neck, just managing to stem the flow of blood, as the other EMT struggled to insert an intravenous drip in order to provide much-need
ed saline to the detective’s body tissue. He checked Matt’s blood type on the medical card he found inside the detective’s wallet, then called ahead to the hospital.
“We’ve got an ALOC; our ETA is ten minutes!” he called into the two-way radio in contact with the ER at Cornell. “We’re going to need at least three, maybe four units of O Neg. BP is eighty over fifty; pulse is rapid and weak – probably a hundred and twenty.”
Foster sat alongside Davis, holding his hand and watching helplessly, while the two EMTs struggled to keep him alive. Matt’s skin was cold and clammy, and Foster feared the worst. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he asked the nearest technician. The young man just stared straight ahead, lips tight.
“Sorry,” said Foster. “Just hurry up, okay?”
Less than five minutes later, the ambulance slammed to a stop outside the Emergency Room entrance. Instantly, the doors to the rear compartment were yanked open, and several orderlies took hold of the stretcher and lowered it to the ground. Foster ran alongside the gurney, as it was wheeled into the building.
The news that an injured detective was being transported to Cornell had been picked up on police radios throughout the borough, and several uniformed officers were waiting when the ambulance arrived. One of the patrolmen asked Foster, “Is he going to make it?”
“How the fuck do I know!” shouted the police captain. “He’s lost a lot blood.” Then, he stopped and turned toward the cop. “Look, he’s a good cop, and it doesn’t look good. Just say a prayer.”
The procession of medical personnel, Davis on the stretcher, EMTs and Foster rushed past the admitting office window, until they reached the double doors leading to the Trauma Unit. A young doctor, dressed in green scrubs met them, and raised his hand like a crossing guard.
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait out here,” he said. “We’ll let you know how he’s doing as soon as we get him stabilized.” Foster watched helplessly as Matt was wheeled inside, the doors closing with a “whoosh.”
Fighting exhaustion, Foster went to a pay phone and tried to call Valerie, but the line was busy. He guessed she already knew, but he kept trying until, at last, the line was free.
“Val, it’s Ed – Foster. Matt’s been—”
“I just heard,” she said. “Chris called me. I’m leaving for the hospital now.”
“I’ll be in the waiting room—,” but Valerie had already hung up the phone.
Foster settled into a red, molded plastic chair, and absently picked up a medical journal. He took one look at the periodical, closed his eyes, and let the magazine drop onto his lap. He was asleep in less than a minute.
Thirty minutes later, Foster awoke with a start. A hand was resting firmly on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Valerie Davis standing alongside him, a drawn look on her face. Foster was too afraid to ask the only question on his mind; his eyes asked for him.
“It’s too soon to tell,” said Val. “It took over 75 stitches to close the wound. Thank God, his carotid artery was only nicked. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. He’s lost a lot blood.” Val was doing her best to appear brave, but Foster could tell she was barely holding on. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Is he awake?” he asked.
Valerie shook her head. “He’s in a coma—a deep one. The doctors say if he makes it through the night, there’s a good chance, but—”
“But what?”
“He may have some loss of function—short term memory, that kind of thing.”
Foster put his head in his hands, and started to cry quietly.
Val patted him on the shoulder. It’s not your fault, Ed,” she said. “I heard what happened. There was nothing you could have done differently that would have made a difference.”
“I swear, Val. If I thought there was any chance, I would have never let them go up there alone. We thought—”
“I know what you thought. Matt told me about Richter, but nobody expected this. Look, Ed, there’s no point in you staying here all night. Go home and get some rest. You must be exhausted.”
Foster stood up, leaned over, and gave Valerie a long hug. “I’ll be back tomorrow. If there’s any change, call me right away. Please.”
“I promise.”
As Foster slipped through the automatic doors to the outside, he turned back to see Valerie disappearing down the hallway toward the ICU. He took a deep breath, and opened the door of a blue and white that was waiting to take him to the precinct. He had a lot of loose ends to tie up.
CHAPTER 72
It was a little past one in the afternoon, the next day, when Freitag returned to the hospital. He had stayed with Rita until he was certain she was out of danger. He had barely slept at all. He walked into the ER waiting room, looking for Valerie, but saw no sign of his partner’s wife.
“Excuse me,” said Chris, flashing his detective’s shield. “My partner was brought in last night with a stab wound. I’m looking for his wife, Mrs. Davis?”
“I believe she’s upstairs with her husband,” answered the volunteer at the visitor’s desk.
“Can you tell me his condition?”
The woman fingered the computer keyboard, her long nails making a clicking sound as she tapped in the information. At last, she found what she wanted. “Still critical I’m afraid. He’s still in ICU.”
“May I go up?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be ‘family only,’ but if you’re his partner—”
“Thanks,” said Freitag, who was already halfway down the hallway.
“He’s in room 312 in Intensive Care – third floor.”
“I know, I know,” said Chris, as he sprinted to the elevator.
The elevator doors slid open, and Chris was immediately aware of the unique characteristics of the ICU. The first thing he noticed was the lighting; it was bright and efficient, with little thought to appearance. Nurses and technicians manned remote monitors, measuring everything from blood gases, and blood pressure, to heart function and brain activity. Outsiders observing the ICU command center might liken it to the bridge of an ocean liner.
Chris followed the arrows and numerals painted on the walls, and easily found Davis’s room. Inside, Valerie was sitting quietly beside her husband, who lay in a coma, attached by a two-pronged tube in his nose to a supply of oxygen, hidden in the wall. An intravenous connection taped to his arm fed Matt nourishment; while numerous leads attached to his body collected and transmitted vital information to the command center.
Valerie’s eyes were closed, so Chris cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. She stirred and opened her eyes, which immediately traveled in the direction of her husband’s bed.
“Val,” whispered Freitag. “It’s me.”
Valerie turned, and seeing Chris, smiled. “Hey. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Val. Any change?”
“Nothing yet. He’s still in a coma.”
Chris stood quietly, staring down at his partner.
Val reached out and rubbed Freitag’s arm. “Did you get any sleep?”
Chris nodded yes. “You?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Why don’t you go get yourself something to eat? I want to talk to my partner.”
Valerie smiled at the euphemism, stretched her arms overhead, and stood up. “Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Do you want me to bring you back some coffee?”
“Sure. Light with—”
“I know—two sugars.” Valerie knew Chris almost as well as her husband. She bent over and gave Matt a kiss on the cheek, then left the room. When he was sure she was gone, Freitag sat down, taking Val’s place alongside Matt’s bed.
“Well, partner,” he began. “We sure screwed this one up, didn’t we?”
Davis remained motionless; his eyes closed tightly, breathing easily with the aid of the supplemental oxygen. Chris thought his friend could just as well have been asleep, if it weren’t for the heavy bandages covering the side of his neck, which served as a
reminder of his true condition.
Now, as Chris sat quietly by his partner’s hospital bed, all the memories of their partnership washed over him in a tide of emotion. He said a silent prayer, and then began to speak quietly aloud, as if by some miracle Matt could hear his every word.
“I guess you know it really was Richter,” said Chris. He was fighting back tears.
“We got the DNA back on that Callahan character. Definitely not a match with the stuff we got at those crime scenes. Richter’s the guy, all right. I guess it won’t matter much now, but I’ll lay odds that Richter’s will be a dead match.”
Chris laughed quietly at the irony of what he had just said. “Dead match. Get it? Richter’s dead, but the DNA matches.” He squeezed Matt’s hand tightly. “Seems, the guy had a history of mental problems, way back to the early 70s. He was in and out of the VA hospital. He had this thing about burn scars on his face from ’Nam. Get this—the guy didn’t have fingerprints either—got burned off by Napalm or something. Poor bastard never went out, never had anything to do with women in person—except for Valdez. He already knew her from his job—delivering groceries for Atchison’s. She was one of his customers. At night, he hung out on the Internet and bopped around the chat rooms. Hell, he’s the one hooked up Rita’s computer. Ain’t that a bitch—”
Suddenly, Freitag was overcome with emotion, and began to sob quietly. “Matt, I’m so sorry. I should’ve never let you go in there alone.” He cried openly now, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
With great effort, he managed to continue. “And, poor Rita. If it weren’t for me, that horny bastard never would’ve got a hold of her either. It’s all my fault, giving that son of a bitch that card. What the hell was I thinking?
“Of course, if Rita hadn’t been such a smart ass, trying to catch that prick by herself, maybe she wouldn’t be upstairs with a busted jaw.” Then, with tears streaming down his face, Chris added a disclaimer. “Who am I kidding? Nobody in their right mind could have ever figured that priest for those murders.”
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 25
