Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

“No kidding!”

  The rookie’s handheld burst to life. “Officer down! Police officer down! Shots are being fired! I have one officer down … I need backup and I need it—” Boom! Boooom!

  “Peters!” Little shouted. “That’s Rico! Stay with them!” Little ran to his car and jumped in. The tires squealed. The Charger raced up the hill and disappeared up the street.

  “I need to go,” the rookie shouted. “You got this?”

  “Got it?” Jim glanced around the lot. “You mean you’re leaving, too?”

  The young cop looked confused, torn between duties. Another boom thundered. “Sorry. I have to go!” Peters sprinted across the yard, jumped into his car, and raced out of the parking lot.

  “Devon—” Jim grabbed his patient’s arm. “Dude, we gotta get out of here, man. Let’s go!”

  “I can’t, Jim. I can’t move my legs.”

  Jim turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Sharon, he’s got at least three entrance wounds. Hurry!”

  “Jim?” Sharon yelled, pulling the stretcher across the muddy lot. “They left us!”

  “I know.”

  “Are they coming back?” she exclaimed, stopping beside him and dropping the stretcher. “Are they coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Devon grabbed his wrist. “I don’t want to die, Jim. Please!”

  “Well, are they? Coming back?”

  “I don’t know!” Jim jerked his hand free. “Devon’s paralyzed. We need to get him boarded ASAP. Where are the straps?”

  “Dammit,” Sharon muttered, wheezing heavily as she stood and ran back to the truck. “This is not happening.”

  Jim placed his stethoscope on the injured side of Devon’s chest. The lung sounded muted. Almost silent. He grabbed the trauma bag and pulled a 12-gauge IV catheter from the center pocket. “Partner,” he said peeling open the wrapper and removing the needle. “I need to decompress you, man.”

  “Do it … Jim. I can’t … breathe.”

  Jim removed the catheter’s protective casing and jabbed the wicked three- inch needle into Devon’s chest. He felt a soft pop. He pushed the needle to the hilt and then withdrew it to leave the catheter behind. Air hissed from the tiny tube. Devon inhaled deeply. A wave of relief washed over his face.

  “Better?”

  “A little,” Washington responded nodding, “but now I feel … oh, no … diz … zeee.”

  Washington’s eyes swam lazily in their sockets. Jim placed his stethoscope on his chest. He heard a rich gurgling sound that could only be blood. He pulled a non-rebreather mask from the airway box, attached the oxygen supply hose, and fit it over Washington’s mouth and nose. “Devon,” he shouted. “Wake up!”

  Sharon ran back and dropped to her knees with the backboard straps in her hand. “Man,” she said, noticeably short of breath from the run. “That dumpster stinks!”

  “Never mind that.”

  Jim caught a whiff of peppermint as she moved past him. He heard a wheezy grunt and the popping sound of stretching polyester as she knelt at the patient’s head. “Sorry, Jim. I’m not thinking straight tonight. I mean I still can’t believe those cops left us. I don’t like being left, like, all alone down here at like three in the morning.”

  “Look—” Jim shoved the oxygen bottle aside. “We can talk about that later. We need to get him to the truck and intubated, fast.” He placed the cervical collar around Washington’s neck, fastened the Velcro straps, and then leaned across and grabbed a handful of blue jeans. “Ready?”

  Sharon froze. Her face paled. Her eyes widened as if having just seen a monster. Jim turned and glanced over his shoulder. Two figures stood in the shadows behind him less than ten feet away. Both wore costumes—one a white hockey mask riddled with a symmetrical pattern of holes, the other a stark white death mask, sinister in its total lack of expression. Death Mask held a shotgun, its tip painted red. Jim felt certain he was hallucinating again. He felt the imaginary finger tap on his shoulder. Then he heard the voice.

  Hey Jim, premonition calling again … should’ve listened.

  CHAPTER

  4

  SATURDAY—03:10—GARDEN TERRACE APARTMENTS (Core Street, East Beach, N.C.) “Charlie!” Lieutenant Rico Rivetti jabbed his fingers against the young officer’s neck to staunch a virtual river of blood. “Hang on, little buddy! Help’s coming, pal.” He heard an engine roaring. He glanced at the entrance of the Garden Terrace Apartment complex and saw a gray Dodge Charger bound into the parking lot and screech to a stop. Corporal Jimmy Little jumped out with his weapon drawn. “Sarge!”

  “Over here Jimmy! Kennedy’s been shot! We need to go!”

  “Put him in back,” Little shouted, opening the back door of his car and running over to help. “I’ll drive you in.”

  “He’s bleeding out,” Rico said scooping up the wounded officer and running across the lot. “Get us to Regional. Fast!”

  Rico threw the young officer into the backseat of the cruiser and climbed in on top of him. The Dodge Charger Police Package cruiser roared up the street and raced down the dark boulevard en route to East Beach Regional. Rico glanced at the speedometer—seventy-five and climbing. His mind was racing faster. He didn’t know what to do. Blood continued to flow over his fingers. “Jimmy,” he shouted. “Call the ER!”

  “Regional,” Little shouted into the radio. “Police officers en route requesting a ready trauma room on arrival. We’re coming in hot. Officer shot in the neck. I repeat, police officer shot!”

  CHAPTER

  5

  SATURDAY—03:12—THE CANNERY (1400 block of Reservoir St., East Beach, N.C.) It was like a scene from a horror movie, the kind with bloodcurdling screams that bristle the hair on your neck. Jim could almost sense his blood beginning to clot in preparation for the injuries he was about to sustain, for two masked men in Halloween costumes stood on the edge of the woods staring at him. One held a red-tipped shotgun. Jim’s hallucination had suddenly become real, and as he glanced down at his patient he realized he only had one option. He felt his fists tighten. His left ventricle swelled as fresh red blood poured in. “Can I help you?” he said, his chest pounding. Neither man spoke. “You’re kidding with the masks, right?”

  Sharon squealed and ran across the yard to the ambulance. She climbed in, gunned the engine, and then backed up about twenty yards. Jim half turned to conceal his next move. He removed a knife from his pocket and deftly flicked open the blade. Then he turned back to the intruders. His heart pounded beneath his ribs.

  “Look … fellas,” he said feigning boredom. “I don’t want any trouble. Just let me get my patient and I’ll be out of here.”

  Hockey mask reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a nasty device consisting of a pair of foot-long wooden handles held together by a short length of chain. Jim knew the nunchaku well, he knew how to use it well, and he knew that in the right hands there wasn’t a deadlier hand-to-hand combat weapon on the street. His attacker twirled the sticks, and then in a blinding flash of wood and steel whipped it toward Jim’s face. Jim jumped back to avoid the deadly strike.

  “Listen! This is ridiculous! What do you want?”

  “What do I want? Why, Jim, I want you.”

  The masked man stepped closer and continued to whirl the sticks. Jim backed up slowly, crouching defensively and watching his attacker. He knew he could beat him. He had sparred with men far better. The sticks flashed again. Jim ducked and counterattacked with a strong sternal punch, and then in one continuous motion slashed upward with his knife and then down again to slice living flesh. Hockey mask shrieked with pain as blood poured from his cheek and ear, but then he surprised Jim with a final desperate move. The nunchaku sticks streaked across Jim’s path, striking his wrist and wickedly nicking his face. Jim realized he had underestimated his opponent. He backed away and touched his cheek. The skin felt swollen and wet. He touched his fingertips to his tongue and tasted a coppery fluid. His attacker lunged again, but this
time Jim was ready. He raised his left arm to deflect the stick, and then sprung with catlike speed, delivering a powerful snapping backhand punch to his assailant’s right temple. The battered head jerked sideways as if struck by a hammer. Jim threw his entire weight into the next punch, a pummeling boxing blow to the front of the ugly white mask. The attacker dropped to one knee, gasping and spitting blood.

  “Enough,” Jim shouted. “Stay down!”

  “I think he beat you, Billy. Broke your bloody face.”

  Jim straightened at the sound of the other man’s voice—a strange blend of down east tidal backwoods wash and southern redneck twang. He had heard it before but couldn’t place it. He gazed at the emotionless looking death mask eyes. A pair of black holes stared back. A jumpsuit covered the man’s body. The artificial brown hair attached to the top and sides of his mask hid the true color of his hair. Jim glanced at the shotgun and slowly raised his hands. His opponent chuckled and then stepped forward and casually lowered the barrel. “They say payback is hell.”

  Boooom!

  Jim felt a dozen wet droplets hit him in the face. He wiped his eyes and stared down at Devon. Nothing was left of the top of his friend’s head but slaughtered tissue and forgotten memories. His head spun, his mind raced, and in the next nanosecond he processed as much information as a supercomputer might in twice the time. He measured distances, weighed options, calculated strategies, and made the obvious decision. The killer rocked the shotgun action and turned the barrel on him, but Jim’s foot was already in the air. He slammed it into the man’s solar plexus with the force of a battering ram. The killer doubled over. The shotgun fired again and both men went down, and for a fraction of a second Jim wasn’t sure who was hit, but as the shockwave dissipated and the stunning sensation in his eyes and ears cleared, he saw the strange killer rise slowly to his feet, clutching the weapon.

  Jim realized he was dead. Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens. Help was on the way, but they would not arrive in time. They would find his corpse beside Washington’s with a shotgun blast to his face. He stared past the red-tipped barrel, past the horrendous mask. He caught a small glimmer of color— blue. Dark, emotionless, steel blue eyes.

  “Before you do this,” he shouted, “take off that stupid mask!”

  Jim felt, more than saw, the killer’s finger tighten around the trigger. There was nothing left for him to do … but die. But the next sound he heard was not the explosion of buckshot pellets flying at supersonic speed into his brain. It was a familiar voice, the determined cry of a young rookie cop he had met just moments before.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  The killer turned and pulled the trigger. The shotgun boomed but not before Rookie Brandon Peters got off a round of his own. The projectiles passed in mid-air, and almost in unison the men twisted from impact and went down. Jim pounced on the shotgun and turned it on his enemy. “Go ahead,” the killer spat, shifted to a crouching position. “You already ruined my life. Do it!”

  Jim’s hands began to shake. He knows my name. Insanity pressed in on all sides. He fought to maintain control, but his vision began to leave him as the white cloud pressed in.

  “Do it,” the killer repeated. “End it here!”

  A wave of panic gripped him. He could hear shuffling feet, but without his vision, he could never defend himself against the final attack. He raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. The shotgun erupted, banging against his shoulder and doubling the ringing in his ears. He was so confused he couldn’t think. But then, he remembered what to do. He took a deep breath, held it, and the cloud dispersed. He was terrified of what he might find, but before him the playground sat empty. Devon’s killers were nowhere in sight. He dropped to his knees, touched his face, and checked his wrist, and then suddenly remembered his savior. Jim glanced at Brandon Peters and went for his radio.

  “Dispatch! Medic-seven! Officer down at The Cannery! Send help now!”

  CHAPTER

  6

  SATURDAY—03:54—THE CANNERY (RESERVOIR St.) Jim could not stop his hands from shaking. Mad with rage, and angry with himself for failing to keep it together—for missing the one opportunity he might have to bring down Devon’s killers—he chastised himself up and down. It was a mistake he knew would come back to visit at some point in the future. At least that’s what premonition told him. But for all his remorse, he felt even more desperate to help the brave young police officer that had returned to save his life. Baker 134, the rookie, was about to “grow up”… that is, if he survived. Jim jabbed a needle into his vein, taped down the plastic IV tubing, and lifted the liter-sized saline bag. A steady stream of clear solution poured down the tubing into the cop’s vein. “I found four entrance wounds,” he said, voice shaky. He handed the bag to the assisting paramedic from EB-3 and continued. “Three in the chest. One in the neck. His chest is full of blood. Here, help me with this tube.” Jim lifted Peters’ tongue and inserted the tip of a plastic endotracheal through the vocal cords. The other paramedic attached a football-shaped resuscitation bag and gently squeezed. The victim’s chest rose and fell. Jim checked placement with his stethoscope, and then taped down the tube. “Thanks for the backup,” he said. “This call has been an absolute nightmare.”

  “Yeah,” the other medic said, staring suspiciously at him. “I hear you shot Devon.”

  Jim stood up slowly and backed away, too dumbfounded to respond. The second medic from EB-3 arrived and pushed him aside. Jim suddenly felt like an outsider. More cops and EMS personnel converged on the scene. Halogen lighting flooded the parking lot from two telescoping scene lights atop Morehead-1. Flashing strobes from a half-dozen police cars and ambulances bounced off the back of the building. He tried to make some sense of all that had just happened. It seemed like a nightmare. He watched the other paramedics strap the injured cop to the board, lift him onto the stretcher, and then move across the squishy lawn toward a waiting ambulance. He walked to a nearby picnic table and sat down.

  “God,” he whispered. “What just happened?”

  “Mister Stockbridge, are you all right?”

  “What?” Jim lifted his head and looked at the figure standing before him. “Excuse me?”

  “Sean Murphy. East Beach Police.”

  “Detective Murphy?” The man in the dark green suit standing before him looked entirely out of place at the scene of a grisly murder. Short and squatty with a shock of bright red hair, matching eyebrows, and bloated red ears that were ready to explode, he looked more like an oversized leprechaun than a detective. But that was the point. It was Detective Sean Murphy’s trademark, and it worked. Many a perpetrator had underestimated him and wound up sitting behind bars. Jim had been on the receiving end of his anger once, and he had no intention of being there again. The man was dangerous. A weird looking little puke, but dangerous. “I’m sorry, Detective. I was somewhere else.”

  “I can see that. I need a moment of your time.”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it cannot.”

  Jim stared in the little man’s eyes, an angry, determined investigator with justice on his mind. Jim glanced around the scene. Police cars. Ambulances. A fire truck with tall boom lights. He spotted a yellow tarp twenty feet away. Devon. Was he hallucinating again? Was it real? He glanced at Murphy and decided it was. He took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled forcefully and nodded at the detective. “Detective, I just witnessed a murder.”

  “That’s why we’re talking.” Murphy’s shamrock colored eyes looked hungry for information. Sharp. Hawkish. It made Jim feel uneasy. “What happened to your cheek?”

  Jim felt his cheek. It was swollen to the size of a tennis ball. He pointed at the black handled nunchaku lying close by on the ground. “Someone hit me.”

  “With that? What is it?”

  “A martial arts weapon.”

  “Looks savage. He hit your bloody arm, too. Is it broken?”

  Jim glanced at his arm. “No, just bruised.”
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  “I need to get your statement.” The detective removed a small notepad from his jacket. “Start from the beginning.”

  “First, where’s Sharon?”

  “Your partner is with a female officer,” Murphy growled. “Start talking.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “The rest of the bloody night if necessary.”

  “Bloody. There’s that word again. The killer used it, now you.”

  “Really?” Murphy scribbled a note. “Go on.”

  Jim closed his eyes and forced himself to relive the nightmarish scene. His head throbbed. He felt nauseated. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  Murphy sighed and pulled a pack from his pocket. He tossed it to Jim and handed him a lighter. “Keep it.” Jim didn’t argue. He lit one, took a deep drag, and then motioned toward the bushes. “They came out of those woods, two of them. Just stood there in their stupid Halloween costumes without speaking.”

  “Halloween costumes?”

  “I didn’t make the connection at first but then it hit me—the movies … Halloween and Friday the 13th. The killers were dressed like the characters in those movies. One of them was supposed to be the Michael Myers character. White death mask, coveralls.”

  “Michael who?”

  “Myers, from Halloween.”

  Murphy scribbled. “What color were the coveralls?”

  “Gray. Or blue maybe, it was hard to tell.”

  “Was it gray or blue?” Murphy pressed, scrawling notes as fast as Jim talked. Jim strained to remember the details. His mind kept coming back to gray. “Gray.”

  “What did he wear on his feet?”

  “Work boots. Black.”

  “Height? Shape? Other distinguishing features?”

  “Six-three, maybe. Not built, just average. I couldn’t see his hair. His head was covered by the mask, but I did see his eyes.”

  “Color?”

  “Cobalt.”

  “Cobalt?” Murphy stopped writing and frowned. “Interesting. And the other suspect?”