Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

  “What were you writing about just now?”

  “My main character, Abby.”

  “Abby, huh?” Sonny laughed. “Sounds like trouble.”

  “Not really,” Sadie responded with a grin. “You see, Sonny, I sail from place to place, and when I find a location that appeals to me, I stay for a year and use it as the background for my novel. I research the locals and use them for my main characters. I’ve already found a few, but I need to find the right man.”

  “Oh, so Abby is on the prowl?”

  “She’s looking for a guy with strong hands and a soft heart. Handsome but not pretty. He lives a very interesting life, and he doesn’t mind a good fight. I’ll know him when I see him.”

  Sadie noticed a twinkle in Sonny’s eyes.

  “What?”

  “Would a sailor do? A smart, handsome guy about twenty-eight years old? Six-two with muscles and fists and the knowledge to use them both?”

  “Sounds perfect. Why are you grinning?”

  “I know him. Name’s Jim Stockbridge.”

  “Stockbridge? As in S-T-O-C-K-bridge?”

  “That’s right. He keeps a blue-hulled Bristol-33 in slip 25, two slips down from you.”

  “Is he a sailor or a fighter?”

  “He’s a paramedic.”

  “Hmm. Sounds interesting. Is he handsome?”

  “Most women think so. I know him like a son. His father and I were old fishing buddies; in fact, we once ran a crabbing business together. Jim grew up across the sound there, at Crab Pot Point. He knows everything there is to know about these waters. I taught him much of it. But he did us all one better when he joined the Coast Guard after high school. Became one of those swimmers.”

  “Swimmers?”

  “You know. Helicopters, sea rescues, that kind of stuff.”

  “Sonny, do you think you could introduce us?”

  “Won’t need to. You’ll see him on the docks this morning. He lives right over there.”

  Sadie glanced across the creek. A small wooden structure sat on stilts about eight feet above the water. With a floating dinghy dock, a large deck, and plate glass windows that wrapped all the way around both sides, it looked very nautical, much like a small bar or restaurant, only without the commercial look. Two sliding glass doors opened onto the deck. A pair of large brass sconces provided illumination. “That’s his place?”

  “Actually, he calls it Jim’s Place.”

  “Jim’s Place? Is he that vain?”

  “Everyone calls it that. Used to be a local watering hole called the Crow’s Nest. He bought it really cheap after the ’99 storm. Rebuilt it and hung a sign where the old Crow’s Nest sign used to hang. Named it Jim’s Place.”

  “If it wasn’t so early, I’d dinghy over and knock on his door.”

  “You wouldn’t find him if you did. He works in East Beach. Usually gets home about 7:30 after the night shift.”

  “He’s a paramedic, huh?”

  “A real good man, Ms. Miller. I don’t know if he’d work as a character for your Abby, but you should talk to him. Don’t be in too much of a hurry, though. Most likely he will find you.”

  Sonny said good morning and began whistling a tune as he continued slowly across the street to the marina. Sadie pulled out her smartphone, opened up her Facebook page, and typed in a new search item: J-I-M S-T-O-C-K-B-R-I-D-G-E. Three direct hits appeared. Her eyes fell on the first one—a handsome guy at the helm of an old sailboat. He had a scar on one cheek and another on his arm. His legs were tanned and muscular. Belly tight as a drum.

  “Oh,” she whispered, studying his bright hazel eyes. “Oh my goodness. You’re perfect.”

  She placed her fingertip over the ‘add friend’ icon, let it hover for a few seconds, and then touched the screen. Then she typed a short message and pushed . “Okay,” she said standing up to run back to her boat. “Paramedic Jim Stockbridge, let’s be friends.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  SATURDAY—05:53—CANAL STREET (ONE block off Reservoir) “I can’t believe I thought I was ready to come back to this place. I can’t do this anymore. And Bagwell? That idiot! I really hate that man. I mean, Jim, we shouldn’t have to take that, should we? A supervisor’s supposed to look after his people, not, like, antagonize them.”

  “Sharon, first of all, Bagwell’s a joke and everybody knows it. There’s nothing we can do about him. Second of all, you’re not quitting. So you need to cool off. It’s gonna be all right.”

  Jim had no idea that it would be all right. He needed the shift to end, too … and soon. He felt his pocket vibrate and removed his iPhone. The screen held a strange Facebook message: Slip #23 at Pair-A-Docks … come see me. “Come see me?”

  “Come see who?”

  Jim shrugged. “Some girl named Sadie.”

  “Quit texting and drive.”

  “Sadie Miller. Who are you and how’d you get my number?” Jim studied her picture. Sandy hair, twenty-something, cutoff jeans, pink tee. He glanced up at the road and then reread the message. “Slip 23? That’s Dan Banks’ slip.”

  “Jim, look out!”

  Jim glanced up and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The ambulance swerved back into the lane, just missing a parked car.

  “Give me that!” Sharon grabbed the phone and studied the screen. “Oh! She is cute.”

  “See?”

  “I can’t believe you,” she said handing him the phone. “There’s a pretty girl you don’t even know sending you Facebook messages at five in the morning. What would your fiancée think?”

  “She didn’t send me a picture, Sharon, she sent me an invitation. Besides, the way our relationship has been going lately, I doubt Val would even care.”

  “But, Jim, she’s flirting with you. You can’t do that.”

  “She’s not flirting. She’s being friendly.”

  Sharon grunted. “Don’t do it.”

  “Why not?” Jim pushed the ‘accept friendship’ icon. “Okay, Sadie Miller.

  Let’s be friends.”

  * * *

  Like Reservoir Street, just about every third house on Canal was in the late stages of decay. Boarded up windows and yellow signs marked the neighborhood as unfit for human habitation. Artfully spray-painted graffiti marked it as “taken” by one of the local gangs. But EMS was considered “help” and paramedics could usually cruise the neighborhoods in relative safety. Jim accelerated past the darkest section of the neighborhood, took a right on Shell, and then glanced back down at his phone.

  “Jim!”

  “Oh no—” Jim hit the brakes. He felt a soft thump as the truck skidded to a halt. “What’d we hit?”

  “You idiot! You hit a dog!”

  Jim jumped out and ran to the front of the truck. A small black dog lay sprawled on the pavement panting, tongue drooping loosely from its mouth. Her dark brown eyes looked petrified. Her tail lay motionless on the asphalt. “I’m sorry,” he said kneeling. “It’s okay. I’m not going to harm you.”

  “Big dummy.” Sharon grunted. “You already did.”

  None of the dog’s bones appeared to be broken, and her eyes looked alert and wide, but her breathing came in short, labored gasps. Jim saw no evidence of external bleeding until he slid his hands under the animal and lifted her off the pavement. Something wet trickled down his forearm. He followed Sharon to the back of the truck and climbed in. Sharon grabbed a stack of towels. “Set her down,” she said, reaching to help. Jim laid the dog on the stretcher, pushed aside the bloody fur on her flank, and found the source of bleeding—two identical one-inch slits oozing dark red blood. “Look at that.”

  “For crying out loud,” Sharon exclaimed. “The poor thing’s been stabbed.”

  “Did you call animal control?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  Jim placed a trauma dressing over the wounds and applied gentle pressure. The cottony sponge filled with blood. The animal yelped and licked his hand. “Hand me anoth
er one. And some Kling.”

  “I can understand someone wanting to stab another person, I mean, I feel like doing that myself sometimes, but I mean, Jim, a dog?” Sharon started crying again. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She handed him a second dressing and tore off a long piece of tape. “What’s wrong with people?”

  “Let’s just finish this,” Jim said taping the bandages in place. “I don’t care what Bagwell says, we’re calling out of service.”

  Jim heard a car door slam. He glanced out the back of the truck and saw a small beige pickup with wire crates in the back. A uniformed Animal Control Officer approached the ambulance with a long pole in his hands. A wire noose projected from the end. He leaned the pole against the truck, stepped onto the rear bumper, and leaned inside. “Morning.”

  Jim nodded. “We’ve got a dog with two stab wounds in her flank.”

  “Has she tried to bite you?”

  “No.”

  “She’s breathing mighty hard.” The ACO reached over and petted the animal. “I’ve seen all kinds of abuse. Had a pit bull once stabbed over twenty times. There’s a lot of mean people out there. Here,” he said. “Give me a hand.” Jim helped the ACO loosen the stretcher sheet to use as a blanket. He cradled the dog in his arms and started toward his truck.

  “Where’re you taking her?”

  “Emergency vet on the boulevard.”

  “What’ll happen to her?” Sharon said.

  “When, make that if, she’s able, she’ll be released into the general population at the pound. If nobody claims her, she’ll be euthanized. Grab that tailgate for me if you don’t mind.”

  “You mean, like…”

  “Way it works, I’m afraid. But—” The ACO set the dog on a padded mat and gave her a pat on the head. “There’re a lot of animal lovers in East Beach. Some good citizen will take her home.” The ACO closed the gate and gave an appreciative wave. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m on my way to the hospital. Thanks a lot.” The ACO had no sooner climbed into his pickup than Jim’s radio crackled. A tired-sounding dispatcher announced a “possible deceased” at the corner of Worth and Barnes. “Caller advises, elderly female, reportedly without a face.”

  “What?” Jim said glancing at Sharon. “Are you kidding me?” Sharon frowned and grabbed the mic. “Hold on,” Jim said grabbing her wrist. “We agreed to call out of service. Someone else can take this call.”

  “We’re the closest unit, and I don’t feel like explaining it to Bagwell. Besides this will be my last call, like, forever. After this one … I’m out of here.” Sharon keyed up. “Medic-seven en route from Canal.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Let’s go.”

  The intersection at the corner of Worth and Barnes was impassable. Police cars blocked much of the street. People crowded the rest. Jim parked behind an unmarked Dodge Charger and climbed out of the ambulance. As he walked across the lawn toward the house, he got the feeling that someone’s life had just ended. He could see it in the shocked faces of the bystanders and the hopeless expressions of the elderly people standing in a neighboring yard. He followed Sharon up a flower-lined sidewalk to the stoop of a well-kept white bungalow. It was an old-lady looking house, with potted plants, a neatly swept front porch, and an antique galvanized watering can sitting on the stoop. The screen door squeaked open. Annie Archer walked out with a grim expression on her face. “Somebody’s grandmother,” she said, nodding toward the house. “She doesn’t have a face.”

  Sharon cursed and shook her head. “I’ll be in the truck.”

  Jim frowned and glanced at Annie. “What happened?”

  “I’ve seen grisly before, buddy, but this tops ’em all. Someone bashed in the old woman’s face with a brick.” Annie nodded toward the door. “Go take a look if you want. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Jim stepped onto the porch and entered the house. He had been to hundreds of crime scenes over the years—some grisly and red, others as plain as starch— and he rarely felt much more than professional concern for the victims and their families, but this time he felt something different—guilt. He pushed the thought aside and walked through the foyer. The simple old shell of a home reminded him of his grandmother’s house, a happy place saturated with love and familiarity. The air smelled musty. The mingling aromas of dried flowers and decade-old mothballs told him that everything in the house was old. The floor squeaked beneath his boots as he walked down the narrow hallway into the kitchen.

  He found the victim lying on the tiled floor wearing a blue polka dot dress and a lacy white apron. A brick lay beside her right shoulder in a maroon pool of congealed blood. Jim leaned over the corpse. He felt strangely disconnected as he stared at the battered remains. There was no immediate sense of anger or remorse, but rather a strange numbness as if his mind was incapable of accepting what his eyes were seeing. The cranial cap and forehead had been completely smashed. Brain matter and pieces of broken bone were all that remained of her face. Her jaw hung open, as if locked in a silent scream. He spotted a gold filling and felt his temples begin to throb.

  “Dead enough for you?”

  “Who is she, Annie?”

  “She was Ruby Washington. Seventy-three years old.”

  “Did you say Ruby Washington? Annie, this is Devon’s grandmother.”

  “Who?”

  “My old partner, Devon. The paramedic murdered on Reservoir tonight.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Devon and his grandmother? An hour apart? Both get it in the face? Annie, this is getting way too weird. What’s going on here?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Annie turned and walked out. Jim heard her mumbling to someone. A moment later another cop entered the kitchen. He looked like a nightclub bouncer—five-feet ten-inches of muscle squeezed into a white T-shirt. Faded blue jeans covered his muscular legs, accentuated by a pair of brown Tony Lama cowboy boots, a matching belt, and a gold shield smudged and scratched. A Colt .45 Combat Elite clung to his right hip. Like the doughnut he was holding, it looked too small for his hand.

  “Heard you were out on Reservoir tonight. You all right?”

  “All right?” Jim chuckled. “Well, let’s see, Rico—” He pulled out a Marlboro, broke off the filter, and flicked it aside. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, hands shaking. The nicotine seemed to go to his head more than usual. He held his breath for a moment relishing the rush, and then exhaled forcefully. “In the past hour I’ve witnessed a murder, fought a masked man with nunchuks, stared down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun, seen two men shoot it out and go down, discovered a dog stabbed in the side, and found an old woman without a face. What do you think?”

  “Can’t seem to quit smoking those things, can you?”

  “They’re better than booze.”

  “You should know.” Rico grabbed the cigarette from Jim’s mouth and threw it into the kitchen sink. “Someone else’s house, bud. And I know what you’re thinking,” he said, downing the doughnut in one gulp. “Let it go.”

  “Actually I wasn’t thinking about revenge, but now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea.”

  “I want them as bad as you do. They killed a cop, too, you know.”

  “A cop? You mean that kid, Baker 134?”

  “No, the cop that died was Charlie Kennedy. Brandon Peters is still in surgery.”

  “So—” Jim stood and glanced back down at the corpse. “Tonight they killed this old woman, her grandson, and a police officer?”

  “Speaking of her grandson, wasn’t Devon Washington with you that night the kid burned to death out on 101?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Why?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Are you suggesting those two calls are related?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. By the way, Sean told me he talked with you.”

  “He mostly talked at me.”

  “Says he almost arrested you.”

  “I me
an, come on, Rico. Really? I’m going to murder Devon on a call? Everybody knows we didn’t get along. How stupid does he think I am? There’s something else too. I didn’t tell Murphy this, but I think the killer knows who I am. He used my name.”

  “It’s on your name tag.”

  “Not my first name.”

  Rico glanced at his nametag and frowned. “Huh. Well, don’t worry about nothing, bud. Trust me. We’ll get these guys.”

  Jim walked back outside with Rico and returned to the ambulance. He found Sharon in the passenger seat with her belt fastened. He threw the airway box in the side cabinet and climbed behind the wheel. He noticed tears in her eyes. He decided to leave her be. There was nothing left to say anyway. It had been a long miserable night, hot and wet and marked by tragedy and death. He was glad it was finally over. The new day was bound to be better.

  CHAPTER

  9

  SATURDAY—07:20—FIRING RANGE (POLICE Headquarters, 120 Main St., East Beach, N.C.) Rico took the staircase slowly. The eyeholes in the mask created a reduced field of vision that made it difficult to see. He could feel the warmth of his breath. He could smell the cheap white rubber. He made his way to the landing and turned to walk the long cement hallway to the firing range. Muted gunfire banged against the walls.

  Pummmph.

  The next set of rounds came in rapid succession.

  Pummmph. Pummmph. Pummmph.

  Each producing a dull muffled blast, cushioned by concrete block…

  Pummmph. Pummmph.

  And the heavy insulation on the other side of the gallery wall.

  Pummmph.