Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

  * * *

  The salt water was Jim’s favorite therapist, and within minutes he felt his anger and frustrations begin to subside. With the breeze in his hair and the sun glistening on the water, he suddenly felt like a million bucks. The girls sat down together on the starboard bow and dangled their legs over the side. Valerie removed her shirt to reveal a yellow bikini top. Jim felt himself smile. He rounded the inner harbor marker, swung the boat to starboard, and then nudged the throttle forward. The boat lunged slightly and increased speed to three knots.

  “Jim?” Valerie shouted, pointing at the outer marker. “Police.”

  A blue center-console powerboat with the words East Beach RESCUE-1 stenciled across the side of the hull made the turn to enter the channel. A pair of blue lights stood on chrome poles above the console. As it grew closer, the physical characteristics of the two occupants became more apparent. Each carried a gun on his hip. Neither wore a uniform. Jim pulled back on the throttle and slowed the sailboat to a crawl. The powerboat slowed and pulled up alongside. Jim killed the engine. “Something tells me you’re not here to go sailing.”

  “Afraid not,” Rico said, loosening his life preserver. “We need to talk.”

  “We were just going out, Rico. Can’t it wait?”

  “Afraid not. Sean Murphy has some questions for you about the murder. Should only take a couple of hours most.”

  Jim glanced at the girls then turned the boat around and headed back into the harbor. There was little conversation as they pulled back into the slip. The girls pulled on T-shirts and helped him dock the boat. Rico stepped onto the dock and walked over. Corporal Little followed close behind. Jim couldn’t help but notice him staring at Melanie.

  “Ladies,” Rico offered. “I apologize for interrupting your day, but this is important.”

  “How long will it take?” Valerie said.

  “Hey,” Melanie said stepping off the boat and walking toward Little. “I know you. You were in my psychology class last semester.”

  The tough young corporal blushed as he nodded. “I thought so. You sat right behind me.”

  “You and another cute girl,” Little responded. “I almost failed the class because of you two.”

  This time Melanie blushed. “I had to work really hard to get an A in that class.”

  “I was happy to get a C. Professor Hentz was impossible.”

  “I know! What a geek!”

  “Are you still on campus?”

  “So, I have one more year before grad school. What about you?”

  “Just nights,” Little responded. “I’m working on my Criminal Justice degree.”

  The instant connection made by the two younger people seemed uncanny to Jim. And, in a protective kind of way, he felt himself cautious of the handsome young police officer. But Melanie seemed more than capable of handling herself. Besides, Valerie seemed to be enjoying the interchange.

  “Well, my friends and I study at the Starbucks on South College. Maybe we could meet there sometime.”

  “Sounds good. By the way,” he said, glancing at her ankle, “you get that at The Ink Well?” Little suddenly seemed to realize there were three other people on the dock. He glanced at Val, made eye contact with Jim, and then turned to Rico, head bowed. “Sorry, Sarge.”

  “Anyway,” Rico said. “We should have him back by early afternoon.”

  “It’s okay,” Valerie said squeezing Jim’s hand. “We’ll wait at your place.”

  “Thanks. Love you.”

  Jim pecked Valerie’s cheek and then hopped aboard Rescue-1. “See you soon.” Officer Little pushed a button on the dashboard and the outboards rumbled to life. A moment later they were on their way.

  CHAPTER

  13

  SATURDAY—10:37—RESCUE-1 (NEWPORT SOUND, ICW marker #30A) With his eyes shut, an undersized life preserver zipped tightly about his massive chest, and two sets of white-knuckled fingers clutching the seat, Rico looked like he was being blasted into space. Jim couldn’t help but chuckle. He knew how much Rico hated boats, and for him to make the trip to Core Creek Island had been an act of genuine friendship. Jim grabbed hold of his own seat as they cleared the breakwater and Officer Little pushed the throttles forward. The twin 4.2L V6 Yamaha power plants on the back of the Cobia roared like chained lions and dug into the water with a combined force of 600 horsepower. The bow lifted and the heavy fiberglass powerboat began to show its strength. Had it been a choppy morning, the boat would have bounced from wave to wave. As it was, the sharp, V-shaped hull sliced through the foamy crests with ease. Jim glanced at the speedometer as the bow dropped and the boat settled into a plane. They continued to accelerate past thirty, then forty, and the numbers continued to rise.

  “Hey,” he said tapping Little’s shoulder. “How fast will this thing go?”

  “What?” Little shouted. “Speak up!”

  Jim leaned closer and tapped the speedometer with his finger. “How fast?”

  “A whole lot faster than this. I’ve seen Sergeant Mulkhead get it up close to seventy.”

  “How many boats does the department have?”

  “What?”

  “HOW MANY BOATS?”

  “Three. This one and two Carolina Skiffs. The skiffs are okay for local stuff, but nothing like this for raw power, ’specially in heavy water. When I’m not working with Rico, I’m assigned to the Waterway Safety Unit.”

  “What?”

  “WATERWAY SAFETY. We patrol the inland waterways from Swansboro to Beaufort Inlet and halfway up Core Creek. Sometimes we back up Atlantic Beach PD. I’ve been on a number of rescues and arrests about twenty miles offshore.”

  Jim marveled at the power beneath his feet. He was accustomed to his smaller and much less impressive Boston Whaler runabout. A normal trip to the Morehead City docks took him about fifteen minutes. Today, he figured, they would make it in under five. Little pushed the throttles forward and whipped the boat through the narrow channels of Newport Sound, past the entrance to Teach’s Creek Marina, and on to the towering Beaufort Bridge. He slowed the boat to the posted speed as they passed beneath, and then accelerated again. They flew past the loading docks of the General Cargo Terminal where a huge container ship sat low in the water with cranes leaning over her deck. Little negotiated the channel markers and followed the ICW past the downtown waterfront. He reduced the throttle. The boat slowed and the bow dropped. He hung a hard right around the red outer marker and then idled the Cobia up the short channel to a solid concrete dock. Jim jumped off. Little tossed him a line, and the boat was soon secured.

  “Thanks for the help,” Little said. “You seem to know your way around powerboats.”

  “I was in the Coast Guard for five years.”

  “No kidding? Me too. Where were you stationed?”

  “Oak Island. Elizabeth City. Finished at Kodiak.”

  “Alaska? What’d you do?”

  “Rescue swimmer.”

  “Impressive. Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well—” Little extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Good luck to you, sir, and if I can do anything for you at all, say the word. Oh—” Little’s face reddened. “I almost forgot. I hope you don’t mind my asking you this, but the young woman I was talking to at the dock? The one with the tattoo on her ankle?”

  “Melanie?” Jim chuckled. “Cute, huh?”

  “Is she related to you, sir?”

  “Not yet. I’m marrying her sister in October.”

  “Do you think she would mind if I called?”

  “I think she’s expecting you to.” Jim scribbled her number on the back of a business card and handed it to him. “Good luck, buddy. Those Vick girls are tough customers.”

  Little chuckled and reached down to offer Rico a hand. “You okay, Sarge?”

  “I feel like I just climbed from the barrel of a commercial clothes dryer.”

  “Take my hand.”

  Rico grabbed his han
d and climbed onto the dock After cursing the Cobia and mumbling a few coarse words about boats and water and cursed inner ear problems, he stumbled over to a bench and sat down. “I don’t know what you characters see in those things, but I’ll never ride in one again.”

  “You’ll be all right, Sarge.”

  “Look,” Rico said wiping his brow and turning to Jim. “About this meeting with Sean Murphy. As you know, he can be hard to handle at times.”

  “You’re telling me. But you still haven’t told me what this is all about.”

  “I have a lead on those characters you tangled with last night. An eyewitness reported seeing a similar mask in Durham.”

  “Durham?”

  “That’s all I can tell you for now. Come on,” he groaned, stepping toward Little’s cruiser. “Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  Jim rode in the back of the Charger as Little made the short drive across East Beach. They parked behind police headquarters and Rico climbed out. Jim followed him through the side door of the magistrate’s office, avoiding altogether the congested receiving area for the arrested, and walked straightway past security to a remote interrogation room with a table and four chairs. “Be right back,” Rico said. “No offense, bud, but the door will lock behind me.”

  The door closed with a click. Jim sat down and glanced about the glass- paneled room. He felt like a goldfish, but thankfully there was little traffic at the end of the hallway. Rico had done a nice job isolating him, but still, he didn’t care for being treated like a criminal. He thought about Valerie and sent her a quick text, and then he opened Facebook messenger and reread the note from his new friend Sadie Miller:

  I was thinking of the name, Alex Hunt … how do you like it?

  He pictured Sadie sitting in the cockpit of her boat tapping on her keyboard. Her cutoff jeans. The white paint in her hair. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and stood up to pace his cage. He had only completed two short laps when Rico reappeared. The detective on his heels looked pretty much like a troll. Only green. He wore the same ugly suit he had worn earlier that morning, only this time, Jim noticed, without the tie. Another man of about forty-five accompanied them. Nicely dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, with well-groomed black hair and hard brown eyes, he looked like a Federal agent, a man to be feared. Jim felt his shoulders tighten as the three men entered the glass-encased room.

  “Jim,” Rico said, “this is Randy Glover, Carteret County Assistant DA. Randy works with Sean a lot on criminal cases. He has agreed to sit in with us this morning.”

  Jim shook hands with Glover and then sat down at the interview table opposite Murphy. Glover pulled up a chair. Murphy’s face, red and explosive, looked only slightly less angry than before. “Mr. Stockbridge,” he said, “Rico has informed you that this is simply an interview and that under these informal circumstances you are under no obligation to answer any of my questions. However, your cooperation here will be deeply appreciated.”

  Jim folded his arms and shifted in his seat. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Stockbridge, you are an important witness in this murder investigation and could prove to be a huge asset in helping us solve this case. Now I’m sure you’re ready to go home and begin your weekend, so we’ll try to keep this short.” Murphy paused to blow his nose on a white handkerchief. He honked once, shoved the cloth back into his pocket, and then continued. “Are you acquainted with a gentleman named Tom Bowers?”

  “Tom was my supervisor.”

  “When?”

  “A few years back.”

  “When did you speak with him last?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “Do you remember that conversation?”

  “I saw him at an EMS convention. We chatted about times, that’s all.”

  “Mm-hmm, and I understand the killer said something to you last night just before the officer shot him.”

  “He said, ‘Payback is hell.’”

  “Do you know what he meant by that?”

  “Maybe. He could have been referring to a wreck I went to years ago.”

  “Explain please.”

  Jim buried his face in his hands. “It was a bad call, the kind of wreck that gives you nightmares.”

  “And why is that?”

  Jim lifted his head and stared at Murphy. “Detective, have you ever seen human flesh and bones ripped into unrecognizable pieces then cooked in a blazing fire?”

  “How long ago was this wreck?”

  “Six years.”

  “2009?”

  Jim nodded. “About now. Early August.”

  “What medic unit were you?”

  “Seven. I’ve always been medic-seven.”

  “Who was your partner that night?”

  “Devon Washington.”

  “Last night’s victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your supervisor, Mr. Bowers? Was he at the wreck, too?”

  “He arrived shortly after we did.”

  “So it was just the three of you?”

  “No, a Sheriff’s deputy, Highway Patrol, and my friend Annie—”

  “EMS personnel only, please.”

  “Just the three of us. Beaufort Fire and two other EMS crews eventually arrived, but that was after everything.”

  Murphy glanced at the attorney and then at Rico.

  Jim felt confused. “What’s this all about?”

  “Were there any survivors?”

  “Only two. Two brothers, Bobby and Billy.”

  “How do you know they were brothers?”

  “They were identical twins. And they kept shouting at us to help their little brother.”

  “Their little brother … did they say his name?”

  “Adam, I believe.”

  Murphy glanced at his notes and confirmed that name with a nod. “What did these two brothers look like?”

  “Red hair. Blue eyes and freckles. Pale skin.”

  Murphy scribbled in his notepad. It made Jim nervous.

  “Okay,” Murphy mumbled scratching his head. “Early August. Identical twins. A little brother named Adam. Now tell me about the wreck.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Devon’s murder?”

  “The wreck please.”

  Jim could feel his arteries constricting. A dull pain began to work its way from his lower back into his right side. He drew up the grisly image of the wreck. He shook his head and slowly painted the scene. “High-speed collision. Head on. Devon and I were at Bill’s when we heard—”

  “Bill’s?”

  “Sorry. Waterway Marine.”

  “The old boatyard at the base of the bridge. Why did you call it Bill’s?”

  “The old guy that runs it. His name’s Bill.”

  “I see. What were you doing out there so early in the morning?”

  “We were on a call. Detective, I’m confused.” Jim glanced at Rico and then at the attorney. “Am I being investigated? Didn’t that video make it clear what happened last night?”

  “Mr. Stockbridge,” Glover said shaking his head. “You are not being implicated in any way. Detective Murphy is simply following a lead. All you need to do is answer his questions. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  Jim hesitated, glanced at Rico, and then proceeded.

  “Like I said, we were on a call. It turned out to be unfounded. We saw the Dobermans patrolling the yard, but that was it.”

  “You get a lot of those, do you? Unfounded calls?”

  “All the time.”

  “Go on.”

  “The gate was chained. The placed looked empty. We were getting ready to call ten-eight when another call was dispatched on the other side of the bridge.”

  “Mr. Stockbridge,” Murphy announced, a sharp edge to his tone. “We don’t know your ten-codes. Use clear language, please. Ten-eight means…”

  “Ten-eight means, in service, ready for another call.”

  “So you were getting ready to
clear up when another call was dispatched?”

  “Out of our district, on the other side of the waterway just past the Loop. We have a unit in Newport that usually responds to that region. It was their call, but I figured we would get there faster, so I took it.”

  “Mm-hmm. And the nature of the call?”

  “Ten-fifty P-I, uh, sorry … motor vehicle collision with injuries.”

  “And the vehicles?”

  “Car vs. van. A total mess. I was surprised to find any survivors at all. It was that bad. But the biggest surprise was this kid we saw on top of the wreck trying to get inside. ‘Help me,’ he kept screaming. Help.’”

  “A kid?” Murphy glanced at his notes. “There was nothing mentioned about another kid. Name?”

  “Knave.”

  “Nave?”

  “Knave. Yeah. It was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget it. A very strange name.”

  “The police report doesn’t mention another witness, Mr. Stockbridge.” Jim shrugged.

  “Tell me about this, Nave. Describe him, please.”

  “Big kid. Husky, like he might have played high school football. Very pale skin. Freckles. Yellow boxers. Nothing else, not even shoes.”

  “Hair? Eyes?”

  “Hair, black and crew cut. Eyes?” Jim pictured the boy’s face … mad with determination, blue eyes tinted orange by the roaring flames. “I’d say blue. And his father …Canaday. He kept interfering so I had the deputies restrain him.”

  “Interfering? How?”

  “He hit Devon, decked me, and then did the same to Bowers.”

  “He hit you? Why?”

  “He was trying to take over the scene. We knew our patients needed to be immobilized, but he insisted. He reached in and started pulling out one of the patients. Devon tried to stop him and that’s when he just went wild.”