Paramedic Killer

by Patterson, Pat

  “How’d you stop him?”

  “I kicked him.”

  “Kicked him?”

  “I had to. He was trying to kill us.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot you knew karate.”

  Jim rolled his eyes. “My friend Annie Archer and this big deputy finally arrived on scene and cuffed him.”

  “Go on, Mr. Stockbridge. Please tell me as much as you can about the wreck.”

  “Well, I’ve been to a lot of wrecks, but I remember feeling something different about this one. It was like a scene from a Stephen King novel, like the whole world suddenly stopped.”

  “How do you mean?” Murphy said. “Stephen King?”

  “Eerie. Early Sunday morning, steam rising off the asphalt, sky just beginning to glow pink. You get the picture. There was no traffic, no noise, nothing but the crickets chirping and these two mangled vehicles sitting in the middle of the highway hissing. Pretty dark. Just eerie, I don’t know.”

  “And you say this Nave was on top of the van?” Murphy wrote as fast as Jim talked. Rico and the assistant DA sat and listened. “Tell me everything you remember about that scene,” Murphy said. “Every small detail.”

  “Every small detail?” Jim paused to reflect. “I remember a lot of twisted steel. Broken glass and crumpled metal. Pavement slippery from a radiator fluid spill. And strong fumes. I remember it really well ’cause it burned my nose. And then, of course, there was the fire.”

  “Before we get to the fire, you said there were two vehicles?”

  “So tangled they looked like one. There were no survivors in the car.”

  “Did you check for pulses?”

  “There wasn’t much to check.”

  “The other vehicle? You said it was a van?”

  “Passenger van. Engine shoved through the firewall. Windshield shattered. It was a complete mess, sir. Seats piled atop one another. It looked like a closed accordion with arms and legs hanging out. It must have been an entire family. We found three survivors. There may have been more, but we’ll never know.”

  “I thought you said there were two survivors.”

  “One of ’em burned.”

  “Their names?”

  “The little kid, Adam, the front seat passenger, Billy—he was unconscious with heavy bleeding. I left Knave with him doing hemorrhage control and ran to the other side—and their brother Bobby, the driver. Bobby was awake but disoriented. Broken arm, leg, maybe more. His leg was pinned beneath the firewall. When the fire broke out, I had no choice but to yank him out. He should have been immobilized, but there was no time. I’ve reflected on that a lot over the years … I’ve often wondered if we did the right thing. Anyway, I pulled him out and tried to lead him to safety, but he wouldn’t listen. He ran around to the other side yelling for me to help.”

  “I thought you said his leg was broken.”

  “It was.”

  “Adrenalin?”

  “I suppose. I followed him around and that’s when everything fell apart. We all went to work trying to get the little boy out—”

  “Says here, six-year-old Adam Canaday died on scene.”

  “He was sandwiched so tight it would’ve taken a Hurst tool to get him out.”

  “So, you did make an effort?”

  “Everyone did. But when the fire flashed it was basically over. And it wasn’t just a fire. It was an inferno. The scene became total chaos. Everybody shouting, heat building, smoke pouring out. I’ll never forget the look in Adam’s eyes. They were almost pretty, you know? Like blue marbles. But the panic. I’ve never seen such fear.”

  Jim could feel his eyes watering. The image haunted him. He had to look away.

  “Bud,” Rico said. “Take a minute.”

  Jim could feel his hands shaking. He hung his head and wept. Someone handed him a Kleenex. He used it to blow his nose. “Sorry guys.”

  “Sean,” Rico said. “We can finish this later.”

  “No, Rico, I need to finish this.” Jim asked for the Kleenex box, and Murphy handed it to him. He grabbed a wad of tissues and blew his nose again. “It started raining, but not enough to suppress the flames. Tom pulled me back.”

  “Your supervisor?”

  “Yeah, he pulled me out and ordered me to stay back, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just let them all burn to death. I started to run back in and that’s when it blew … an orange, roaring swoosh!”

  “Were you injured?” Murphy said.

  “Just my leg.”

  “And the brothers?”

  “They were severely burned. If not for the rain they would’ve burned to death. I don’t know, man, I just don’t know, it was really bad. That scene was a total nightmare. Ten fatalities. Seven in the van, three in the car. By the time it was over, two other EMS units arrived along with two fire companies from Beaufort. Devon and I transported Bobby. Billy went in another unit.”

  “Where did you take them?” Murphy inquired.

  “East Beach Regional. They were flown within hours to the burn unit at UNC.”

  “And the teenager?”

  “Knave?” Jim shrugged. “I never saw him again.”

  Murphy glanced at Glover, closed his notepad, and then stood and pushed back his chair. “Terrible story.” He shook his head, and for the first time Jim saw a semblance of compassion in the man’s eyes. “Mr. Stockbridge, what was it about that incident that caused tension between you and Mr. Washington?”

  “We drifted apart after that. I always thought he blamed me for jumping medic-eight’s call. We drifted.”

  “Just a few more questions about this, if you don’t mind. And I cannot tell you how much we appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Stockbridge. I understand Mr. Bowers left East Beach EMS shortly after this incident, to take a supervisory position with Medic-Care Emergency Medical Services, in Durham.”

  “Just Medic.”

  “Say again?”

  “Medic-Care EMS sounds too much like the government agency. People just call it Medic.”

  “Good man, was he?”

  “Who, Tom? Yeah. He always had my back.”

  “And the night of the wreck, at the time of the explosion, it was just you, Mr.

  Bowers, and Mr. Washington? No other first responders at that point?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Corporal Archer—” Murphy glanced at his notes. “—Deputy Dupree, and one Highway Patrol Trooper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “One last question,” Murphy said, his eyes burning into Jim’s. “You said the two brothers had critical burns. Did it involve their faces?”

  “Yeah?” Jim frowned and glanced at each of the men. “Airway burns, too. Why?”

  “Did you treat them?”

  “Of course I did. We R-S-I’d them on … I’m sorry, intubated them on scene and wrapped them in sterile burn sheets. We gave Bobby massive amounts of IV fluid en route to—”

  “Thank you,” Murphy said standing. “That should do it.”

  Murphy turned to Glover and started whispering.

  “Wait a minute,” Jim said. “That’s it?”

  The two men ignored him and whispered quietly between themselves. Jim stood up and pushed his chair back, knocking it over. “Hold it,” he shouted. Murphy and Glover stopped talking and frowned at him in unison. “You ask me in here as a favor, force me to relive the most horrible night of my life, and then just say that’s it? I want to know what’s going on. I think I’ve earned that much!”

  Murphy glanced at Glover and raised an eyebrow. Glover shrugged and nodded. Murphy looked at Rico and said, “You want to tell him?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Bud—” Rico shook his head. Jim saw creases over a brow that rarely frowned. “Tom Bowers was murdered two days ago in Durham. His wife too. They found them at home, side by side in bed. Their faces were … well, you know.”

  Jim felt his stomach tighten. “It was the Canadays, wasn’t it? They’re out for revenge.” Jim’
s head began to swim. White fog crept in from the sides. He took a deep breath and held it until the cloud dissipated. “So what’s next?”

  “I’m placing you and Valerie in the witness protection program.”

  “Go to some shack and hide? Rico, I’m not doing that. I have to work tomorrow. And I’m certain Val won’t either. She’s got an ER to run.”

  “Son,” Murphy said. “Do you want to die? These men have already killed four people.”

  “Five,” Glover corrected him. “Don’t forget about the dead cop.”

  Rico glanced at Murphy. Murphy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It’s his hide.”

  “All right, look—” Rico sighed and glanced at his watch. “I’ll put the protection on hold for now, but you be in your house by dark, with the girls. That’s an order! I want you and Valerie lying low until we have these two maniacs in custody. With a little luck, we’ll have them tonight. But until then, you stay close. Those freaks could be anywhere.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  SATURDAY—14:41—CANADAY HOMESTEAD (CEDAR Creek, Newport, N.C.) Rico got a bad feeling as he drove through the dark forest surrounding Cedar Creek. The loblolly pines lining the dirt path created a narrow tunnel that seemed to lead nowhere. No trespassing signs posted every tenth of a mile made the drive all the more ominous. He pictured moonshine stills, cottonmouth moccasins, and somewhere in the back of his mind, burning crosses and bikers in white pointed hoods. He glanced in his rearview mirror, happy to see the other Charger close behind. He spotted a clearing in the distance and the windshield began to brighten. The road opened up into a ten-acre field on the edge of Newport Sound. Morehead City lay across the water in the distance.

  The Canaday farm, as it turned out, was not much more than an overgrown meadow. A dilapidated barn sat at the back corner of a green field, a two-story antebellum house with thick blurred windows and a crumbling chimney sat a hundred yards away close to the water. A stately live oak stood in front of the one-time mansion. A round rock-walled well sat off to one side. Altogether it looked like a scene from Gone With the Wind, only on a much smaller and significantly poorer scale. But the Confederate flag flying on a pole in the front yard left no doubt as to where their allegiance lay. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rico could hear a harmonica playing a melodious version of “Dixie”.

  “Mama Mia,” he murmured. “Did we just go back in time?”

  “About two-hundred bloody years,” Sean Murphy replied. “I didn’t realize people still lived like this.”

  “Think she’s Klan?”

  Murphy chuckled. “With a flag like that?”

  Rico circled the property and stopped. The other Charger pulled in behind him, and Andrew Hamilton and Cadarian Rogers climbed out. Both men wore blue jeans, boots, and T-shirts that bulged at the chest and biceps. Each carried a sidearm on his hip and a gold badge on his belt. Rico noticed concern on Rogers’ face. He opened his door and climbed out to join them.

  “Who are these people?” Rogers said pointing at the flag. “Should I be worrying about rednecks in white hoods?”

  “Probably.”

  “L-T,” Ham said approaching. “Remind me again why we’re here. Your message said something about an interview?”

  “An old woman named Canaday lives here. We have good reason to believe her grandsons are the killers. We’re gonna see if she can give us some information.”

  “Think they’re here?”

  “The brothers? Doubtful, but that’s why I asked you to come along.”

  “Well,” Murphy said pointing toward the water. “That doesn’t fit now, does it?”

  Rico turned and glanced at the expensive looking red powerboat floating at the dock in front of the house. Shiny and slick, with polished chrome accents and railings, it looked completely out of place in the antebellum setting. He noticed a strange logo on the stern. “What is that?”

  “Looks like a bloody Satan’s face,” Murphy exclaimed.

  “It’s the Screaming Devils logo,” Ham explained. “Local biker gang.”

  “Screaming Devils?” Rico said.

  “Every member wears it on the back of his colors. And check that out,” Ham added tilting his head at the wooden shed beside the house. Rico glanced to his right and saw a black Harley Davidson motorcycle parked in the shadows. Its gas tank bore the same blood red emblem. Beside that sat a red Ford Mustang with the logo on the rear window. “Either this Canaday lady is a member of the Screaming Devils or she’s harboring someone else who is.”

  Murphy grunted. “Let’s go find out.”

  “And, by the way,” Ham continued. “For what it’s worth, Cadarian’s right. These guys do have connections with the Klan. The Screaming Devils are part of a splinter group that dates back to the Civil War.”

  “Terrific,” Rogers muttered. “We should’ve brought Barnes.”

  “All right, you two stay here. If we need you, you’ll know.” Rico glanced at his radio. “I’m on six.”

  Ham and Rogers nodded and reached for their channel selectors. Rico joined Murphy and started toward the house. “Next time I have a brilliant idea like this,” he mumbled, “remind me to send someone else.”

  “What’s wrong?” Murphy chuckled. “You don’t like redneck, card-carrying Ku Klux Klan bikers?”

  “I don’t like killers.”

  Rico walked across the dirt drive, stepped onto the front porch of the old home, and rapped on the screen door with his knuckles. A moment later, the door creaked and opened. An old woman wearing a pink flowered dress stared at them through the screen. She looked to be about eighty-five years old, with silver hair and permanently tanned and wrinkled skin. Both front teeth were missing. Her back teeth chewed on something wet. Rico cleared his throat and offered a friendly smile.

  “Mrs. Canaday?”

  The old lady raised an empty coffee can and spit something brown into it. “This here’s private property, young fella. Di’nt ya see them no trespassin’ signs?”

  “We’re sorry to bother you, ma’am—” Rico displayed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Rivetti with East Beach Police Department, and this is Detective—”

  “Who?” the old lady replied. Rico couldn’t be certain, but she seemed to recognize his name. He decided it was a coincidence. “Don’t hear too well, young fella. Speak up.”

  “Lieutenant Rivetti,” Rico said practically shouting. “This is Detective Murphy.”

  “Cops? What d’ya want?”

  “Are you Mrs. Lila Canaday,” Murphy said stepping onto the porch.

  “I am,” she said spitting another wad. “Speak yer piece and get goin’.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions about Bobby and Billy Canaday.”

  “Those two? What kinda trouble they in now?”

  “We just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Got a warrant?”

  “Do I need one?”

  Lila Canaday raised an eyebrow at Murphy, and then chuckled coarsely and pushed open the front door. “Come in if ya mus’. Ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  Rico stepped through the door and followed the old woman down a hallway into a large den. Mounted fish and deer heads hung on walls of reddish heart pine. An antique double-barrel shotgun hung above the mantle of a huge granite fireplace. Mrs. Canaday sat down roughly on a dark green leather couch and motioned for them to sit. Murphy obliged. Rico remained standing and glanced about the room. Light filtered through the hazy windows as if through green Coke bottle glass. A cigarette burned in an ashtray next to a wooden rocker beside the fireplace. An opened Budweiser can stood on the hearth. Otherwise everything seemed in place, all very neat and tidy. Rico got the feeling she lived there alone, but he couldn’t figure the beer can or smoke. It was a man’s home, or at least it had been at one time.

  Murphy cocked his head toward the hearth. “Is someone here with you, ma’am?”

  “Nope. Live alone. Me ’usband, Robert, died a few years back
.”

  “Is that your cigarette?”

  “Finished with that. Put it out for me there, young fella.”

  “And the beer?”

  “I like Budweiser. Anythin’ wrong with ’at?”

  “No, ma’am.” Rico ground the half-burned cigarette into the ashtray and glanced at Murphy.

  “Now,” she said spitting in the makeshift spittoon and setting it on the floor. “Sit down, both ya. Makin’ the ol’ woman nervous.”

  Murphy obliged and pulled out a notepad and pen.

  “Ma’am,” Rico said. “I’m going to take a look around your house, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind, Officer Rivetti. Si’down. You look like a nice young man. Mind if I give you a nickle’s wortha free advice? Leave my grandsons alone. Those twain’t nuthin’ but trouble.”

  “Mrs. Canaday,” Murphy said. “Who owns the Harley Davidson motorcycle parked out back?”

  “That old motorbike? Belongs to my grandson, Billy. He’s keepin’ it here ’tils it’s fixed.”

  “And the car?”

  “Mine.”

  “You drive a Ford Mustang?”

  “Detective, I may be old, but I ain’t feeble.”

  “Is he here today?”

  “Who, Billy? Wuz. Left with ’em friends ’bout an hour ago.”

  “Uh huh. And the boat tied up to your dock?” Murphy inquired. “Who does that belong to?”

  “Both-um. Keeps it docked ’ere. Use it for errands and such.”

  “Bothum who?”

  “My grandsons, Bobby and Billy.”

  Murphy scratched on his pad. “Mm-hmm. I see. Now Mrs. Canaday, how long have you lived here?”

  “Was born in’n front bedroom yonder, back in twenty-eight. Lived me ’ole life right ’ere. See that fish?” She pointed at the three-foot trophy above the fireplace. “Caught it on ’n cane pole when I’s a tot.”

  “You caught that on a cane pole?” Murphy said.

  “Sure did. Piece ‘n shrimp.”

  Murphy nodded appreciatively. Rico didn’t care for fish.

  “Yep,” she continued. “A Canaday’s lived’n this house since 1910 when me grandfather’s family first moved to Cedar Creek from Ireland. It’s old’n run down, but it’s sturdy’n dry, and last time I checked it’s mine. Now tell me why’re you really ’ere, officers? Those boys’n trouble again? They ain’t deal’n drugs n’more, you know.”