The following page was a report headed “Stark Medical Imaging Laboratory.” She skimmed over the details of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging scan, focused her attention on the conclusion which read, “Probable herniated nucleus pulposus, L4-5, left with compression of nerve root.”
“What’s a ‘nucleus pulposus’?”
Marino said, “That’s the disk between two vertebrae. Actually, it’s the central part of the disk. It’s the softest part of the disk and is the part that ruptures.”
“I see.”
The sheet headed, “Report of Operation” was replete with medical terms. She concluded that the operation removed the ruptured nucleus pulposus and gave up trying to decipher the details of the incision, the use of a variety of instruments. The final paragraph said that the patient “left the operating room in stable condition.” She smiled as she pictured the patient walking out of the operating room, waving goodbye.
A discharge summary from St. Agnes Hospital, repeated, in abbreviated form, Rankins’ condition on admission, said that the herniated disk was found at the time of surgery and that the operation was performed without complication.
A paragraph in the summary caught her attention. She read it through twice, finally glanced up at Marino. “What’s a p-h-i-m-o-s-i-s?”
His brow furrowed. “A what?”
She repeated the spelling.
“Oh, a phimosis. That’s where the foreskin over the head of the penis becomes inflamed. Where the hell did you get that term?”
She pointed at the record. “In here. It says, ‘The patient’s post-operative course was complicated by development of a phimosis. The patient was seen in consultation by a urologist who performed a dorsal slit relieving the constricted foreskin. This was followed by a circumcision two days later’.”
Marino held out his hand. “Let me see that chart.”
She passed him the chart open at the page she had read. He turned a few pages scanning quickly. Still reading the record, he said, “I had forgotten all about that. Sure, he had some difficulty urinating after the operation, not all that unusual. He was catheterized and probably got the phimosis from all the manipulation.”
“So the catheter caused it?”
Marino became a little defensive. “Well, it was uncleanliness on his part that caused it. He didn’t clean the space between the head of his penis and the foreskin over it. The catheterization helped of course.”
Vandergrift said, “What’s a ‘dorsal slit’?”
“It’s a little operation that slits the foreskin over the head of the penis. Like opening the seam of a dress to make more room.”
“Ouch!”
“Under local anesthesia, of course.”
“Of course. After that he was circumcised to prevent it from happening again, I guess.”
Marino grinned. “Congratulations. Your eligible for your degree—A.A.D.”
“A.A.D.?”
“Also A Doctor.”
Vandergrift laughed. “By the way, who was the urologist who did all this?”
Marino looked through the chart, stopped at a page. “Hal Schneider—Dr. Harold Schneider.”
“Did Rankins have much contact—“ The phone on Marino’s desk rang. She stopped and waited for him to pick it up, but he let it ring until it stopped after the third ring.
Marino sat looking at the phone, “I guess Kim picked it up downstairs. I signed out to my partner so I wouldn’t have to take any medical calls tonight. Sometimes people will call me at home, and it’s difficult for me to tell them I’m not on call—especially if it’s a doctor who refers a lot of patients.”
Maharos walked into the room. The grim look on his face spoke of trouble. Quietly he said, “He got Show.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Vandergrift looked puzzled. “Show?”
“The Vice Unit detective they assigned to us.”
“My God! What happened?”
Maharos gave her what details he had gotten from Cassidy in the communications center. The message had been relayed from Clemens at the Massillon stakeout. “It means Rankins is on the loose and he’s still in the area. No doubt of it now.”
Vandergrift was gazing at a blank spot on the wall behind Marino’s desk. Maharos caught her faraway look. “Something?”
Slowly she turned to face her partner. “I wonder if we’re guarding the wrong person.”
Maharos cocked his head, waited for her to continue.
“I’ve just been going over Dr. Marino’s record of Rankins.” She told him about the phimosis and the subsequent operations to correct it.
Dr. Marino broke in. “Wait a minute.” He leafed rapidly through the chart. “Yeah, here it is.” He looked up. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. The last time I saw Rankins for a follow-up his back was okay, but he looked more depressed than usual. He said something about losing his manhood. I was quite sure the back operation didn’t cause him to become impotent. But just to be certain I sent him back to Dr. Schneider. He ran some tests and told me that the guy had always been impotent. I remember Schneider telling me that even after he reassured Rankins that none of the operations caused his impotence, he didn’t seem convinced. He wanted to finger someone for the blame.”
Maharos and Vandergrift exchanged glances. Maharos’ mind was racing. Loss of his manhood! A motive? You’ve got it!
“Where is Dr. Schneider?”
Marino said, “Probably at home.”
“Can you call him?”
Marino pulled a thin book from the bookshelf alongside his desk. Rapidly he flipped the pages. “I’ve got his home number. He jotted the number on a pad, picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. He sat for a few seconds, the phone cradled at his shoulder. “Naomi?…Hi. Russ Marino. Can I talk to Hal?…Where?…St. Agnes?…He went there directly from the office?” Marino glanced at his watch. “It’s after nine. You mean he hasn’t been home yet?…No, that’s all right. I’ll see if I can reach him at the hospital. Thanks.”
He disconnected the call without removing the receiver from his shoulder and immediately punched in some numbers on the keypad. While he waited to be connected he looked up at the officers. “He had an emergency at St. Agnes. His wife thinks he’s still there in surgery.”
Maharos fidgeted. Vandergrift held up crossed fingers.
Marino was speaking into the phone. “Dr. Schneider, please…What time did he sign out?…Try the O.R. anyway.”
He glanced up at Maharos. “The operator said he signed out of the hospital at eight-ten… O.R.?…Is Dr. Schneider there?…I see. Thanks.” He shook his head.
Maharos flicked the switch on the walkie-talkie he held. “I want one of you in here, stat. The other remain in place.”
“Ten-four.”
He turned to Marino. “Get Dr. Schneider’s wife on the line. Ask her what car he was driving and the license number. Get the number of his cell phone.”
Marino punched in the numbers. While he waited for the connection he said, “I know he drives a white Cadillac Seville. He has a vanity license plate, ‘PP DOC’.”
Vandergrift’s brows went up. “How would you remember his licen—. Oh, he’s a urologist, right? Real cutsie.”
Marino’s call to Schneider’s home was connected. “Naomi, was Hal driving his Caddy?…Uh-huh. What’s his cell phone number?…Uh-huh…Oh, you did. When did you try last?…” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “She tried to call him on the cell phone and got no answer, twice.” He spoke into the phone. “Yeah. Well I’m anxious to reach him. If he comes home, tell him to call me right away. I’m home.” He started to hang up, kept the receiver to his ear, listening. “What time was that?…Okay, thanks.” He hung up, turned to Maharos. “She thought she heard the automatic garage door open and close around eight-thirty. When he didn’t come into the house, she looked into the garage, saw his car wasn’t there, decided she had been mistaken.”
Maharos grabbed the phone. He punched in the number of
the communications center at Stark County Sheriff’s Office, and waited while his call was connected. “Cassidy?…Get the sheriff’s helicopter in the air. I want the pilot to cruise
I 77. Start south of Canton for about twenty miles, then north. I want him to look for a white Cadillac Seville. License tag: PP DOC. Got that?…Next, call Highway Patrol. Have them alert all units. The car we’re looking for is probably on I 77. If they spot it, have them trail it along with the ‘copter. Have them hold fire, repeat, hold fire. Either the driver or the passenger is our perp. The other is a hostage. We don’t know which is which. The guy is armed and extremely dangerous. Vandergrift and I are leaving Dr. Marino’s and we’re heading for I 77. Keep in touch with my car. The sheriff’s surveillance team will keep cover on the Marinos. Got all that?” He listened for a few moments, hung up and gestured with his chin for Vandergrift to follow as he sprinted for the stairs. He called over his shoulder to Marino, “Keep trying the cell phone. If you get him, call Agent Cassidy at Stark County Sheriff’s office.” He was already out of the front door and headed for his car, Vandergrift a step behind.
* * *
State Highway Patrol Officer Chuck Schulte in car 86 was parked on the right shoulder of I 77 just past the Portage St. entrance ramp. Elbow resting on the open window frame, he was watching the northbound traffic. Just past nine on a Tuesday evening, there were relatively few cars. The sun had set an hour before. He looked up at the starless sky. Rain was predicted for the next day. It was already muggy.
He glanced at his watch, calculated how long before he would head for the barn. Miller time. Sandy digging in the refrigerator for a beer for him. Cold sweat on the outside of the can, the icy fluid on his tongue.
The static of his two-way radio speaker broke into his thoughts. “All units I 77. On the lookout for white Cadillac Seville. License plates PPDOC, repeat PPDOC. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Hostage aboard. Trail and report but do not, repeat, do not fire. Air search will assist.”
Schulte acknowledged into his dashboard microphone.
He did not have long to wait. The ninth car that passed after the call was the white Caddy traveling in the left lane at an unhurried pace. He almost missed it. A semi, traveling in the right lane, passed at the same time. He spoke into the microphone as his patrol car pulled on the road. Schulte’s eyes were fixed on the Cadillac’s red taillights two cars ahead as he reported his location. With the communicator’s acknowledgement came the caution—no flasher, no siren.
Twenty miles to the north, in the Akron area, State Highway Patrol Officer Ham Fisher in Patrol Car 92 was cruising south on I 77. He heard Schulte report that he had the Caddy in his sights. He went on full burner, racing to meet Schulte and the car he trailed.
* * *
Dr. Harold Schneider lay face down on the floor behind the driver’s seat. His hands, bound tightly behind his back, were already numb. His feet were bound at the ankles and a rag was tied across his mouth. He had no idea how long he had been there. When he first became aware of his situation after regaining consciousness, the bumpiness of the road and the occasional stop and start of the car told him they were traveling on city streets. Sometime later the ride became smooth, the car no longer made stops. It could only mean that they were on a highway.
Who had done this to him? Why? He vaguely remembered getting out of the car in his garage. He recalled nothing after that, until he found himself tied up on the car floor. He wasn’t even sure whether he had been knocked out or if he fainted.
He tried to yell. His cries, muffled by the gag were unintelligible. They were met with silence from whoever was in the driver’s seat. He strained his neck to try to see over the back of the front seat, but finally gave up. He only knew he was in trouble. His first thought was that he had been robbed. When his mind cleared and he could think more clearly, he knew this was not a simple robbery. He was being taken somewhere, kidnapped. Kidnapped? That only happened in Europe and the Middle East.
He recognized the irregular, racing pulse at his temples. Paroxysmal atrial fibrillation. It had come on several times since his heart attack four years ago. Each time it had been successfully treated with medication. He wondered if his heart would survive the current assault. Did he have some chest pain when he got out of the car? He couldn’t remember, but was encouraged that he felt none now.
The cell phone in his trouser pocket buzzed for the second time since they had been riding. Whoever was in the front paid no attention and the calling party rang off.
He rolled to his side until his back came to rest against the bottom of the back seat. Wiggling his fingers to try to regain some feeling, they touched an object on the floor behind him. Something that moved, but he couldn’t recognize it by feel. He touched it again and again until he realized it was a soft material intermeshed with something that could be wire. Suddenly, he knew what it was. An umbrella. He had always kept one in the back seat of his car. It usually fell off the seat and ended up on the floor. He was now quite certain that he was in his own car.
He struggled, pulling against the cord that held his wrists, trying to loosen it. But pulling only caused the binding to dig more deeply into the skin.
Schneider’s fingers grasped what he now knew was one of the metal ribs of the umbrella. He bent it back and forth. Each movement caused him to wince with pain as the cord cut into his skin. Finally, he felt the metal rib break. He could feel the sharpness of the broken edges. Tediously, he worked the end fragment of wire rib loose from the fabric that surrounded it. The piece was about four inches long. He now had something—a tool? A weapon? He tried to manipulate the fragment so that the sharp end of the wire could be pressed upward into the cord that surrounded his wrists. Maybe he could weaken the strands, break the goddam cord. Working the metallic segment with his fingers just increased the numbness. Finally, the piece of wire fell out of his grasp. He groped the carpet with his fingers and managed to find it, but when he tried to pick it up, it rolled away and he could not find it again.
The cell phone buzzed again. Naomi is trying to reach me, he thought. Maybe she’ll realize something is wrong and report me missing.
* * *
At the wheel of the Olds, Vandergrift drove along the city streets at speeds up to 60 miles an hour from the Marino home in the northeast part of the city, west toward I 77. The blinking red emergency light on the car roof chased some cars to the side of the road, but a few drivers either did not see the emergency light or ignored it, forcing her to slow down. The traffic became heavier as they approached the business section. On Atlantic Boulevard she weaved in and out between cars until she reached the freeway. She stopped and turned to Maharos in the shotgun seat, manning the two-way radio. “What’s your guess, north or south?” Maharos had been in constant contact with Cassidy at the communication center. Cassidy was in touch with the broadcast band of the Highway Patrol as well as that of the units Maharos was running. So far, Schneider’s car had not been sighted.
Maharos threw an imaginary coin in the air and looked at the back of his hand. “Try south.”
They had reached the top of the southbound entrance to the freeway when Cassidy’s voice came on the speaker. “Maharos. We have a location for your suspect. Northbound I 77, now four miles north of Portage St. ramp. Highway Patrol car is trailing.”
Northbound. His guess was wrong.
Maharos acknowledged while Vandergrift spun the car around on the shoulder, and with her finger pressing the horn button, sped down the ramp they had just come up.
“Look out!” Maharos shouted as a car came up the ramp directly at them. Vandergrift swerved to the side, avoiding by inches a collision. The eyes of the woman driving the other car were saucer-wide, her mouth gaped. At the bottom of the ramp, Vandergrift drove to the northbound side and in a moment was back on the freeway now headed in the right direction.
Maharos yelled into the mike, “Give me a location on the Caddy.”
Cassidy said, “They’re ab
out 14 miles ahead of your position. Just passing the airport. Speed 55.”
“Tell Highway Patrol we’ll be with him in ten minutes. Have him pursue but don’t make a threatening move.”
* * *
Lying on the floor of the car, Schneider could not recall ever being so uncomfortable—even when he lay in coronary care attached to monitors. Then, at least, he could call for pain- killers.
The car slowed and his body slid toward the right door as the car made a turn. A moment later, he was rolled against the back of the front seat. The car seemed to be going downhill, leveled off, and the roadway was no longer smooth.
In the Highway Patrol car, Officer Schulte reported that the Cadillac was turning off I 77 and headed east on state route 173. He was following, 100 yards behind.
Fisher’s patrol car, streaking south, was approaching the state route 173 exit on the opposite side of the highway when he heard Schulte’s report on his car radio. He swerved into the exit lane and sped down the ramp. At the bottom of the ramp, he made a sharp U-turn toward the east, the direction Schulte had reported the Caddy was headed. Twenty yards ahead of him was the bottom of the exit ramp down which Schulte was speeding, past the triangular “Yield” sign. Fisher saw Schulte’s car as a blur out of the corner of his eye. Too late to avoid the sideswipe collision at the bottom of the ramp. Both of the racing patrol cars teetered on two wheels for a second until they fell over on their sides like the covers of an open book. Both cars skidded on their car doors along the asphalt for another thirty feet before coming to a stop, blocking the entire width of the roadway.
The silence of the night was broken only by crickets in the fields surrounding them and the hum of the cars on the highway behind.
Schulte opened his eyes, thinking he’d been asleep, dreaming. Why was he gripping a steering wheel? Lying on his side in the dark? Last thing he could remember was seeing the other car out of the corner of his vision. His head ached and something wet dripped on to his lips. He tried moving an arm, then the other, each leg in turn. Everything moved. He looked up, saw stars in a black sky. Gotta get out of here. He moved toward the opening above his head, bumped against glass. A window. He found the crank alongside his thigh, turned it and saw the window open. He strained to pull himself up, found he was bound by something that dug into his shoulder. A moment later he realized his shoulder harness was still buckled, and he groped at his side until he found the buckle, snapped it open. It took all the effort he could muster to pull himself up and out of the car window. He slid to the ground and lay for a moment until he forced himself to stand, but the earth beneath his feet spun and he held the side of his overturned car to keep from falling. When the dizziness eased, he spotted the other car next to his. He stumbled to it and peered down into the front seat. The form slumped against the opposite door did not move. He glanced down the darkened roadway ahead. The car he had been trailing was out of sight.
Barry Friedman - Dead End Page 23
