Blown Away

by Shane Gericke

  “Dig into it, Marty!” she begged. “Use your knuckles! Oh God it hurts!” She heard sirens and prayed one was a paramedic bearing Vicodin.

  “I’ve got you, Emily,” Marty reassured, clamping her leg between his knees and drilling for oil with both fists. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you…”

  The spasms eased as the first Naperville Police cruiser zoomed into the lot.

  She clutched Marty and pulled herself into a sitting position, breathing four-seconds-in, four-seconds-out. “Is…that woman…dead?” she wheezed.

  Marty nodded.

  “Who shoots…a little old lady…at a day spa?”

  “Dunno,” Marty said, hugging her close. “But we’re sure as hell gonna find out.”

  The shooter wheeled onto Sherman Avenue, then into the strip-mall parking lot, keeping a tight rein on his fear. In all his executions, this was the first time anybody had fought back. It rattled him harder than he’d anticipated. Don’t panic! he told himself. Panic brings paralysis! Do what you planned and you’ll be fine!

  He looked around for witnesses. None. He whipped the Grand Prix into an empty space in the back of the lot and turned off the engine.

  Hands shaking from the adrenalin dump, he looked again. Still nobody. He relaxed a fraction. As he’d learned from his practice runs, this medical-office strip mall made an excellent place to switch cars—just thirty seconds from the spa to get him off Ogden fast, with a wall of storefronts to screen him from responding cops.

  Though that wouldn’t last if he dawdled.

  He peeled the fake beard from his wide cleft chin, rubbed off the rubber-cement residue. He stuffed the disguise into the glove compartment, along with the Chicago Bulls cap that camouflaged his head. He looked around a third time. Frowned.

  A mommy van was pulling next to the curb.

  He couldn’t leave now. Couldn’t risk her telling the cops about the maroon Taurus that peeled rubber when the sirens came. He had to wait, each tick of the cooling engine as loud as a gunshot. Get out of here, goddammit! he screamed silently. Thirty more seconds and I’ll have to leave! I’ll have to shoot your stupid ass! Move it! But she was still in her car, and his right hand gripped the .357 Magnum in his belt. Five seconds. His left hand grabbed the door handle. Three seconds. He’d walk up to the driver, empty the gun in her head, retreat as quickly as possible. One second…

  A little girl in pigtails hopped out, ran inside one of the offices. The mommy van made a three-point turn and exited the lot.

  He slumped, panting.

  Then got moving.

  He slid out of the Grand Prix, threw the keys down the storm drain. Hopped into the Taurus, started the engine with a gas-heavy “Vroom.” Nosed onto Ogden Avenue, quickly moved to the middle divider to let a police cruiser scream past. The cop made a little wave, “Thanks.” He waved back.

  He drove the speed limit to Wisconsin Avenue, cranked the wheel in a quick hard right, and began his escape from the city.

  “Enough already, guys,” Emily groaned, shooing away the paramedics who’d been poking, prodding and painting her antiseptic-yellow the past thirty minutes. “We gotta get dressed.”

  “Before CSI bags our clothes as evidence,” Marty agreed. He grasped his towel with one hand, offered Emily the other.

  She grabbed his fingers and pulled herself to her feet. The movement shook up her vision like a snow globe. She blinked, then walked toward the spa, planting each foot firmly before lifting the other. She’d feel silly falling in front of the Fire Department.

  “Hey! Wait up!”

  Emily turned to see a muscular blonde spill from a black-and-white. It was Lieutenant Annabelle Bates, commander of the Naperville Police SWAT team and Emily’s best friend besides Marty. They stopped to let her catch up.

  “We were serving an arrest warrant when we heard the ‘officer down’ call,” Annie said, eyes searching Emily for injuries. “We just got back. Are you all right?”

  “A little banged up,” Emily said. “But nothing’s broken.”

  Annie blew out her breath. “I heard we spotted the car?”

  “A patrol officer found it a few minutes ago,” Emily said. “In that medical mall on Sherman. We know it’s his because Marty shot out a window.”

  “For what good it did,” Marty said. “Canine units are searching the neighborhood in case he’s on foot. But I’m guessing he stashed an escape vehicle and got out of Dodge before roadblocks went up. He’s long gone.” He rubbed at a scratch on his arm. “Unfortunately, nobody at the mall saw anything.”

  “The mall have security cameras?”

  “Plenty,” Emily said. “Inside the offices. Nothing aimed at the lot.”

  “We’re never that lucky,” Annie said. She touched Emily’s arm. “Are you sure you’re all right, hon? Branch said you got run over.”

  “Well, sort of,” Emily said.

  “The bastard rammed her all right. But she bounced off,” Marty explained. “She got to her feet and started chasing him. Might have caught up except for the charley horse.”

  Annie’s eyes dropped to Emily’s scarred calf. “Again?”

  Emily nodded, disgusted the two-year-old injury was still getting the best of her. She wanted every shred of Ellis Marwood out of her life, and it just wasn’t happening quick enough.

  “Well, you’re standing now,” Annie said. “Took three hours to do that last time your calf went nuts. Progress.” She looked Marty top to bottom, and her lips curled into a wide, catty smile. “And what, pray tell, are you supposed to be?” she purred, reaching up and peeling a long shingle of mud off his shoulder. “A hot fudge sundae?”

  “No. And there’s a perfectly good explanation for this,” Marty grumbled, face turning as pink as the towel around his waist.

  “I’m all ears,” Annie said.

  Their affectionate teasing made Emily want to join in—with all that shiny mud on his six-six body, Marty did look like a giant ice-cream treat! But there’d be hell to pay if a TV camera caught them looking any way but serious. “We need to get to work,” she said, dipping her head at the Fox Television van bouncing into the lot. “Right now.”

  Annie agreed they should move inside. “But you don’t think you’re working this case, do you?”

  “Why not?” Emily said. “I’m a detective, aren’t I?”

  “You’re also a participant,” Annie pointed out. “You’re involved.”

  “I tried to apprehend a suspect,” Emily argued. “That’s all. I have nothing to do with this otherwise.” She grasped at another straw. “It’s like back at the station—first one to answer the phone catches the case. I was the first one here.” She ran her fingers through her matted chestnut hair.

  “And your calf?” Annie pressed. “You can walk and kneel and do all those other crime scene things?”

  Barely, Emily thought, feeling the lobster pinch when she put weight on it. But she wasn’t going to miss handling a homicide case because of a stupid cramp. “I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I already talked to Branch. He’s inside with the victim.”

  Annie’s faint smile said she knew Emily was tapdancing—talking to Branch wasn’t the same as getting approval from Branch—but would ignore it because she’d do the same thing. “Well, hell, why didn’t you say so?” she said, aiming Emily at the spa. “Let’s get your clothes so you can get right to work.” She looked over her shoulder at Marty, cranked the smile to full wattage. “You go finish your bath, dear. You missed some dirt behind your ears.”

  His reply was blacker than the mud.

  “What the hell happened?” the shooter screamed as he zoomed down Interstate 55, riding the adrenaline wave now that he was safe. “Who was that fucking woman?”

  The family in the Volvo next to him stared openly.

  He glared back, peeling his lips away from his square yellow teeth.

  Dad cut off a semi moving over a lane.

  “That’s right! I’m nuts!” he screamed over the truc
ker’s horn, smacking the steering wheel like it was on fire. “Tell all your fucking friends!”

  Wait. Keep this up and someone’ll flag down a cop. Can’t have that. Not yet. Not till I’m finished. Nothing can interfere with the plan. Get ahold of yourself, goddammit.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said, forcing himself not to blink. “You escaped. You changed cars. You took side streets to the interstate. Nobody saw you. Nobody’s following you.” The rearview was smudgy from all the times he’d made sure. “Sit back and relax. It’s an easy drive to St. Louis. Your flight’s not till tomorrow. You’ll have a nice supper and get a good night’s sleep, fly to Arizona in the morning. You’ll go kill the rest of them, return to Naperville and finish. You’re fine. Just follow the plan. The plan is everything.” He liked the little pep talk. His muscles leaked tension—

  “Shit!” he hissed, neck cords re-popping. “She saw me! She can identify me!”

  He breathed hard awhile, decided maybe not. The woman had hit his windshield only an instant before blowing onto the roof. Not enough time to focus, let alone identify. Plus he’d been wearing the camouflage cap and beard, which he’d dumped in various fast-food-joint garbage cans. He’d kept gloves on throughout to ensure leaving no fingerprints. The Grand Prix and Taurus were rentals, would trace back to fake drivers’ licenses and credit cards. The car he drove now was his own, with real license and credit. He was doubly—triply!—removed from the spa execution, with no way for anyone to connect A to Z.

  Still…

  He punched in the radio pre-set. After the weather, sports and an advertiser puff-job disguised as a feature story—“And now, another product made in Chicago!”—the news report began. He turned it loud. The announcer said a man shot a woman in west suburban Naperville. Said the woman died. Said cops found the getaway car and launched a manhunt. Said a police detective was inside the spa and heard gunshots. Said she chased the shooter but got run over. Said the detective wasn’t seriously injured. Said her name was Emily Thompson. Said she’d killed a man two years ago for trying to hang her.

  Killed a man…

  He tingled with cold sweat.

  The announcer didn’t give a description. If she’d seen him they’d have aired it for sure. He was safe.

  Then again, he hadn’t gotten this far taking chances.

  He put on his turn signal and pulled to the shoulder. Trucks whizzed by inches from his door, their windshear rocking the car like a hobby-horse. He didn’t care. His hands were steady now.

  He pulled a spiral notebook from his sportcoat. It was pocket-size, with a canary cover and light-blue page rules. He clicked a pen and added the name in red ink, with neat lettering that touched neither rule.

  Emily Thompson.

  He smiled. The cop was as dead as all the rest of the names.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  Emily sniffed cautiously as she entered the spa’s lobby. Before, the woman was so freshly slain she had no odor. Now, feces and urine had drained from her bladder and bowels. The odor of her wastes joined the waxy copper odor of the blood puddle congealing around her body. There was chlorine from the whirlpools. Jasmine and sandalwood from the mood candles. The palpable fear of the traumatized employees and clients, who couldn’t leave this wretched place till detectives took their statements.

  Which Emily couldn’t do till she knew some basics.

  “What’s her name?” she asked the large man bending over the small corpse.

  Hercules Branch didn’t look up, but raised an index finger to indicate, “With you in one minute.”

  “OK.” She turned to a uniformed cop. “Please tell me you brought Vapo-Rub.”

  “I don’t leave home without it,” he said, pulling a flat tin from his pocket.

  Emily smeared a gob under each nostril and breathed the menthol fumes that would mask the stench of death. She murmured thanks and turned to examine the room.

  The building was an old Chinese buffet restaurant reincarnated as an elegant day spa. This was its ornate lobby—what management called the “client welcome center.” Its high ceiling came to a series of peaks, reminding Emily of a circus tent. Fringed Oriental rugs softened the white granite floor. Sheetrock walls, rag-rolled in sky blue, held a series of oil paintings that were colorful but indefinite. Dark red curtains covered the windows. A dozen chairs, lacquered the same black as the picture frames, surrounded a low, round table filled with women’s magazines. The manicurist who had directed Emily through the front door occupied one chair. Next to her sat their attendant from the mud bath. A cappuccino maker steamed in one corner. A water dispenser gurgled in another.

  “Leila Reynolds,” Branch said.

  Emily watched the Naperville Police Department’s chief of detectives push to his feet with the help of a black thornwood cane.

  “I got her information from the manager,” Branch continued. “Before he became too shaky to continue.”

  Emily recalled the white-faced young man being helped to the ambulance by the paramedics. “And the other witnesses?”

  “Those two insisted on staying with Leila till her children arrive,” he said, pointing to the chairs. “The rest are out back. The squad’s taking their statements. Soon as we’re done, go help.” He took his notebook out of his jacket and started his recitation.

  “Leila Clarice Reynolds, age seventy-seven. She’s a retired bookkeeper for a Chicago auto dealership. She lived in Old Farm”—a subdivision on Naperville’s south side—“and was widowed four years ago. Started working here a year after her husband’s funeral. She has two grown children, a daughter in Milwaukee and son in Miami. I already called them. The daughter will get here first, obviously, so keep an eye out for her arrival.” He stopped to write himself a note.

  “Why was she working?” Emily asked, taking her own notes. “If she’d already retired?”

  “Leila got bored,” the manicurist piped up. “You know, living by herself after her husband died. We’re glad she took the job—she was so much fun.” Her lower lip trembled. “She wasn’t supposed to be here today.”

  “Why not?” Emily asked.

  “She had a cold. I told her to go home, I’d cover the desk. You know what she did?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “She patted my face. You know, like a grandma? Then she said, ‘It’s OK, dear. I’d rather work. It’s better than sitting around the house feeling sorry…for…my…’” The manicurist’s face crumpled as the floodgates opened.

  “Why don’t you take her outside?” Emily told the attendant. “Fresh air will do you both good. I’ll come find you when I’m ready.”

  The attendant put her arm around her sobbing friend and led her out. Emily glanced at the uniformed cop.

  “I’ll keep them from leaving till you get there,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She moved to join Branch at the body. Marty touched her shoulder from behind.

  “Find your clothes?” she asked, reaching back and taking his hand.

  “And a shower,” he said. “Listen, I’m gonna go back to my shop and write up my report.” Marty was chief of detectives for the county sheriff’s police. “I’ll send over a copy soon as I’m finished.”

  “Will it contain anything you didn’t tell me in the parking lot?” Branch asked.

  Marty shook his head.

  “No hurry, then,” Branch said. “Get some coffee, take your time.”

  “Nah. Might as well get it over with. If I think of anything I didn’t tell you, I’ll call.”

  Branch gave him a thumb’s up, and Marty swung his attention back to Emily. “Want me to stay over tonight?”

  She nodded her head back against his chest. “I’ll call you when I’m done,” she said. “No idea when that will be, though.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You just call.” He rubbed her shoulders, then gently pushed away.

  “Aw, Marty, tell her you wuv her,” Branch said.

  “I’d better not,” Marty said.
“She’d fling her arms around me then you’d have to fire her for sexual harassment and we’d all be embarrassed…”

  Cop humor, Emily thought as the two men laughed. Like these two homicide veterans, someday she’d be an expert at whistling past the graveyard.

  But not today.

  Not with Leila Reynolds staring at her.

  Emily turned her attention to the short, slender victim. She lay face up, her legs straight out and arms at her sides. She hadn’t fallen that way—Marty had to reposition her for the CPR. Her wrinkled hands were cupped, as though she was holding water. Her black wig was sharply askew, exposing white hair so thin that the overhead lights sparkled on her scalp. She had large green eyes with perfectly shaped brows. She wore an expensive yellow sundress, an alligator belt with silver buckle, and brown sandals with medium heels. Bra and briefs—Emily saw the telltale lines—but no hose. Toe and finger nails looked freshly manicured, and painted the same shade of pink.

  She finished cataloging Leila, then studied the holes in her chest and forehead. Each was the size of a pencil eraser. Her forehead had flame-charring, but her chest didn’t. That suggested the chest shots were fired several feet away, then the shooter moved up close for the insurance shot. “What caliber do you think, Branch?” she asked. “A .38?”

  “Maybe .357 Magnum—there’s lots of damage on the wall that caught the bullets after they exited Leila.” He tugged at his chin, considering. “Both are revolver cartridges, so that’s what the shooter used.”

  “Unless it’s one of the few semiautomatics that do,” she countered. “I should look for ejected shell casings to make sure.”

  “Unless he picked them up to fool us.”

  “Marty and I were right behind—he didn’t have time. So if I find casings, he used a semiautomatic. If I don’t, he used a revolver.”

  Branch smiled. “Very good, Detective. Go ahead.”