by Joel Goldman
Joy hung up. I started the car, found my way to Seventh Street and took it south until it turned into Rainbow Boulevard. The hospital was on the corner of Thirty-ninth and Rainbow. I turned east on Rainbow and followed the signs to the emergency room. Joy was standing next to her car when I arrived. She was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled tight around her face. I pulled alongside where she had parked. She opened the passenger door of Kate’s BMW, put Ruby in her car, and drove away. She never said hello.
Chapter Fifty-three
Emergency rooms are like convenience stores. They’re open twenty-four hours a day, but you’d rather get your coffee somewhere else. That was particularly true at KU Hospital, where the coffee was bad, the waiting room was uncomfortable, and the staff was numb from dealing with the daily deluge of crime and accident victims mixed in with the ordinary folks whose string of good living had run out.
I knew that security guards were stationed at the entrance to the emergency room and that I would have to pass through a metal detector, so I locked my gun in the glove compartment of Kate’s car. An admitting nurse sat on the opposite side of a counter, keeping patients at arm’s length with a sliding-glass window. Access to the treatment area was restricted to patients, family, and medical personnel. The admitting nurse was the gatekeeper, pushing a button that unlocked the door if you knew the secret password.
I tapped on the glass. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with cropped red hair, an extra chin, and giant eggplant arms glanced up at me. Letting out a deep sigh, she reached for the window and slid it open six inches.
“I’m with a woman named Kate Scranton. She came in by ambulance a few minutes ago with a head wound.”
“You her husband?”
“No.”
“Father, brother, or doctor?”
“No.”
“Take a seat.”
“I need to see her.”
“Take a seat. You’ll have to wait until she’s released or sent up to a room.”
I read her name tag. “Look, Glenda. My name is Jack Davis. I’m an FBI agent. Ms. Scranton was injured during an investigation of one of my cases. I need to see her now.”
Glenda gave me a ?at stare that said she’d heard that noise before. She stuck out her hand, palm up. “Lemme see some ID.”
I showed her my driver’s license.
“FBI ID,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I don’t have it with me.”
“Then take a seat.”
One of the paramedics that had taken care of Kate at the scene appeared at Glenda’s side. She was solid without being stocky, barely five-five, and her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that stuck out the back of a ball cap. She waved and opened the window all the way.
“Hey, Agent Davis, you should get that stinger checked out.”
I gave her my best smile, noting her name tag. “Thanks, Valerie. Just as soon as I convince Glenda here to let me see Kate. How’s she doing?”
“They’re still checking her out, but I think she’ll be fine.”
I turned my smile on Glenda, who bit her lip and edged her hand slowly toward the button that unlocked the door to the treatment rooms. Before she could push it, I heard a woman’s voice from the back shout, “She’s having a seizure! Dr. Benson is the neurosurgeon on call. Get him down here stat!”
I didn’t wait for Glenda. I reached through the window, punched the button, and yanked the door open. Valerie was ahead of me by two steps. I followed her to a room at the back of the ER. People dressed in scrubs were racing in and out. I couldn’t tell who was a doctor and who was a nurse.
I pushed my way forward. A man in green scrubs tapped me on the chest, telling me to step back. I started to argue when Valerie took me by the arm and pulled me away.
“Let them do what they need to do,” she said.
I stood on the edge of the vortex, catching pieces of shouted orders. There were demands to check vitals, instructions for injections of cc’s of some drug I’d never heard of and repeated exclamations of “Where the hell is Benson?”
A moment later, a man burst through the door, also dressed in scrubs, a ?owered surgical hat tied around his head. He was tall with a runner’s lean build, a narrow face, and intense dark eyes that swallowed the situation in a single glance. He was moving swiftly but purposefully, in complete control. I didn’t need a name tag to know that he was Dr. Benson.
He plunged into Kate’s room, the noise level dropping to pin-drop quiet. Valerie and I stepped close enough to hear what he was saying.
“She’s bleeding in her brain, right side. Get an MRI and then get her into the OR.”
He came out of Kate’s room with the same purposeful stride. I intercepted him.
“Dr. Benson. I’m Special Agent Jack Davis, FBI. I was with Ms. Scranton when she was injured. What can you tell me about her condition?”
He didn’t ask for identification, just glanced at Valerie, who vouched for me with a nod.
“Did you see what happened to her?”
“Yes. She was crouching on the ?oor and was struck in the right side of her head with the barrel of a .45 caliber pistol.”
He nodded. “That’s consistent with the injury. Her skull is fractured. I can’t tell how badly until I see the MRI and I really won’t know how bad it is until I take a look inside.”
“How long will that take?” I asked.
“That’s a guess I never make, Agent Davis. Best thing I can tell you to do is find a comfortable place to wait. What happened to the guy who hit her?”
“Another agent shot him. He didn’t survive.”
Benson nodded, a small smile creasing his narrow mouth. “Seems about right.”
I watched as Kate was wheeled away a second time, surrounded by people who, if they were worried, didn’t show it. Valerie was still at my side.
“Benson is the best neurosurgeon in town,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“No sweat,” she said. “Take it easy.”
The ER was calm again, a steady hum of nurses shuttling in and out of rooms, comforting and soothing the people they were taking care of. I stood in the middle of the ?oor, uncertain of where to go when I saw Glenda walking toward me smiling like the lead in a Stephen King novel.
“Right this way, Agent Davis,” she said, directing me into a vacant treatment area surrounded by a curtain that she pulled closed behind her. “Valerie told me that you’re wounded.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She did. Now take off your pants.”
“My pants?”
“Yes, your pants. And bend over. Let’s have a look at that stinger. It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”
Chapter Fifty-four
My stinger was more blister than ?esh wound, the skin red and tender. Glenda hid her disappointment as she cleaned and dressed my hip. Fifteen minutes later, I had my pants back on. Marty Grisnik was waiting for me when I came out.
“They wouldn’t let me in to see you,” he said.
“I know. We’re not related.”
“We’re not even dating.”
A sign hanging from the ceiling gave directions to the main hospital. I started walking in that direction, preferring to ask anyone except Glenda for directions to the surgery waiting room.
“Where are you headed?” Grisnik asked.
“Waiting room. A friend of mine is in surgery.”
“The woman your killer clocked?”
“Yeah. Her name is Kate Scranton.”
“You look like you could use some coffee and company.”
He was wearing chinos, a short-sleeved polo, and a light windbreaker. It wasn’t cold inside or out. The jacket was to cover his weapon. He had the ID to prove he actually was a cop in his own jurisdiction and that meant he didn’t have to leave his gun in the car. I knew that he wanted to keep me company as long as he might learn something useful. I didn’t mind. Some of my best friends were cops.
>
“I’ll skip the coffee and settle for the company.”
We settled into the waiting room. There were two clusters of people and a few solos spread among the chairs, some of them sleeping, some of them watching the television hanging from the ceiling, some of them present only in body. Grisnik tried the coffee, blowing on it before sipping and wincing.
“Hell of a thing,” Grisnik said.
“The coffee or what happened with Latrell Kelly?”
“Both, only you can’t shoot the coffee.”
“You missed all the excitement,” I said.
“FBI didn’t call us until it was all over. Damn cooperative of them. Not much going on by the time I got there.”
“Anybody brief you?”
“Yeah. Ammara Iverson. She and I might wind up friends if a few more of your suspects get killed in my city.”
“She tell you the same gun was used on Marcellus Pearson and Javy Ordonez?”
“Yup. And she said that Latrell’s fingerprints were on it and that they think it was stolen along with the gun Latrell used on your friend. Know for sure when they check the registrations.”
“She tell you anything else?”
“You mean did she tell me about the photograph of Latrell and a woman that was found in Javy Ordonez’s car? Yeah, she told me. That, plus the gun, is enough to make Latrell good for doing Ordonez. Ammara asked me to check our mug books for a picture of the woman. Said she’d get a copy to me in the morning. I told her no problem, but that’ll take some time.”
“Photograph was taken around seventeen years ago. If she’s in the books, it’s probably for drugs or prostitution. Start your search back then, crosscheck it against Latrell’s address. Go at it that way and I’m betting you get a hit in less than an hour.”
“Who do you think she is?”
“Latrell’s mother.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“After Marcellus went down, Latrell told a reporter that’s what happens when nobody takes care of a little boy. He was talking about himself. That’s why you’ll find her in the system on drugs or prostitution or both.”
“So why did he kill Marcellus?”
“I don’t know why he went after Marcellus, but he did. Told me so before he died. I think he killed Jalise and her son because they reminded him too much of his mother and him.”
“Too bad about the mother and her kid, but he did us a favor getting rid of the others. What about Oleta Phillips?” asked Grisnik.
“Oleta saw Latrell when he came out of Marcellus’s house. A real case of wrong place, wrong time. There’s a couple of graves in Latrell’s basement. Probably Oleta and his mother.”
“Somebody like Latrell, they don’t usually take seventeen years off between killing people. If they do, they make up for lost time. That’s another reason to like him for the Ordonez thing, especially since it was the same gun. Toss in the photograph and it looks tight to me,” Grisnik said.
“I don’t know. Latrell killing Marcellus and the others makes a twisted kind of sense, but I can’t make it stretch to fit Javy Ordonez. Right before he died, Latrell accused me of following him somewhere. Said I took his things. I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Could be whoever killed Javy found Latrell’s gun.”
“Maybe the guy you saw running from the scene was real. Could have been him,” Grisnik said.
“What’s the connection?”
“You started out thinking this was a drug war. Maybe you were right. Maybe the guy you saw was planning on taking out Marcellus, only Latrell saved him the trouble. The guy stays on Latrell, gets the gun and the photograph, pops Javy, and plants the picture. End of story.”
“Works better than your theory putting Javy on Latrell.”
“Hey, I’m just a mule-headed city cop, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’d rather get shot than drink any more of this coffee.” Grisnik sat the cup on a table and got up. “I’ll get someone started on those mug books. If you’re right, I don’t need the photograph. All I need is to find an arrest record on a woman who lived in Latrell’s house seventeen years ago. How hard can that be?”
“You mean you’ll have someone else do it?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Hope everything goes okay with your friend. Anything new on Colby Hudson or Wendy?”
“Nothing. They’re off the grid.”
“That’s not good. I’ve got some feelers out. I’ll let you know if I get any bites.”
“I appreciate it.”
He was at the door to the waiting room when it hit me.
“Hey, Marty.” He turned toward me. “How’d you know my daughter’s name was Wendy?”
His eyes ?ickered for an instant and his mouth pulled back in a tight smile. “Ammara Iverson told me. Gave me a description, too. How am I supposed to look for someone if I don’t know their name and what they look like? Get some rest. You look like hell,” he said, waving good-bye before I could answer.
Chapter Fifty-five
At eleven o’clock, I walked out to the nurses’ station and asked a nurse if she could update me on Kate’s surgery. She started to say no but then I began to shake and she said she’d be right back. I hate pity, but I’m not above exploiting it.
She returned a few minutes later and told me that Kate’s surgery would last at least a couple more hours and that she would be in recovery for another two hours after that before I could see her. I thanked her and went back to the waiting room, sat down, and stopped shaking. If only it were that easy all the time.
I thought about the photograph of Latrell and the unidentified woman. Marty Grisnik believed that it made the case against Latrell for the Ordonez murder. That’s what we were supposed to think, but I couldn’t make it fit. If the woman were Latrell’s mother, it definitely wouldn’t fit. Their age differences ruined that scenario. The photograph had to have been planted by the killer to set up Latrell.
I thought again about Kate’s explanation of how we read faces. We manipulate our voluntary expressions, choosing honesty or deceit as it suits us. Our micro expressions are honest precisely because they are involuntary, beyond our powers of manipulation. Both are there to be seen, but we settle for what is easier to see, oblivious to what we need to know. Like the person with face blindness, we don’t recognize what we’re looking at.
The photograph of Latrell and the woman was just one example. If I accepted its presence in Javy’s car as proof of a connection between him and Latrell, I wouldn’t bother to ask if it made sense. I had to reject at face value everything that had happened since the drug house murders, challenge the assumptions I had made, and disregard my instinctive reactions to the evidence. I had to slow everything down to a freeze-frame and dissect it like it was a micro expression.
Troy Clark had assumed that someone on my squad had leaked the existence of the surveillance camera in Marcellus’s house. He seized on Colby Hudson’s failure to appear for his polygraph as proof that Colby was the source of the leak. That was the easiest explanation for him and it turned out to be wrong. Latrell Kelly was the killer.
Colby must have had another reason to duck his polygraph. Maybe he was afraid of being asked about his purchase of the car and the house or Thomas Rice’s death. Maybe he’d gotten in over his head and was hiding out or had been killed.
Colby had told me his version of buying the house and car, but I preferred the version told by Jill Rice because it fit with my bias against Colby and the intelligence Grisnik had picked up from his penitentiary sources. I was already concerned that Colby had been working undercover so long that he couldn’t remember which side he was on. Even if he was telling the truth, I didn’t like that he’d taken advantage of Jill Rice’s efforts to piss off her ex-husband. And, as much as anything else, I didn’t like that he was sleeping with my daughter.
When Colby disappeared and when drugs and cash were found in his house, I saw what Troy saw—an agent that had crossed the line and taken Wendy with him.
It was no different than when Joy went looking for our son Kevin in Frank Tyler’s house after Tyler had picked Kevin up at school. When Joy called and told me that Kevin was missing and that she had found Tyler’s collection of child pornography, I was certain about what had happened and I was right.
The discovery of incriminating evidence in Colby’s house was dramatic and timely, fitting Troy’s suspicions and mine, but it could have been planted there just as the photograph of Latrell and the woman had probably been planted in Javy Ordonez’s car. Though I had considered the possibility of a frame-up when Ammara first told me about the drugs and cash, I rejected it because I preferred what I saw on the surface.
Troy had reacted in a similar way to my shaking, my body’s involuntary expressions, as proof that I couldn’t be trusted. He was wrong about me. Perhaps I was wrong about Colby.
If we believe too much too easily, we don’t ask the right questions. I realized that I had made that mistake with Colby’s story. He had said that Jill Rice had called our office looking for someone to buy her husband’s car, but no one had checked our phone records for that incoming call. I called Ammara Iverson.
“How’s Kate?” she asked.
“Still in surgery. Is anyone working late tonight?”
“Everyone is working. There is no late.”
“Have someone check the records of phone calls made to the office in the last six weeks for any calls originating from a land line or cell phone belonging to Jill Rice.”
“Not that it matters since you’re doing such a good job staying out of this case while you’re on medical leave and all, but why?”
“Colby says that he took a call from Jill Rice and that she was looking for someone to buy her ex-husband’s car. Jill Rice says she never made that call. We need to pick a winner in that liar’s match.”
“You have a favorite?”
“I wish I did.”
“I’ll call you when I know something.”
“Who did you find buried in Latrell’s basement?”
“Black female in the fresh grave. We’re checking her prints, but it’s probably Oleta Phillips. There were two skeletons in the second grave, one on top of the other.”
