Final Victim (1995)

by Stephen Cannell

  The Rat watched his computer screen and saw Lockwood and Karen rush onto the hospital floor. Nervous sweat dripped from under his arms as they ran to the nurses’ station. He watched in horror. “The wicked raised in the Second Resurrection will go up on the breadth of the earth with Satan at their head,” he said in a monotone, rocking back and forth on his wooden chair. On the closed-circuit TV, Lockwood appeared to be shouting at the frightened nurse. Then he broke away and ran up the hall toward Malavida’s room. The cop who had been sitting on the chair exploded up and grabbed Lockwood. The Rat cursed and leaned close to his screen as the two men wrestled in the narrow doorway—the way the shot was framed, The Rat could barely see them.

  Then The Rat screamed in protest as Lockwood pinned the cop against the far wall… .

  In the hospital, Karen saw Lockwood struggling with the Dade County policeman. She ran to help him. Nurse Fleetwood came out from behind the station after her.

  Lockwood could see Karen coming. He had the cop pinned against the wall. He timed it perfectly and threw his first punch as Karen got there. The cop went down, clawing for his holster. Lockwood stepped on his hand as Karen rushed into the room.

  She could see Malavida taped up and unconscious in the bed. She ran to him and frantically started pulling I. V.‘s out of his arm. Then she looked up at the blood bag.

  “What the hell’re you doing?” Nurse Fleetwood yelled as she ran through the door a few seconds later. Karen had now unhooked Malavida from all of his I. V. drips and was removing the whole-blood bag from the stand. She was reading the label as Nurse Fleetwood grabbed it away from her.

  “What’s his blood type?” Karen demanded.

  In the hall outside, Lockwood stepped away from the cop, who pulled his gun and aimed it at him with the hammer back. “You done, greaseball?” The cop’s voice was shaking with anger, and Lockwood put his hands in the air.

  “I’m done,” he said softly.

  The cop grabbed him and spun him around, then he muscled Lockwood into the wall so hard that pieces of bad hospital art fell and shattered on the floor. The cop slammed handcuffs on him, ratcheting them tight.

  Karen grabbed the clipboard from the foot of the bed and looked at it. She saw the blood delivery slip clipped on the top: “O-positive.” Then she flipped back one page and looked at the earlier slip that had been clipped to the board in post-op. The first slip said “0-negative.”

  “Let go of that!” Nurse Fleetwood yelled, as she snatched the clipboard away from Karen. Now there were frantic footsteps in the corridor and the room filled with white coats. One was the surgical resident for the wing.

  “Which is it?” Karen shouted at the nurse. “0-negative blood, like it says on the page from this morning, or 0-positive, which you’re putting into him now?”

  The young resident grabbed the clipboard and looked at it. “What the fuck is going on, Eleanor?” he said, anger beginning to swell. “You’re giving this guy 0-positive? He’s 0-negative. I typed him myself How much went in there?”

  Nurse Fleetwood was now in full retreat. “I don’t know, Doctor. We just hooked him up. The slip said 0-positive.”

  The resident turned to the cop. “Let’s go! I need help getting this guy back up to ICU.”

  The two of them yanked the bed away from the wall, spun it, and pushed it out into the hall. Lockwood and Karen trailed behind. They shoved the bed into the express elevator and went to ICU, a floor above. The resident and two ICU interns grabbed the bed and pushed it quickly down the hall, leaving Lockwood and Karen standing with the startled policeman they had fought with seconds before. It was an awkward moment.

  “Maybe you could unhook these cuffs?” Lockwood finally suggested. The cop reluctantly took out the keys and released him.

  The Rat climbed up the steps in panic and stumbled out onto the deck of the barge. The swamp was pale in the three-quarter moon that lit the dense undergrowth of the Manatee wetlands. He filled his lungs with its heavy, moist air and let out a scream of fear and anger. His screech carried across the murky wasteland like the scream of a dying animal. Night birds broke for the sky in a flurry of beating wings. He was in agony. God had finally focused on him.

  “When cornered, The Rat will fight,” he cried at the moonlit night.

  Chapter 28

  SWAT

  The moon lit the scattered clouds over Miami Harbor, looking to Lockwood like beautifully spun piles of silver-white cotton. They stood by the rental car in the hospital parking lot while a warm night wind flapped flags a few yards away. They had been told fifteen minutes ago that Malavida was out of danger. Karen put out her hand. “Good going,” she said. “I think we finally got one step ahead.”

  “Who woulda thought you could do that by profiling a brown rat?” He grinned and shook her hand.

  “I think I got lucky,” she said. Although they had saved Malavida’s life, they knew they had to stay close to him or this could easily happen again. For that reason, they decided to take a couple of rooms at a Ramada Inn close to the hospital. They got into their car and pulled away from Jackson Memorial Hospital.

  The Rat watched them go from the dark blue Ford he had rented. He had driven fast to get there from deep in the Little Manatee wetlands.

  It had taken just under three hours, and he had been in the hospital parking lot for only five minutes when he saw them exit. He followed them at a safe distance. Two blocks later he watched as they pulled into the Ramada Inn. He was wearing the baseball cap that he always wore to hide his ugliness. He watched as they registered, and as they walked along the outdoor passageway on the second floor and stopped at separate doors. The Rat used his binoculars to read the room numbers. Lockwood went into Room 37; the woman was three doors down in Room 40. He put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot. He found a secluded pay phone two blocks from the Ramada Inn.

  “Dade County Sheriff’s Office,” a female voice answered after two rings. The Rat could hear the beeps on the line that indicated the call was being recorded.

  “I know where there’s somebody you want, I need to talk to SWAT,” he said, disguising his voice, trying to make it sound lower. Then he told SWAT a story… .

  The SWAT room sprang to life. Six cops grabbed Second Chance Kevlar vests and laced them on. They grabbed Heckler and Koch MP5s with full-load banana clips off the weapons rack. Tear gas, launchers, and shotguns were in the truck. They were rolling in thirty seconds.

  SWAT Leader Lieutenant MacLamore showed the Ramada Inn night clerk the picture of Lockwood he’d taken from the NCIC “Wanted” computer.

  “This guy’s a cop killer?” the desk manager said, astonished. “Is he here?”

  “Yeah. Checked him and a real pretty girl in about an hour and a half ago. He’s in Thirty-seven, she’s in Room Forty.”

  MacLamore looked at his watch. It was almost five A. M. He knew time was an important part of the equation. In an hour, the streets would begin filling… . The more looky-loos, the more confusion. He wanted this to be a quick surgical extraction. Tactically, he had two ways to go: One was to evacuate all the rooms to avoid any possible collateral damage. But he was afraid a full evacuation would make too much noise and alert the perp. The other option was to do a hard entry—swarm both rooms simultaneously and light up the perp at close range if he got frisky.

  Lieutenant MacLamore decided on a compromise. He evacuated the rooms on both sides of 37 and 40 to avoid the chance that a stray round might go through a wall and hit someone.

  The residents of those rooms now stood across the street, talking in hushed tones, not ten yards from where The Rat was parked, watching.

  An ambulance called by MacLamore pulled in silently, and the paramedics walked to the SWAT truck and checked in. MacLamore did the pre-op briefing by the back of the black SWAT step-van.

  “Okay, according to the NCIC computer, this guy killed two cops in Illinois,” MacLamore said. “We got an anonymous tip and the desk clerk confirms his p
icture ID. This is a redball, so don’t hesitate to light him up. I’ll take Room Thirty-seven, along with Delgado and Smith. Procopio, Nash, and Washington—you guys take Forty. Remember, he could be in there fucking his bitch. So just ‘cause you got the girl’s room, don’t cut them any slack. Go in hard. If he twitches, use him up fast, everybody get some. We go on my signal. I’m Blue, Procopio’s Red.”

  They nodded solemnly.

  “Standard-pattern entry—wide deployment, forty-five-degree cover fire. Questions?” Nobody spoke. “Let’s do it.”

  They moved away from the SWAT van, slamming banana clips into the HK-MP5s and chambering rounds in their automatics. They were all pumping adrenaline as they climbed the interior stairwell to the outdoor corridor on the second floor. They began edging down the wall quietly on rubber-soled combat boots. When they got to Room 37, MacLamore and his two-man Blue Team deployed there, as Procopio and his Red Team went on to Karen’s door. Once they were positioned, MacLamore and Procopio motioned each other and took out room keys. Simultaneously, they slid them slowly and silently into both locks.

  Inside his room, Lockwood had been unable to go to sleep. He was lost in a jumble of thoughts about Claire, Heather, and his bumble-fucked career. His mind turned to his confused feelings about Karen. He had always had problems with the new academics that were showing up by the busload at Customs. Brainiacs with no field experience, who felt their degrees gave them sway over any situation. But Karen had proved very different. She had, in a short time, managed to penetrate his defenses. Maybe it was that daredevil streak or her gentle smile. He had finally begun to sort out his feelings about her. He knew now that what bothered him about her relationship with Malavida was his own desire to explore his feelings for her. But he had promised his daughter that he would raise her, and he was determined to keep that promise. He didn’t think there was any way that these desires could coexist. Besides that, he had other problems: If he was fired from Customs for malfeasance, his pension would be dust and he’d have no job. He couldn’t figure out where the money to buy a farm was going to come from, but one way or another, he would make it happen.

  Then he heard a metallic click in his door. It sounded like a tumbler in his lock being turned over. Lockwood quickly rolled, and his hand went for the .45, which he had put on the bedside table. He just got the gun in his hand when the door was kicked open, and three men in black jumpsuits were instantly in the room.

  “You’re dead, motherfucker!” MacLamore yelled, aiming his weapon.

  Lockwood was already squeezing off a shot. The .45 bucked in his hand as he rolled backwards. His shot hit one of the three SWAT team members. The man screamed and went down. Lockwood completed his somersault and landed on the far side of the bed as two 9-millimeter rounds thunked into the mattress where he’d been. A third round went whizzing over his head.

  “Police! Drop it, police!” MacLamore found cover as he yelled at Lockwood, curled low behind the bed.

  “Prove it,” Lockwood yelled back.

  MacLamore threw his badge case over the bed. It landed next to Lockwood. He looked at it. “I’m coming up. Nobody shoot. Here’s the gun.”

  He flipped the .45 onto the mattress and started to rise. He got halfway up when he was high-lowed. His chin took a flying head butt from Lieutenant MacLamore; Smith hit him with a shoulder tackle from the far side. They drove him backwards into the wall. The three of them went to the floor in a tangle. Then MacLamore and Smith pinned him. They slammed Lockwood’s head into the floor several times to get rid of unburned adrenaline. They put handcuffs on, ratcheting them as tight as possible, cutting off his circulation, then yanked him to his feet. MacLamore checked Delgado, who was bleeding from a through-hole in his hip, then triggered his walkie-talkie. “Blue Team. We’re clear in Thirty-seven. One down. Delgado needs a dust-off. It’s through and through, but he’s spilling blood like a son of a bitch.”

  Procopio’s voice answered immediately. “Red Team is also secure,” he said. “No injuries. I’ll notify the parameds.”

  They sent Delgado off in a wailing ambulance. Lockwood and Karen were lated in separate rooms as MacLamore began a preliminary interrogation.

  “Shut the fuck up,” MacLamore yelled when Lockwood started to say something.

  “I’m a Customs officer on leave of duty.”

  “You’re wanted for a double police murder in Illinois and you put a round in one of my men.”

  “You came through the door waving a machine gun. You never identified yourself as a cop! Who taught you your hard-entry tactics? You fucked up!” Lockwood shouted back.

  Both of them were still yelling as the Watch Commander hit the scene. He was a bull-necked sixty-year-old captain named Fred T. Fredrickson. In Miami police circles, he was known as Fred T. Fred. He had thirty years on the force, a command persona, and a no-nonsense, take-charge presence in a crisis. The minute he arrived, everybody settled down.

  As the sun came up over Miami, Lockwood and Karen were transported to the Dade County Sheriff’s Office in the backs of two separate squad cars. They drove past The Rat, who watched from his rental car across the street. He had heard the gunfire and been sure they would be killed. His nipples were on fire. They had been burning all afternoon; his skin was tender and growing red. A sign that The Wind Minstrel was coming. As he watched Lockwood and Dawson being taken away, he wondered if they were archangels, sent from heaven. How else could they have managed to survive?

  Chapter 29

  DISGRACE

  Vic Kulack arrived in Miami with Lockwood’s Federal arrest warrant in his pocket. The last time Kulack had been in South Florida had been a disaster for him. He had left in defeat with an official reprimand because of the cluster-fuck during the take-down on Operation Girlfriend. All of his troubles after that had been courtesy of John Lockwood. It was one thing to have Lockwood go stress-related and have him run through a head check in Washington … but this was too good to be true. This was the all-time, outta-the-park, bounce-it-in-the-parkinglot home run.

  He was picked up by an IA-ASAC from the Miami office named “Pecos Bill” Broder. Broder had been raised in Texas and had an accent you could hang a Stetson on. He had been Kulack’s second-incommand on the IA investigation on Operation Girlfriend and shared Kulack’s hearty dislike for Lockwood. As they rode across town to the Dade County Sheriff’s Office, Broder filled Kulack in.

  “They got our boy strung up t’the barn door,” Broder drawled. “The list a’shit he’s pulled this time is impressive, even by his standards. In descending order: He put a hole in a SWAT commando, hit a cop at Jackson Memorial, and ditched a police escort at a crime scene. He also moved evidence, the suspect’s truck, I think. Dade Sheriff’s recovered it last night, but as evidence, it’s vomit. Got Malavida’s blood and everybody’s prints, including Karen Dawson’s, all over it.”

  “Ah, yes,” Kulack growled, “Awesome Dawson …” Kulack knew that since she was a civilian, there wasn’t much he could get her for. Aiding and abetting, or maybe some after-the-fact bullshit. He’d elected to leave her off the warrant because she had juice at DOJ.

  They arrived at the Dade County Sheriff’s Office, and, once Kulack had checked in with the Extradite Transfer Office, he left Broder downstairs and was taken to a tobacco-colored room on the third floor. The Sheriff’s main building was in downtown Miami, and Kulack thought the place looked like it had been designed by Plains Indians. It was a bunch of big, square structures with flat roofs that looked like a series of huge shoe boxes, which were called annexes because they’d been added over the years as the department grew to accommodate the ever-increasing need for South Florida law enforcement.

  Kulack sat impatiently in a wood-backed chair in the windowless, badly ventilated interrogation room and waited.

  His prner was finally led in by a detective. Kulack noted with displeasure that Lockwood wasn’t in restraints, even though he had been arrested for a handful of Class A felonies.

/>   “Shouldn’t this piece of shit be handcuffed?” he said without waiting for an introduction.

  The last to enter the room was the Watch Commander, Fredrickson. He closed the door behind him.

  “I’m Captain Fred T. Fredrickson,” he said, extending his hand. Kulack made no move to accept it.

  “This douchebag walked a Federal convict out of Lompoc Prn using bad paper,” Kulack said. “Then he gets him critically injured. He’s not an active Customs Officer anymore, but he’s down here pretending he’s on the job, which is a violation of Title Eighteen of the U. S. Penal Code, Section Nine-Twelve: Impersonation of a Federal Officer. That’s before he even gets around to plugging one of your guys and swinging on some poor schmuck working a folding chair at the hospital.”

  “Why don’t you slow down,” Fred T. Fred said as he found an empty seat and plopped down in it. “You’re filling this little room up with exhaust.”

  “I got the paperwork here. I wanna get moving. I got a plane t’catch.” Kulack pulled the warrant out of his pocket and smiled over at Lockwood. “If you’re hoping that the DOAO is gonna pull your flaming gonads outta the campfire again, you’re in for a big shock.”