by Thomas Scott
Bell, a civilian, didn’t have a police radio in his helicopter, so he and Cool were communicating on an open aviation frequency. They were flying a grid pattern, Bell making north and south runs, with Cool taking the east and west. It was slow going. Flying low enough to get a decent view meant they both had to be careful of power lines, as well as cell and radio towers.
Another problem: Bell’s aircraft wasn’t turbine powered and was equipped with a much smaller fuel tank than the state’s helicopter. Twice he had to temporarily abandon the search grid and fly over to the Shelbyville Municipal Airport to refuel.
Yet another problem: They’d run out of daylight. It was time to break off the aerial search for the day and continue tomorrow if Hall hadn’t been found. Cool keyed his microphone and said, “Bell, it’s Cool. As a matter of your safety and mine, I’m calling it for the day.”
“I just refueled,” Bell said. “I think we could go a few more minutes, don’t you? Maybe use the landing lights?”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have said anything. I’ll see you back at the airport. I’m turning that way now.”
“Roger that,” Bell said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
And then Bell thought since he was going back, he might as well stay as low as he could and keep looking until he was out of the county. He turned on his landing lights and flew along slowly, watching both in front for obstacles and to the sides for Hall’s squad car. He flew almost right over the top of Wilbur’s barn and saw the tents in the woods below.
But Bell was a civilian, and other than thinking it was a pretty nice camping setup, he didn’t give it a second thought.
Johnson finished his survey of the house, where he found nothing at all. When he went back downstairs, he was surprised to find the kitchen empty, the entry door ajar. When he called out to the sheriff, he got no response. That’s when he saw the barn’s overhead door open, a faint glow coming from inside the structure, near the back.
He walked outside and called out again. “Sheriff? Hey, Ben, are you out here?”
When the sheriff didn’t answer, Carl headed for the barn. He wasn’t even halfway there when he smelled the death wafting out of the building. Johnson, who’d spent his entire life working on farms, knew death when he smelled it. He ran toward the barn and right up to the glow of Holden’s flashlight, which had rolled about two feet away when the sheriff had fallen. The light was pointing right at Holden’s face, whose eyes were wide with shock, pain, and fear.
Johnson knew about as much CPR as a turtle, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He yanked the handheld radio from Holden’s belt, keyed the microphone, and began shouting. “Help! Help! I need some help. Does anybody hear me? Dear God, somebody please answer.”
But Carl Johnson was in full panic mode and didn’t realize that he’d neglected to release the button on the microphone, which allowed anyone to answer. When he finally realized his mistake, he let go of the button and the response was instantaneous.
“Who is this?” The voice crackled over the speaker. “This is an official police frequency. State your name and the nature of your problem, then release the button on the mic so we can respond.”
“My name is Carl Johnson. I’m at the Mizner residence with Sheriff Holden. We found Hall. I think the sheriff is having a heart attack. I need some help out here right now.”
Carl didn’t know who was on the other end of the radio, but when he heard the man say they were on the way, he sat down in the dirt next to the sheriff who was starting to turn blue, and began to cry.
Cool, who was still monitoring the Shelby County police frequency, heard the entire exchange. He banked his helicopter away from the Indianapolis airport and began heading back. He flipped a switch, then keyed his microphone and said, “Cool to Bell.”
The response was immediate. “Go for Bell.”
“Position report.”
“Approximately ten miles south by southeast of the northwestern Shelby County line, over.”
“Hold your current position and standby,” Cool said.
“Roger that,” Bell replied. He put his helicopter into a hover, letting the craft drift in a tight little circle.
Cool went back to the Shelby County frequency and said, “This is Indiana State Aerial One to any deputy responding to the call for assistance, over.”
“State Aerial One, this is Shelby 206, go.”
“Shelby 206, I’m inbound from the northwest. I need an immediate vector to the Mizner residence, reference the civilian signal seven, over.”
“Residence is located approximately fifteen miles southeast of the northwest sector line. We’ve got all units running signal ten that way. Watch for our lights. They’ll guide you right in, over.”
“Roger that, Shelby 206. State Aerial One, out.” And Cool thought, Bell is right there. He switched frequencies again and said, “Cool to Bell.”
“Go for Bell.”
“I was still monitoring the Shelby County radio traffic,” Cool said. “They found Hall, condition unknown at this time, but the sheriff is in immediate distress. Sounds like he’s having a heart attack. I’m inbound, but you’re right there, Bell. Maybe five miles back. Watch for the flashers and head that way right now. Leave me room to land. I’m five minutes behind you.”
Bell had been drifting in a slow counter-clockwise circle. He put a little extra pressure on the left rudder pedal and when he did, he looked out in the distance and saw the flashers of the county squad cars coming in from all different directions. “Officers in sight. I’m heading that way now. Bell out.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Since the state’s helicopter was much faster than Bell’s own aircraft, Cool arrived at almost exactly the same time Bell did. He stayed high and hit the spotlight mounted on the bottom of the state’s helicopter, illuminating the entire area.
“I’m right above you, Bell,” Cool said.
“I can see that. Where do you want me?”
“See that area to the south of the barn? It looks like there’s plenty of open space. Set down right there. I’m going right in close to the barn. See that guy waving at us?”
“I do.”
“That’s where I’m headed. Slide out of the way now, and let me in. Then get over to where I’m going to land. I hope you’ve got your bag.”
Bell didn’t waste any time by replying. He slid his helicopter to a point about fifty yards away, then landed and quickly got everything shut down. He grabbed his bag and hustled over to where Cool had just touched down. There were already four county squad cars at the scene, and one of the deputies tried to stop Bell from getting any closer.
“Stop right there, sir. This is a crime scene and we’ve got an active medical emergency.”
Bell didn’t slow. He held up his bag and said, “I’m a doctor. Where’s the sheriff?”
The deputy gave him a tight nod and said, “Follow me.” Then they both ran toward the barn.
The other deputies were huddled around the sheriff, trying not to look in the trunk of Hall’s squad car. One of them took three quick steps away and vomited in the corner.
“Everyone back off and give me some room,” Bell said. He got right down on the floor next to Holden and spent no more than five seconds listening to his heart. “He’s suffering from cardiac dysrhythmia, and he’s not getting enough oxygen.” He glanced at Cool and said, “Grab me the canister of O2 and the emergency defibrillator from the state chopper. Don’t bring it back yourself. Take one of the deputies and have them bring it out to me. Get your chopper fired back up. I’m going to shock him and we’ll go straight to the Shelbyville hospital. It’s the closest one. Go now, or we’re going to lose him.”
Twenty seconds later the deputy was back in the barn with the canister of oxygen and the emergency defibrillator. Bell put the mask over Holden’s face, then opened the valve all the way. He ripped the sheriff’s shirt open, and when the buttons came loose a few of them made little pinging
noises as they bounced off the side of Mizner’s truck.
Bell stuck the pads on the center of Holden’s chest and along the left side of his ribcage then pressed the button. The machine made a high-pitched squeal that sounded like a Star Trek phaser set on overload, then Holden’s body seemed to spasm, like he might be trying to levitate off the floor. Bell grabbed his stethoscope and placed it over Holden’s chest again. He shook his head, leaned back, and pressed the button once more.
This time when he listened, Holden’s heart was beating with a regular rhythm, but Bell knew it was much too weak. He reached into his bag and grabbed a fat cylinder that looked a little like a yellow Sharpie, ripped off the cap, and stuck the needle right into Holden’s chest.
“What’s that?” one of the deputies asked.
“Our last chance, at this point,” Bell said. “It’s called Epinephrine. It acts quickly to improve breathing, stimulate the heart, and raise blood pressure.”
“Looks like it might be working,” the deputy said. “He’s opening his eyes.”
Bell pointed at two of the deputies. “Okay, let’s get him out to the state chopper. You, grab him under his armpits, and you, grab him under his thighs. Looks like his knees wouldn’t be able to take the weight. I’m going to leave the oxygen and defibrillator hooked up. I’ll carry those right beside you. Let’s go now, quickly…but gently.”
They got Holden on board the chopper, and once they had him positioned, Bell shouted to one of the deputies over the roar of the rotor blades and turbines. “Call ahead and tell them we’re on our way. Have a cardiologist ready.” Then he slammed the door and Cool lifted off into the night, headed for the hospital.
Ron Miles turned into Mizner’s driveway five minutes later. He had no idea what was happening, but with all the county squad cars sitting around with their blue and red lights flashing, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Mizner must have been found.
One of the deputies stopped him and asked who he was and why he was there.
Ron pulled out his identification and showed it to the officer. “My name is Ron Miles and I’m with the state’s Major Crimes Unit.”
The deputy had his flashlight aimed directly at Ron’s ID. “This says you’re a private investigator.”
Miles nodded at the man. “That’s true. But I’m also permanently assigned to the MCU. Sheriff Holden himself called my boss and asked for some investigative assistance.”
“And they sent you?”
Ron didn’t like being put in a position where he had to defend himself to another cop. Nevertheless, he said, “I was formerly the lead detective with Indianapolis Metro Homicide, as well as the administrative head of the MCU for a short period of time. I have over thirty years on the job. My boss works directly for the governor. They sent me down here to locate a couple of guys named Graves and Mizner. Said the rest of you were tied up looking for the undersheriff, uh, Hall, I think his name is.” When the deputy didn’t respond, Miles said, “What is it? And where’s Sheriff Holden? I’d like to let him know that I’m here and will be working to find Graves and Mizner. Deputy?”
The deputy wiped the corner of his eye with the side of his thumb. “You better come with me.”
The deputy led him to the overhead door, pointed inside, then he told him what they’d discovered.
“And there’s no doubt that the two bodies in the back of the pickup are Graves and Mizner?”
“None at all. A couple of the boys here knew them personally.”
“And your undersheriff? Hall?”
“Found in the trunk of his own squad car. He’d been shot to death.”
Ron reached up and flattened his hair, then shook his head. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” He looked at the group of deputies standing around, clustered in small groups of twos and threes. It looked, he thought, like they weren’t quite sure what to do. He turned his attention back to the deputy next to him and said, “Uh, the sheriff? I really need to speak with him.”
When the deputy told him what had happened to Holden, Ron wasn’t quite sure what to say. Finally, he said, “Can you gather all the men together?”
The deputy sort of shrugged, then whistled through his teeth until he had everyone’s attention. Once they were all together, Miles said, “My name is Ron Miles, with the state. This is a terrible thing, and I’m very sorry for your loss. With Sheriff Holden incapacitated, and Undersheriff Hall, uh, no longer with us, who has operational control over your department? Who’s next in line, seniority-wise?”
As it turned out, it was the deputy Ron had been speaking with. “That’d be me. Name’s Deputy Ed Henderson.”
“What’s the status of your crime scene people?” Miles asked. “Are they on the way yet?”
“I guess I better call them,” Henderson said.
Miles could tell he was dealing with a bunch of cops who were in shock. They’d lost their undersheriff, and the sheriff himself was in medical distress. “Probably not a bad idea. I’ll see if I can get the state’s crime scene people down here to assist if your people think it’s necessary. In the meantime, let’s keep everyone out of that barn and away from those vehicles.” He looked directly at Henderson and said, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to get the county coroner out here as well.”
“You in charge now?” Henderson said.
Miles caught the tone, but let it go. “No. Not me personally, but given the sudden nature of the, mmm, lack of leadership within your department, the state will in all likelihood send someone to take over, pending Sheriff Holden’s recovery.”
Henderson simply shook his head and walked away.
The hospital in Shelbyville didn’t have a heliport, but they did have a nice little circular patch of grass right outside the emergency department entrance. Cool set the chopper down in the grass circle—a tight fit—and as soon as he did, a medical team came out pushing a gurney. They got Holden loaded up and rushed him inside, Bell jogging along with them, shouting out Holden’s condition and the medication he’d already been given. A few minutes later he walked back outside and found Cool.
“Think he’ll make it?”
Bell gave him a half shrug. “Too soon to tell. He was right on the edge when I got to him. If they can get him stabilized, I think his best shot is going to be up at Methodist. He’ll likely need open-heart surgery. I’ll tell you something else: that’s not all he needs. I did a perfunctory exam on the flight over. His knees are gone. And I don’t mean they’re simply bad. I mean they are shot. I think when he fell, he shattered them both. If he survives the heart episode, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair if he doesn’t get them replaced.”
“So now what?” Cool said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hang around for a little while…see if they can get him firing on all cylinders, so to speak. Think Doc Evans could take his knees if it comes to that?”
Cool nodded. “I’m sure she would. I’ll give her a call.” Then, “Boy, I hope he makes it. He’s sort of a grouchy old bastard, but in a good way, know what I mean?”
Ron called Becky at home and told her he’d found Mizner and Graves.
Becky, who was in the middle of eating dinner with Murton said, “Boy, that was quick. Where were they? At the casino or something?”
“Nope. They were in Mizner’s barn. Both of them are dead, along with the undersheriff…also dead. It looks like he’d been shot, then stuffed into the trunk of his own squad car.”
Becky was silent for a few seconds as she absorbed all that. Then she said, “Oh, boy, hold on, let me tell Murt. He’s right here.”
Murton’s voice came through in the background over the phone. “Tell me what?”
So Becky told him. Ron could hear her relaying the information to her husband. He also heard what sounded like a quick kiss goodbye, then Murton on the phone, probably speaking to Virgil.
A few seconds later Becky turned her attention back to Ron. “Murt is already out the door. He’s going to grab Jon
esy and get down there as quick as they can.”
“Tell them I’m at the Mizner residence. I’ll stay until they arrive. These guys—the county cops—they’re walking around like a bunch of zombies or something. No one seems to be in charge.”
“What do you mean?” Becky said. “Where’s Sheriff Holden?”
“Ah, yeah. I should have mentioned that too…”
When Virgil and Murton arrived at Mizner’s, they found Miles and pulled him aside. “How bad is it?” Virgil said.
“About as bad as it gets. I haven’t actually seen anything yet…didn’t want to contaminate the scene, but from what the deputies said, both Graves and Mizner are in the bed of Mizner’s truck. Looks like someone took them out with a shotgun. Same with Hall, except he was found in the trunk of his squad.”
“Shelby County Crime Scene here yet?” Murton said.
Miles nodded. “They’re inside now.”
Virgil turned and looked at Mizner’s house. “Is that Carl Johnson sitting on the porch?”
“It is,” Miles said. “He was with the sheriff when they found the bodies. He called for help over the sheriff’s radio, if you can believe that.”
“Okay,” Virgil said. “I’ll get with him in a minute. We need to get a quick look inside the barn.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Virgil and Murton both had their badges out and visible, hanging from chains around their necks. They walked up to the barn’s overhead door but didn’t cross the threshold. Virgil got the attention of one of the crime scene techs, identified himself as an officer of the state, then asked if he and Murton could take a quick look.
The crime scene tech bit into his lower lip, then said, “You may as well. Half the deputies have already been in here, so contamination isn’t exactly at the top of anyone’s list. I’d appreciate it though if you’d boot up and wear gloves. Let me grab some gear for you.”
