Cavanaugh Standoff

by Marie Ferrarella

  That got an annoyed response from inside the apartment.

  “Keep your pants on, I’m coming!” a disgruntled voice complained. The apartment door opened and a bleary-eyed man wearing faded pajama bottoms and a washed-out gray T-shirt opened the door. “What?” he demanded.

  Ronan held up his badge and ID, as did Sierra. “Detectives O’Bannon and Carlyle. We need to talk to you, Officer—” He looked to Sierra to fill in the man’s name, which she did.

  “Wojohowicz.”

  The surly looking officer was immediately contrite. “Hey, I wouldn’t have sounded so annoyed if I knew it was you, Detectives,” he apologized.

  Ronan disregarded the apology. “May we come in?” he asked in a tone that told the officer saying no was not an option.

  “Sure, sure.” Wojohowicz opened the door all the way. “Place is kind of a mess. I wasn’t expecting company,” the disheveled patrolman told them, backing up. “Is something wrong, Detectives?” he asked, looking from Ronan to the woman at his side. Without waiting for an answer, he began speaking nonstop. “I don’t usually call in sick, but I had this sushi yesterday afternoon and I tell you, it just about cleaned out my insides. I had a 102 fever and—”

  It was obvious that officer would have gone on talking indefinitely until he ran out of air. Ronan held his hand up, a clear sign that he wanted the officer to stop, which he did. Abruptly.

  “Someone shot your partner,” Ronan told the officer, carefully watching his reaction.

  The officer appeared to have trouble processing the information. Several emotions passed over his pasty face, ending with sheer astonishment.

  “Jimmy?” he looked from one detective to the other. “He got shot? Is he all right?”

  “No,” Ronan answered, still watching the officer’s face. “He’s not all right. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Wojohowicz repeated numbly, collapsing onto a sofa that had seen better years. He looked as if he was having trouble catching his breath. “What happened?”

  “He was executed.” Ronan said. “One shot to the back of the head. The killer cut off his left hand. Was Officer Murphy left-handed?”

  “What? Um, yes. I think so. You mean he was killed the same way like that serial killer’s been doing?” Wojohowicz asked, stunned. “No, that can’t be right. Murphy never belonged to a street gang,” he protested. “Are you sure?” he asked, obviously searching for something that made sense to him. “Why would that serial killer kill Murphy?” And then he came up with his own answer. “Maybe it’s a copycat killer, trying to throw you off.” He looked from one to the other to see if that made sense to them.

  “That is a possibility,” Ronan allowed. At this point, almost anything was a possibility. “Why’d you call in sick?”

  “I told you, I had some really bad sushi. I think I’ve still got the receipt from the restaurant in my wallet. Do you want to see it?” he offered.

  “If you don’t mind,” Ronan said in a low, steely voice meant to undermine the officer’s confidence if he was lying.

  “Sure.” The officer quickly crossed into the kitchen and went toward a chair where he had a pair of pants slung over the back. Riffling through the pockets, he found his wallet and took it out, then quickly searched through it. A sigh of relief accompanied the discovery of the receipt.

  “Here. See?” Crossing back to the two detectives, he handed his “proof” to Ronan. “I had that for lunch yesterday,” he said, indicating the first thing on the itemized receipt. “Two hours later, I was throwing up my insides. I’d steer clear of the Royal Gardens if I were you,” he told them, referring to the restaurant by name. Then, when neither one of them said anything, he looked at them nervously. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, no trouble,” Sierra told the officer. “Why don’t you tell us about your partner? What was he like to ride with?”

  Wojohowicz seemed conflicted. “Well, the guy’s dead, so I don’t want to say anything bad about him.”

  “But?” Sierra coaxed.

  “Well, he was a good cop,” the officer began, “but I could tell something was eating away at him. He didn’t talk about it, but I could tell. The guy clearly had his demons.”

  “Any idea what these ‘demons’ were?” Ronan asked, doing his best not to sound impatient.

  Wojohowicz chewed on his lower lip, thinking. “If I was gonna make a guess, I’d say it might have had something to do with his old partner, Robertson. Something happened between them. I think that might have been the reason they decided to go their separate ways.”

  “If you had to guess,” Sierra prompted, picking up on the officer’s language, “would you say it was some sort of a deal that went bad, or maybe they argued and had a falling out over a woman?”

  The officer’s expression remained confused.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. “But I do think that’s why Jimmy’s wife left him, so maybe it was over a woman. I’m sorry—” Wojohowicz suddenly paled. “I think I’ve got to throw up again.” He threw the words over his shoulder while hurrying to the bathroom.

  “We’ll just see ourselves out,” Ronan called out to the officer. The bathroom door slammed shut and the sound of retching was heard. “Let’s go,” he said to Sierra as he led the way out of the apartment.

  “Do you believe him?” she asked Ronan once they were outside the ground-floor apartment.

  Ronan shrugged, crossing the lot to his parked vehicle. “Place smelled like vomit, so I’m inclined to think he was telling the truth.”

  “Maybe we should talk to Murphy’s ex-partner?” Sierra suggested.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Ronan agreed.

  They got back into his car and he started it up. “What do you think this case is really about?” he asked her as he drove out of the apartment complex.

  She thought for a moment, doing a little free association in her head. “Well, considering the mounting dead bodies, I’d say that this serial killer is very, very angry. Until Officer Murphy turned up dead, I would have said that whatever the killer was angry about had to do with something he’d suffered at the hands of a gang—”

  “Two gangs,” Ronan reminded her.

  She nodded. “Two gangs,” she amended. “And that broadens the playing field. But since Murphy was killed in the exact same way, this doesn’t just involved gangs. There’s got to be something else. It’s not just someone trying to get back at members of a gang for something that happened to him at their hands.”

  Ronan nodded. She had more or less put into words what he’d been thinking. And they were clearly missing some of the pieces of the puzzle. “Maybe Murphy’s ex-partner can shed some light on this.”

  “If he wants to,” she said.

  He spared her a quick look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, if there really is something that we’re missing, whatever it is might incriminate Robertson if it comes to light.” She was speculating.

  “If there is something,” Ronan told her, “then fear is going to be our best weapon.”

  “Fear?” she questioned.

  “Absolutely. There is a serial killer out there, killing people. Let’s say he’s doing it for a reason, a reason that involved Murphy and might very well involve Robertson. That means that Robertson’s days might be numbered. We can offer Robertson protection—all he has to do is tell us why someone would want to execute a bunch of gang members and his old partner.”

  “What if he doesn’t know?”

  “Let’s just suppose that he does,” he countered.

  She nodded. “Worth exploring,” she said as they came to a stop at a red light.

  Ronan smiled at her for the first time all day. She could see he was, at least momentarily, thinking of exploring something entirely different. “Yes,
definitely worth exploring.”

  Her stomach tightened, sending butterflies flying inside her.

  The traffic light changed and the moment was gone.

  For now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Okay, Uncle Sean, what can you tell us about the serial killer’s latest victim?” Ronan asked as he and Sierra walked into the CSI lab.

  “Your timing’s very good,” Sean told him. “The ME just did the preliminary autopsy and I finished running the tox screen.”

  He pulled together several sheets of paper with the information. “Officer Murphy was shot in the back of the head with the same gun that all the other gang members were—a 9 mm Smith & Wesson. The tox screen came back positive for the same date-rape drug we determined was used on the last two victims. And, as you saw, his left hand was severed, not just hacked off. We’re dealing with someone who has some sort of medical background in addition to access to medical drugs. In short,” Sean concluded, “I’ve got nothing new for you. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Ronan told him. “At least we know it’s the same person responsible for all these murders. Thanks for putting a rush on it,” he said to his uncle.

  “No problem. So what’s your next move?” Sean asked.

  “We’re going to find Murphy’s old partner and see if he has any insight on why Murphy was executed,” Ronan answered.

  “Keep me posted,” Sean called after them.

  “Will do,” Sierra promised, then hurried after Ronan.

  * * *

  SINCE THEY’D STARTED riding together, Officer Gary Robertson and his new partner, a first-year rookie named Jerry Allen, had a ritual they followed every Wednesday. They stopped at a popular Mexican food restaurant—Jose’s—for lunch. The food was rated as good and the prices were low.

  Jose’s was where Ronan and Sierra tracked the two officers down.

  Or rather, they tracked down Officer Allen. Robertson was nowhere in sight. “What’s wrong with this picture?” Ronan asked as they approached the table where the lone officer was sitting.

  “We’re one officer short,” Sierra commented. “He’s got to be around here somewhere, right?”

  Aided with a photograph of Robertson, Ronan looked around the outdoor dining area, but only saw Allen. “Let’s find out where his partner is,” he said to Sierra.

  Approaching Allen’s table he saw that there were two servings on it. “Officer Allen?”

  The slightly heavyset rookie was busy devouring his second chicken enchilada and didn’t look up. “I’m on my lunch break. Who wants to know?” he asked in a less than friendly voice.

  “Detectives O’Bannon and Carlyle,” Ronan snapped, reacting to the officer’s tone. “Where’s your partner, rookie?”

  Officer Allen shot up from his chair immediately, his expression showing he clearly regretted the attitude he’d copped. He answered like a new Marine trainee. “He’s in the men’s room, sir. Says beer goes right through him, sir.”

  Ronan looked directly into the rookie’s eyes. “Drinking on the job, Allen?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I mean Robertson was, I wasn’t,” he answered, stumbling over his own tongue. “This is ginger ale, sir. See?” He held up his glass so that they could verify what he’d just told them.

  Sierra saw no reason to make the rookie suffer. “We’re not interested in what you’re drinking, Officer Allen,” she told him, trying to calm Allen down. “We just need to talk to your partner.”

  “He’s in the men’s room,” Allen repeated, pointing toward the interior of the restaurant. “Come to think of it, he’s taking a really long time in there.” He started to turn to go into the restaurant. “Maybe I should go get him.”

  Ronan put his hand on the rookie’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Finish your lunch, Allen. Detective Carlyle and I will go get Robertson.”

  “You don’t want me to come with you?” Allen asked, disappointed.

  The rookie’s question struck Ronan as rather odd. “What for?”

  Allen looked at a loss for an answer, then blurted out hopefully, “Backup?”

  “That’s what I have Detective Carlyle for,” O’Bannon answered in what amounted to a deadpan response.

  They walked into the restaurant, which was doing a healthy amount of business. Lively Mexican music was being piped in, adding to the atmosphere as well as the noise level.

  “So, I’ve made the grade as your backup, eh?” she asked, not bothering to suppress her smile.

  “In more ways than one,” he answered.

  She decided to leave that response alone for the time being and looked around the restaurant instead. “Nice place,” Sierra commented.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I used to come here when I was a patrolman. They’ve done a bit of upgrading since then,” he observed. He looked to the far end of the restaurant and saw what he was looking for. “But looks like the men’s room is in the same place.”

  “I’ll just wait out here for you,” she told him once they had reached the men’s room.

  There was a ladies’ room right next to it. A woman came out of it, quickly passing Sierra. The latter was too busy looking at the men’s room door to notice her and had to shift to get out of the woman’s way.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, not looking at the woman. The woman made no response, she just kept walking.

  “This’ll just take a minute,” Ronan promised, pushing the men’s room door opened. Less than a beat later, he called out, “Carlyle, come in here.”

  “You need help dragging him out?” she asked, wondering what was going on.

  “Not exactly,” Ronan answered.

  Crossing the threshold, she stopped in midstep, stunned. Less than five feet away there was a man in a police uniform lying facedown on the colorfully tiled floor, a pool of blood gathering beneath his upper torso. It was darkening the tile. The officer was missing his right hand.

  Sierra looked at Ronan. “Robertson?” she asked.

  “Right on the first guess,” he answered.

  “The killer had to have stalked Robertson to know that he’d find him here.”

  Ronan nodded, crouching beside the body. He checked for any signs of life even though he already knew what he’d find. “I think our killer stalked all of them. Bastard’s patient,” he remarked.

  “And very damn cold-blooded,” she added. “This is a crowded restaurant,” she said. “Anyone could have walked in on him at any time.”

  “It’s a trade-off,” Ronan decided. “The noise and music were a perfect cover. Nobody would have heard the gunshot.”

  “My guess is that he’s using a silencer. Why take a chance?” she asked.

  Sighing, Ronan took out his cell phone and hit three keys on the keyboard. “This is Detective O’Bannon.” He recited his shield number. “I’ve got an officer down. Send backup,” he ordered. “No, don’t send a bus. This guy’s way past that. Send the coroner and the crime scene investigators. We’ve got another dead officer on our hands. Officer Gary Robertson.” He heard the shocked silence on the other end and gave the dispatcher a moment before he recited the restaurant’s address.

  Terminating the call, Ronan cursed under his breath as he rose again.

  He looked down at the body. “The blood’s fresh. This just happened. We must have just missed him.”

  Sierra looked at him. “That means the killer might still be here. He’s trying to blend in with the customers.”

  He realized she was right. How had that managed to escape him? Ronan snapped into action.

  “We need to seal all the exits. Stay with the body,” he instructed, moving passed her and out the men’s room door.

  Sierra crouched beside the body. Myriad emotions undulated through her. The gre
atest of them all was sadness.

  “What the hell did you and your ex-partner get yourselves into?” she questioned, shaking her head. With a sigh, she rose to her feet.

  Flashing his badge and ID at the bartender, Ronan announced, “I’m shutting this place down temporarily. No one goes out, no one comes in.”

  Shocked, the buff bartender protested, “You can’t do that.”

  “The dead body in your men’s room says I can,” Ronan countered.

  “Dead body?” the bartender echoed. “What dead body?” And then, not waiting for an answer, he cursed for a full minute before ending with, “Oh, damn.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Ronan replied crisply.

  Obviously alarmed, Allen came hurrying over to Ronan at the bar. “What’s wrong? Where’s Robertson?” the rookie asked.

  “Meeting his maker right about now would be my guess,” Ronan answered. When the rookie stared at him blankly, Ronan elaborated, “Robertson’s dead. Someone shot him in the men’s room.”

  The rookie’s eyes seemed to double in size. “Now?”

  “No, yesterday,” Ronan retorted. “Yes, now.” Realizing that the bartender hadn’t moved an inch and wasn’t carrying out his instructions, Ronan held up his badge and announced in a loud voice, “Can I have your attention, please? I’m Detective O’Bannon and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to be patient for a while. My partner and I need you to remain in your seats until we’ve had a chance to question you, collect your names and your contact information.”

  A chorus of unhappy voices rose to question—or challenge—his instructions.

  “What happened?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got to get back to work. You can’t keep me here like some prisoner.”

  Ronan held his hand up for silence. When the questions finally died down, he told the patrons, “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you’ll be able to leave.” He turned toward Allen. “I need you to go and relieve Detective Carlyle. She’s in the men’s room with the body. I want you to take her place.”