I jumped up and stumbled across toward him, falling next to where he laid face down on the ground.
Rolling him over I said, “Frank. Frank. Are you—”
“The son of a bitch shot me,” he said. “Look out for—”
“It was me,” I said. “I’m the son of a bitch. Where are you hit?”
“You?”
“Yeah. Where are you hit?”
“You shot me? Why?”
“Why do you think? I didn’t like the way you were looking at me. I thought you were Dorsey. Where are you hit?”
“Just in the leg. I’m okay. What happened to your eye?”
I looked down at his legs. The bottom of his left pant leg was black with blood.
“I fired twice,” I said.
“Well, you only hit me once. Thank Christ you’re not a better shot.”
“Shit, Frank, I’m so sorry, man.”
“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t’ve been running at you like that. I tried to circle around and come in behind him, but I didn’t go far enough I guess. Where is Erin? You’ve got to find her. Go. I’m fine. I’m gonna make a tourniquet with my belt, but I probably don’t even need that. I’m fine. Go.”
“What the fuck is going on out here tonight?” Dorsey said, as he stepped up behind me and stuck the barrel of a gun into the back of my head. “Y’all shootin’ each other. What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
“Put the gun down,” Frank said.
“This is entrapment. What the hell kind of cops are—”
“Put the gun down,” Frank said. “Where is Officer Newman? What’d you do to her?”
“Who? The fuck’s goin’ on out—”
I spun around and fired up at him. And missed.
Frank fired and hit his gun arm.
But Dorsey didn’t drop his gun. Instead he lifted it up and pointed it at Frank.
And then we all fired again. Me and Frank—and Walt and Joe coming up from the left and Erin walking up from the other side of Frank.
And this time no one missed. Not even me.
Dorsey managed to get off a round but it hit the ground inches from Frank’s right foot.
There was no way to tell who’s shot went where but we hit Patrick Dorsey in the right side of his chest, his lower left abdomen, his right leg, his right shoulder, and his right eye.
He was dead before his mortal remains crumpled onto the cold hard ground.
53
“Who y’all think got him in the eye?” Joe said.
“Sure as shit know who it wasn’t,” Walt said, and looked at me.
Everyone laughed.
It was much, much later that night, and we were in Frank’s hospital room at Dekalb Medical.
“We lucky he didn’t shoot one of us,” Walt said.
I felt guilty and embarrassed about shooting Frank, and this wasn’t helping.
With Sylvia in the condition she was in, this was the last thing either of them needed.
“Could happen to anybody,” Erin said, and patted me on the shoulder.
“Barely a scratch,” Frank said.
Fortunately, the round had completely missed bone and went clean through the side of his calf muscle. Pretty much all that had been required was cleaning the wound and sewing up his leg.
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Walt said, “but y’all gotten a little off topic. Pretty sure I’s the one that put that round through that bastard’s eye and into his brain.”
I couldn’t look at Walt the same now. I was trying not to let it show, but I was suspicious of him—everything he said and did.
“How you figure?” Joe asked.
“Had the angle and—”
“We had the same angle,” Joe said.
“—I’m the best shot.”
“Bullshit you are.”
“How are you?” Frank asked Erin.
She nodded. “Okay. Wish . . . I would’ve been able to subdue him. Then none of this would’ve happened. We’d be able to question him and . . . I thought I was ready, thought I could handle myself, but . . . when he jumped me . . . I just sort of froze at first. I’m sorry, guys.”
“You did great,” Frank said.
“No need to apologize,” I said. “Not at all. You’re the reason we got him.”
“Yeah,” Walt said, “least you didn’t shoot any of us. Only apology needed is from John to Frank.”
“He’s already apologized,” Frank said. “Several times. But he didn’t need to. It was my fault. He didn’t do anything wrong. I was late coming in—I’m getting old and slow. And I ran right at him with my gun drawn right after Erin yelled that Dorsey had a gun and was getting away.”
“That’s true,” Erin said. “It was my fault.”
“No,” Frank said. “You did great. You all did. But I’m serious. John didn’t do anything wrong and you need to lay off him.”
Walt started to say something, but stopped as Bud walked into the room.
“Great work everyone,” he said. “We got him.” He looked at Frank. “How you feeling, old man?”
“Can’t remember when I was any better,” Frank said.
Bud smiled. “Good. That’s good. Glad to hear it.”
“How’d it go?” Frank asked.
Bud had just finished a meeting with the FBI and GBI and gave a statement to the press.
He nodded. “Good . . . all things considered. So this is how this thing’s gonna go,” he added, glancing at each of us. “The FBI is going to review our case while the GBI looks into the shooting. Now look, I want you all to be cooperative. Answer all their questions that you can—fully and honestly—but take care of each other, look out for each other, as you do. Understand?”
We nodded.
He looked directly at Walt. “Understand?”
“Just as well as anyone else in here,” he said.
“Frank and I’ve both spoken to the GBI agent handling the shooting investigation and we’ve decided to leave Frank’s little scratch out of the public report. He’s still going to investigate it, but no one beside him and the people in this room will ever know about it. Ever. That means I better not hear a peep about it ever again—not from any of you and damn sure not from the press. Understand?”
Everyone nodded.
“I mean it,” Bud said. “I won’t just have your job. I’ll have your balls.”
As if an afterthought he looked at Erin. “Sorry. Or your . . . you know what I mean.”
“She got the biggest balls in the room,” Walt said. “Why I’ve always been happy to have her as my partner.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you all for . . .”
“You did great out there,” Bud said. “What happened could’ve happened to anyone—especially under the circumstances. You don’t need something like this following you for the rest of your career.”
“Well, I really appreciate it. It means a lot to me. I’ve got to spend some time thinking about everything and figure out if I should even keep doing this, but . . . I can’t tell you how much I . . . appreciate what y’all are doing.”
“It’s the least we can do,” Bud said.
“It really is,” Frank said. “You didn’t hesitate to run in there by yourself after Erin. Who knows what might have happened if you didn’t. She could be dead right now.”
“I really could,” she said, then looked at Walt. “So let me reiterate this too. I will fuck up anybody who says anything to anyone about what happened—especially the press. And you know I’ll do it.”
“Look, I’m about to take offense,” Walt said. “I ain’t gonna say shit to anyone. So none of y’all best single my black ass out again. Understand that?”
54
“You feel like talking about what happened?” Bud asked.
He was talking to Erin who was in the seat beside him. I was in the back seat. We had ridden to the hospital with Frank in the ambulance and now Bud was giving us a ride home.
“No, I
don’t mind. Gonna have to tomorrow to strangers anyway. I just wish we could know for sure he’s our guy.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“That he is, but I . . . I’m just not positive. I’m not saying he’s not. I’m just saying I can’t be certain.”
“What did he say to you?” I asked.
“It was incoherent,” she said. “Most of it didn’t make sense or at least I couldn’t make sense out of it. It was menacing, threatening, but . . . I don’t know . . . kind of random and like I said pretty unintelligible.”
“That’s interesting,” Bud said. “We didn’t find any rope or wood or anything.”
“Really?” Erin said.
“Maybe it was in his vehicle,” I said. “How’d he get there? Who was in his vehicle that Joe and Walt were following?”
“Some kid who worked at the restaurant. Patrick dates his mom. Paid him fifty bucks to put on his hat and jacket and drive his car home. Not sure how he got to the park. Didn’t find a vehicle or anything.”
“He had to get a ride,” I said. “It’s too far for him to have walked or run and gotten there when he did.”
“Or maybe he had a vehicle and we just haven’t found it yet,” Bud said. “But it does raise a lot of questions. It’s almost like he knew exactly where to go.”
“He could have,” Erin said. “Someone could have tipped him off, but . . . I was the only woman jogging in the park, so it could just be that. Or . . . he could’ve left the restaurant long before Joe and Walt thought he did.”
“True. So . . . we still have a lot of unanswered questions. Always expect to have some, but . . . want to answer all the ones we can and I damn sure don’t want to tell everyone we got him and then have another girl be killed.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Erin said. “One sure way we’ll know if it was him is if they stop. If there are no more sacrifices . . . then . . .”
“Right,” Bud said. “Exactly. Time will tell. But if it was him and he was tipped off . . . who the hell would do that? We’re the only ones who knew you were where you were, right?”
“I can’t believe that about one of my colleagues,” she said, “but . . . we’ve involved a lot more people lately. Still . . . can’t see what they’d gain from telling him and why him?”
“’Cause of how you interrogated him,” Bud said.
“Okay. He had it in for me, but who would tell him?”
“Same bastard that was feeding that reporter information,” he said.
“Who?” she said. “Walt? Why?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would he?”
“John, you’re awfully quiet back there,” Bud said. “You fall asleep.”
“Just thinking about everything,” I said. “Especially what y’all are saying. Find it all interesting, intriguing.”
“Why would Walt or anyone actually tell Patrick where I was?” Erin said. “Sic him on me like that.”
And then it hit me. The most likely reason anyone would do something like that would be to deflect suspicion from themselves.
I thought about Walt again. About him appearing on the top of the mountain when he did, about him expressing interest in Daphne, about the dating service.
“He’s been acting awfully strange lately,” Bud said.
“He’s jealous of and threatened by John,” Erin said. “’Bout peed himself when he heard you accidentally shot Frank. And I’m too much of a lady to say what he about did when you said you might quit the force.”
“I sure hope you won’t do that,” Bud said. “Please think long and hard about it, John. For our department as much as for your future. We need a mind like yours working with us.”
“He’s right,” Erin said. “They really do. But I get it.”
“Why’d you use the word they?” Bud asked.
“I’m not sure I have it in me anymore either,” she said. “Not after tonight. Not after how I responded—or failed to—not after what might have happened. I don’t . . . Just not sure I can keep doing this job after that.”
“I can’t lose you both,” Bud said. “Please. Y’all are just exhausted and . . . you’ve both been through so much. Don’t make any decisions yet. Give yourself some time to rest and recuperate before you do anything.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Erin said, “but this isn’t a rash decision for me. And it’s not just about tonight. Mostly, but not just. Either way I think I’m gonna take a leave of absence and figure out my next move. After that I may come back if you’ll have me.”
“’Course I’ll have you. I’ll have you both. That’s what I’m saying. I want both of you to stay. Take a little time, sure, but don’t quit. Y’all are too good not to be cops.”
When we dropped Erin off at her little house in the town of Stone Mountain, Bud made his case for her staying once again, and only let her out of the car when she promised to take some time to think about it and not make any decisions until she talked to him again.
When I got out to walk her to her door, she shook her head. “It’s sweet of you,” she said, “but if you see me in, it’ll only add insult to injury. Act like you were just moving to the front seat and that I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”
I smiled and nodded and said, “That’s all I was doing. Didn’t want the chief feeling like my chauffeur.”
“Thank you, John. Get some rest and take good care of yourself. Don’t let what happened tonight get you down. You were nothing short of a hero out there.”
“Only one true hero out there tonight,” I said. “And everybody knows who it was.”
After she was in safely and we were pulling away, Bud cleared his throat and I knew a story was coming.
“In all my time as a cop,” he said, “I’ve never had to pull my gun. Not once. Yet . . . I’ve fired it accidentally three different times. Three times I’ve accidentally discharged it and it’s nothing short of miraculous that I didn’t shoot anyone—myself included. Statistically there are more accidental shootings, more friendly fire shootings, by cops each year than any other kind.”
I smiled. I was pretty sure he had just made that up and that it wasn’t even close to true, but it made me love him and want to work for him all the more.
55
As soon as I walked into the lobby of the quiet, empty inn, I went past Summer who was seated behind the check-in desk, and directly to the bar and removed a bottle of vodka.
“Hey,” she said, standing.
When I walked up to her desk, I said, “Goodnight.”
“What? Wait? What happened? How are you?”
“Don’t feel like talkin’ about it right now.”
“What happened to your eye?” she asked, reaching across the counter to touch it.
I shook my head. “It’s not my eye. It’s my head. It’s a self-inflicted scalp laceration that bled a lot but it’s fine.”
She touched my cheek. “I’m worried about you. I can tell you’re not in a good place. I wish you’d talk to me and not drink.”
“Just been a long day,” I said. “I’m tired.”
“It’s more than that.”
I nodded. “Yes it is. I feel stupid and inept and juvenile and . . . I suck at this job. I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life. I want to get drunk and I want to pass out, but what I really want is to never go in again, never see any of them again.”
“Who?”
“The others. The task force.”
“What? Why? What the hell happened?”
“You can’t intuit it?”
“John.”
“Sorry. That was . . . I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I need to be alone right now. I’m in no shape for company. Sorry again.”
“Please tell me what happened.”
“I shot Frank.”
“Frank? Why?”
“It was an accident.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He’ll be fine, but . . .”
“What happened?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I can’t. Not right now. I’m going to our room. Sorry again for . . .”
“It’s okay. Get some rest. I wish you’d sleep instead of drink. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
In the room I began knocking back shots of straight vodka and pacing around thinking about the case.
I thought about Patrick Dorsey and the fact that he didn’t have any of the items we’d expect the Stone Cold Killer to have—no rope, no knife, no wood, no vehicle.
I thought about him knowing exactly where Erin would be.
I thought about Walt appearing on the mountain that day and his attitude toward me.
I thought about Daphne Littleton—all the information she was able to get about the case, about her writing the letters, about the killer punishing her for her transgressions.
I thought about Benton Weston and for some reason Bobby Meredith.
I thought about the killer and what kind of man he really was, what particular kind of psychopath. Was he really making offerings on the top of the mountain? Was I right about that?
Was I right about the blocks of ice and his use of them so he could be somewhere else when Daphne was dangling off the side of the mountain? If so the killer could be anybody.
How did he get so close to Daphne? To the others? Was he in authority? Did he wear a disguise?
I thought of Ted Bundy using a fake badge, of how many killers over the years had done similar things.
Did he pretend to be a cop? Or was he a cop?
And then I began thinking about how Patrick Dorsey had acted tonight, the things he said, the things he did.
I thought about Walt saying his had been the fatal shot.
And just like that I saw it. Suddenly, all the disparate pieces of intel and information came together to form a coherent image.
Of course. It had to be. It couldn’t be.
I knew or thought I knew who had told Dorsey where Erin would be.
No. No way. Couldn’t be. It was too—
A tap on the door was followed by Summer walking in.
“Hey,” she said. “Didn’t want to startle you. I’d hoped you’d be in bed. What’re you doing?”
Blood Stone Page 17
