THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense

by Patrick Dakin

  Schultz and Abrams pass a look between them, wisely say nothing, and leave. Once away from Travetti’s office, Schultz mutters, “Always a pleasure talking with the lieutenant.”

  Abrams shrugs resignedly. “So, where do we start?” he says.

  “We’ve got an expert eyewitness if he ever comes out of his coma,” Schultz points out. “Let’s check with the hospital, see how he’s doing.”

  While Schultz makes the call, Abrams goes to the coffee machine in the corner of the squad room, pours two coffees, and wanders back.

  “Yeah, okay, thanks,” Schultz is saying as Abrams puts one of the coffees in front of his partner.

  “So?” Abrams says.

  “The doctors brought him out of the coma early this morning. The nurse couldn’t tell me anything more than that yet.”

  Abrams is clearly surprised. “One tough guy,” he says, “to survive a .44 slug to the head at close range.

  “That he is,” Schultz agrees thoughtfully. “But what’s the killer’s game? Killing cops, that’s crazy shit.”

  Abrams nods. “He’s making a statement. He can do whatever he wants and to whoever.”

  “Killing women has been where he gets his jollies. Why start killing cops?”

  “Maybe he’s getting bored,” Abrams says. “It’s not enough just to kill and torture women. He needs to add to the excitement by letting us get close to him, so we can see how smart he is.”

  “Sooner or later he’s bound to make a mistake,” Schultz offers. “Even though he doesn’t care about leaving behind his d.n.a. he’s scrupulous about cleaning up his finger prints. The inference is clear: his d.n.a. isn't on file so why worry about it.”

  “The FBI have run him through their data base?”

  “Yeah, right after the first few killings. Foley and Bleeker figured if he was into heavy shit like this there was a good chance he had a sheet somewhere. But the feds turned up nothing.”

  The phone on Schultz’s desk rings. He picks it up while taking a slurp of his coffee. “Homicide. Detective Schultz,” he says. “Tristan … Sure … Sure … Okay, honey ... Yeah, we’ll be right there. See you in twenty minutes.” He cradles the telephone. “That was Tristan Foley, Jake’s daughter. She’s at the hospital and wants to see me.”

  “What about?” Abrams says.

  “Don’t know. Just said if I could spare a few minutes, there’s something she wants me to know.”

  “You and Jake are pretty close, aren’t you?” Abrams says.

  “Yeah, real close at one time. We rode together for a couple years when I was a rookie. Jake took me under his wing, taught me a lot. Before me and my old lady split the sheets we used to socialize with Jake and Anna all the time. Got to know Tristan real well, too. We never had kids of our own and we kinda took a shine to her. Like her aunt and uncle - you know.”

  “Let’s go see what she wants,” Abrams says.

  As they’re leaving the building, on their way to the division parking lot, Schultz says, “You ever met her?”

  “Tristan? No.”

  “She’s a doll. A real looker. Jake was always worried sick about her.”

  “Jake’s wife died a few years ago, didn’t she?” Abrams asks.

  “Yeah, cancer. Tough on him but double tough on the kid. Jake told me once she's never really gotten over it.”

  They get to the car and Abrams climbs behind the wheel, fires it up, and they take off. “Got to be even tougher on her now," he says as he pulls into traffic, “not knowing if Jake is going to pull through.”

  “Yeah,” Schultz says.

  They find Tristan waiting for them in the hall outside Jake’s room. Schultz hugs her in a fatherly embrace. “How are you holding up, honey?” he says.

  There are tears in her eyes but there’s a brightness there that was absent the other day when Schultz waited with her and the others after Jake was first brought in to the hospital. She nods. “I’m okay,” she says.

  “Tristan,” Schultz says, “this is my partner, Keith Abrams.”

  Tristan offers her hand and Abrams holds it briefly, nodding to her. He takes note of her elegant good looks and decides the descriptions he has heard, although flattering, don’t do her justice.

  “So it sounded like you had some news when you called,” Schultz says.

  “Believe it or not,” she answers in an awed voice, "he's awake. The doctors brought him out of the coma this morning and he actually spoke. It’s absolutely amazing. The doctors are astonished.”

  “Geez, I knew they brought him out of the coma but … he actually talked? That’s fantastic, Tristan,” Schultz says. “If anybody can come through this, honey, he can.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “But, there’s something else I wanted you to know, Bobby. Something really strange happened when I first saw him this morning, just before I called you. The doctors let me in to see him for a minute and …” She fumbles for the right words.

  “What is it?” Schultz says.

  “It was like he knew I was there without even seeing me.”

  “The doctors must have told him you were coming in to see him,” Schultz says.

  “No, they didn’t. They didn’t want to give him any stimulation yet. They told me I was only allowed to have a quick peek at him, no talking to him or letting him know I was there.”

  “Yeah? So, what happened?”

  “Well, I walked into the room and stood by the door, just looking over at him. I had been there for maybe five seconds when, without even opening his eyes, he said in a whisper, “Hi, baby. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay.”

  Schultz looks at Abrams and raises his eyebrows. “Very strange,” he says. “What do you make of it, Keith?”

  Abrams shrugs. “No idea. Has he ever done anything like that before?” Abrams asks Tristan.

  “No, never.”

  “It was probably just a coincidence,” Abrams says.

  Tristan has opposition to this written all over her face. “I don’t think so. It just didn’t seem like that. It was like he knew I was there.”

  “Did he say anything else?” Schultz asks.

  “No,” Tristan says. “Right after that happened, the nurse spoke to him but he didn‘t respond. Then she said I had to leave. But if he could communicate at all - even if it was only for a moment - so soon after his surgery, it gives us hope that he’ll come through this. I thought you’d want to know, that’s all.”

  Schultz is not inclined to put too much into the fact that Jake spoke a couple of words but, for Tristan’s sake, he nods in agreement. “Of course, honey. It’s great news. Absolutely fantastic. And I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Maybe your father will be able to tell us something useful about the killer,” Abrams suggests.

  Tristan nods her head. “That’s what I’m hoping,” she says. “I’m going to stay with him. I’ve booked off my classes at UCLA so I can be here as much as possible. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies under the circumstances anyway.”

  “If there’s anything Keith or I can do, anything at all, you just have to ask.”

  “Thanks,” she says, “that means a lot to me. I’ll let you know if anything new happens. And thank you for coming down here. Both of you. Really, thank you so much.”

  Schultz gives her another hug and Abrams gives her hand one more brief shake. Then they leave.

  Once in the car, Abrams says, “Whatta you think, Bobby?”

  “About what?”

  “Jake knowing Tristan was in the room like that.”

  “I dunno,” Schultz answers absently. “Probably like you said, just a coincidence.”

  “Yeah,” Abrams says. “Strange, though.”

  “Yeah,” Schultz says thoughtfully. “Strange.”

  Next on their agenda is a talk with the two dopers living in the East L.A. apartment building where it all went down. Detectives first on the scene have already talked with the occupants of most of the apartments but neither Schult
z nor Abrams were in on these interviews.

  Apartments 312 and 311 are sealed off as crime scenes but one of the dopers is apparently staying with a friend in Apartment 302 in the same building. With everything they went through, no charges were brought against the two dopers for possession of the coke and Schultz and Abrams hope to find him at home. Although the detectives are not particularly confident that anything worthwhile will come of it, they have to start somewhere and they don’t have a lot with which to work.

  After they arrive at the apartment building, climb the three flights of stairs, and rap on the door to apartment 302, they’re admitted by one of the coke sniffers. He’s unexpectedly friendly, even invites them in and offers them a seat.

  “So,” Schultz says, looking at his notes, “you’re Mr. Smythie?”

  “Yeah, Elwood Smythie, that’s me.”

  Smythie is scrawny, with a pimpled complexion, and bulging eyes that droop alarmingly. It’s hard to tell whether he’s scared shitless or bored to death.

  “I know you’ve been through this at least a couple of times already,” Schultz says, “but we’d like you to go over it again from the beginning for us. Tell us exactly what happened from the moment the two detectives burst into your apartment.”

  “Sure, man,” Smythie says. “I mean I’m happy to cooperate with the law, ya know.” He then recounts, speaking in short, rapid-fire sentences, all that he can remember about the events that occurred on the night in question.

  “Describe the killer for us.“ Schultz says.

  “Mean looking dude,” Smythie says. “Real mean looking. Big mother, ya know? Had these eyes that look right through you. Scared the shit outa me, man.”

  “How tall would you say he was?” Schultz asks.

  “Hadda be six six, something like that, man. Big, like I said. Two forty at least.”

  Schultz looks at Abrams, then back at Smythie. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  Smythie twitches involuntarily. “No, man, never. I mean I’d remember a big sumbitch like that with them eyes, you know?”

  “You were sitting down the whole time the killer was in the room, right?” Abrams says.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Wouldn’t it be pretty hard to gauge his height then? Sitting down like you were?”

  “Well … yeah, I guess,” Smythie says.

  “And you had been sniffing coke. Right?”

  Smythie nods in acknowledgment of this fact. “Yeah, a little. Just a little hit, ya know.”

  “What color hair did the killer have?” Schultz asks.

  “Uh … red. Yeah, red.”

  “Uh huh. Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos, facial hair, anything like that?”

  “Yeah, man. Big red beard with this wild red hair.” Smythie swings his head up and down in an exaggerated show of certainty. “Big, mean dude with red hair and beard.”

  “Anything else you can tell us? Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah,” Smythie says. “Just before he left he said something like 'they’ll be thinking up a new name for me now.' Oh, and he did say something before that, too. When he bent down to get that cop’s gun he mumbled something, but I didn’t catch what it was.”

  “Any accent, or anything unusual about his voice?” Abrams asks.

  Smythie shakes his head. “Nope.”

  Schultz brings his hand to his forehead, rubs his eyes tiredly. “Where can we reach your friend,” - Schultz looks again at his notes - “Dorval Williams?”

  “Dorval? Actually he’s my cousin. He split, man. That was one choked dude, let me tell you. He headed back to Arkansas.”

  “He’s from Arkansas?”

  “Yeah. Little Rock. His old lady lives there.”

  “Can you give us her address?”

  “Don’t know the address, man. Name’s Henrietta Williams. You could check it out.”

  Schultz stands tiredly. “All right. That’s all for now. Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem, man. No problem.”

  Outside on the street, Schultz lights a Camel and leans against the car, fuming. “What a dipshit,” he says.

  Abrams stands patiently, waiting for the older man to vent. “We should have known better than to expect anything more,” he says.

  “Big white dude with mean eyes, red hair and beard.” Schultz mimics. “Jesus H. Christ. How, I wonder, does the killer grow eight inches in height from one description to the next? Never mind Goddess Slayer, they oughta call this mother The Magician.”

  * *

  A middle-aged man with neatly groomed, graying hair lounges at a table in an outdoor café on the beach at Malibu, contentedly sipping a piña colada. His attention is directed to the Los Angeles Times newspaper folded neatly in his lap, displaying the story of the intensive manhunt being undertaken for the Goddess Slayer.

  Marius Dupree smiles inwardly at the description of the killer given by the occupants of apartment 312. Although mildly upset that he allowed one of the cops to survive, he is not about to beat himself up over it. It is one of those little details he will rectify on another day. For now he is content to relax amid the teeming life all around him.

  He finds the media speculation about his shooting of the police officers amusing. 'Why has the killer suddenly decided to change his m.o. and start murdering cops?' reporters want to know.' The truth is it's simply payback for Foley's little rant on the news the other night. A show of muscle, for lack of a better metaphor. You think I'm picking on poor defenseless women? How about I take out the big tough cop with the big mouth? On that note, Dupree finds the account of how the cop has survived a bullet to his brain very interesting; of even greater interest is the fact that he has already had brief contact with his daughter, Tristan Foley, whose picture is featured alongside the one of her father.

  A beautiful girl, he muses, running his finger lovingly across the image of her face. He is tempted to lose himself in an exciting fantasy about the girl but forces his mind back to the issues at hand. As much fun as this has been, he concedes to himself, perhaps he has pushed the envelope a bit too far this time. Maybe it’s time to pay heed to the advice proffered by his ally and pull back temporarily. Take a break from the heat of L.A. if you’ll pardon the pun.

  He decides he will leave town soon. But before he does, the temptation to throw a little fuel on the fire proves irresistible.

  Creating havoc is such great fun.

  4

  Tristan rises from her bed at her father’s home at her usual hour of 6:30 a.m. and prepares herself for the day ahead. Her days now are not difficult to plan. She will arrive at the hospital by nine and spend every moment she can at her father’s side. Since being brought out of his coma his progress has been closely monitored by doctors who want stimulation introduced in minimal doses. Tristan has so far been permitted little direct contact with him, but what contact she has been allowed has given her some hope for the future. The fact that he was able to recognize her and even manage a weak smile is reason enough for optimism. His head, of course, is heavily bandaged - he looks like something unearthed in an Egyptian tomb - and is immobilized by a complicated looking device that is hopefully as effective as it is cumbersome. He is also hooked up to an intimidating compilation of machines which monitor everything from his heart rate, blood pressure, and pulse to his brain activity and glucose levels. Intravenous lines add to the intricate array of equipment surrounding him.

  Tristan nods to the uniformed officer posted outside her father’s room and mutters, “Good morning,” as she passes.

  The doctors have ordered no physical contact so it is necessary for her to stand at the foot of Jake’s bed in order for him to see her. She wants desperately to hold his hand and hug him but, at this point, it is strictly forbidden. “Hi, daddy,” she says in a hushed voice.

  His eyes open slowly, as though wetted down with syrup. “Hi, baby,” he responds.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hundred and ten percen
t,” comes the whispered reply.

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Pass me my shoes. Let’s go for a jog.”

  Tristan smiles. Even though the words sound incongruous, coming as they do from someone so obviously incapable of any kind of movement, the fact that he is able to speak them at all is, to Tristan, little short of remarkable. That he is able to maintain a sense of humor about his predicament borders on miraculous.

  There is a lengthy silence while Jake studies his daughter’s face. “Tell me,” he says after a while.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tank. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  The doctors have warned her not to discuss the shootings. She turns her face away to make the lie easier. “Tank is fine, Daddy.”

  In fact, Tank’s funeral was held four days earlier.

  Again there is a long interval of dead air. Tears moisten Jake’s eyes. “God damn it to hell,” he says.

  “Daddy, it’s all right. Everything’s okay. Really.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me, baby.

  Tristan knows it is useless to deny the truth. “Daddy, you’re not to get upset. It’s very important that you remain calm.”

  “I know.”

  A middle-aged nurse comes into the room and studies the myriad dials on the equipment above and beside Jake's bed. “That’s enough for now, dear,” she says to Tristan. “You can come back in a couple of hours.”

  Tristan smiles sadly and wiggles her fingers at Jake. “See you soon. I love you.”