by B. J. Woster
And then two of his patrolmen stood.
“Sir,” one called out, “we think we know where she could be.”
“Well, damn it, speak up!” the captain shouted.
“Tell me in the car,” Hardwick amended, jumping from the stage and running toward the two patrolmen. “With me!” he yelled, as he sprinted past.
They ran to the parking structure and nearly pulled the doors off the hinges of Hardwick’s Crown Victoria in their haste to hit the road.
At the entrance of the parking garage, Hardwick snapped, “Where are we headed?”
“Bank of America Plaza,” one of the officer’s responded.
Hardwick’s brow knitted, but he didn’t question their response. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator at the same time that he flicked on his lights and sirens. Then picked up the radio and called it in, “Bank of America Plaza. Dispatch an ambulance and the hazmat unit too. Don’t wait. We don’t want a repeat of last time,” he concluded and then turned his attention back to the officers. “Johnson. Peters. Why there?” Hardwick waited for their response, as they raced toward their destination, but neither officer seemed inclined to share. “Why there?” he repeated with more force. The two officers glanced at each other and then at the floorboard.
“There’s a room we didn’t check,” Johnson responded quietly, his tone full of shame and remorse.
“Why not? What in heaven’s name would possess you to ignore your orders…”
“There was a maintenance vehicle parked in front of it,” Peters snapped in their defense, as if that justified everything.
“Someone better start explaining or I’m going to beat you both to a pulp,” Hardwick snarled.
Peters sat up a bit straighter and explained what happened, “We were on patrol, doing as we’d been told,” he defended. “When we reached the lower level of the Plaza’s parking structure, we saw a maintenance car parked in front of that particular closet. Since the maintenance worker had already been in there, we reasoned that there was no way the victim could be in there. After all, wouldn’t the guy have called the police if he’d found her?”
“So if you’re so certain you made the right call, why are we headed there now?”
Again, both heads bent and then Johnson spoke up, “Because no one else seemed to have overlooked one of the closets in their grid.”
“If they had, we wouldn’t have needed to speak out about the one we overlooked, because we would have been more certain that we were right,” Peters snapped belligerent.
“If she dies, I’ll see that you are both kicked off the force,” Hardwick retorted, and then started swearing up a blue streak when he saw the time. One minute remained.
He spun the car’s wheel sharply, skidding along the pavement, and nearly collided with the side of the BoA Plaza building as he worked to right his trajectory. The car bounced sharply as they hit the first speed bump; but Hardwick wasn’t slowing any more than was necessary to prevent his crashing into a concrete barrier.
“Damn it all to hell and back,” he yelled as the seconds ticked down far quicker than his decent, “why did this garage have to have so many levels?”
With three levels to go, the radio squawked, “Detective Hardwick, we have a call to dispatch.”
Hardwick yelled loudly in anger, but ignored the dispatcher, willing his car to move faster. He rounded the corner of the lower level and slammed on the brakes, sending his car skidding dangerously along the oily surface. Moments later, it rammed into the concrete barrier, jarring the men inside, but none wasted a moment releasing their seatbelts and jumping from the vehicle.
“Be alive. Be alive,” Hardwick chanted to himself as he ran across the short expanse. In the back of his agonized mind, it registered that the utility vehicle that caused the officers to forgo their search remained parked where they’d spotted it earlier in the day. That meant that the APD would most likely be searching the area for another body, but he couldn’t dwell on that right now.
He reached the door and yanked it open expecting acrid gas to assault him, but there wasn’t any this time. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
“How long before the ambulance arrives?” It was a rhetorical question, because none of them really knew when to anticipate the arrival, and since neither officer knew, neither answered. Hardwick sized up the interior of the closet quickly and then his gaze fell on the woman in the chair. Her skin was already bloating, and she was barely breathing. He knew instinctively that Price had injected her with some form of toxin. If that observation was accurate, he knew there wasn’t anything he could do for her, and neither would the paramedics be able to, if they weren’t carrying anti-venom; and the right anti-venom at that. Still, he wasn’t one to quit that easily.
Within a split second of making that observation, he spotted the half-full medical bag hanging above her head, and then the IV catheter protruding from her arm. He took a step, and quickly, carefully, pulled the needle out and then pulled a switchblade from his pocket.
“Grab the AED1 from my trunk,” he called and began cutting the ties that bound the victim’s hands, feet, and waist. When he finished, she fell forward into his embrace, completely limp—and lifeless—he observed in frustrated anger.
He lifted her and moved her from the closet, laying her down on the concrete flooring with care. He was pleased to see that the two officers had not only retrieved the AED with haste, but had proceeded to prep and charge it. He breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t waste even more precious time; especially since she’d completely stopped breathing at this point. There was no way he could be certain that shocking her heart muscle would even help, but he felt powerless and needed to do something. If the paramedics were there, they’d have attached the paddles to Hardwick’s chest and turned up the power all the way as retribution for his stupidity, for they knew, even if Hardwick didn’t, that if he started the blood flow through her veins again, the venom would begin circulating much faster. Yes, she was officially deceased, but the less venom circulating, the less damage to vital organs—potentially.
Hardwick opened the victim’s shirt and placed the paddles according to the instructions. He heard tires screeching and looked up, hoping that it would be the paramedics. It wasn’t. The van that rounded the bend was from Channel 5, and before it came to a full stop, Cassandra Bouchard leapt out, followed rapidly behind by her cameraman, who worked to get his camera rolling.
“Keep them away, or I’ll kill ’em,” he snarled at the officers, who quickly stood to form a two-man human barrier.
“You found the latest victim, but is she alive?” Cassandra called out as soon as she was certain they were live on air.
* * *
AED: Automated External Defibrillator↩
Chapter 22
Christian had awakened long before as he heard cars screeching through the parking structure. A glance at his watch told him that they’d again arrived too late, that the venom had been dispensed. Still, it was so close to the dispensed time that he held out a modicum of hope that she’d survive. He didn’t want to kill again.
He turned on his computer to check the camera he’d placed in the closet. There was no change. Hadn’t been since he first looked. All was still dark in the closet, still quiet.
He reached for his phone knowing that he needed to assist Hardwick at this point if the woman was to live. He may have been delayed in reaching her, but he had arrived nonetheless, so the least he could do, to acquit this city, was to help him one final time in saving the woman’s life.
“Atlanta Police Depart—”
“Patch me through to Detective Hardwick,” he interrupted. “Time is of the essence.”
“One moment please. I’ll attempt to make that connection.”
Precious minutes ticked by and Price’s agitation mounted. A couple of minutes later, the dispatcher returned.
“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to reach Detective Hard—”
; Christian hurled the phone against the passenger door.
After sucking in several deep, calming breaths, he reached for his phone and dialed the local news affiliate, knowing that their reporter wouldn’t be far from wherever the activity was. If he was to know whether the woman lived or not, he’d need eyes down there, now that Hardwick had arrived and pulled the woman out of the closet and out of his view.
As he waited for someone to pick up at the newsroom, he opened a new tab on his laptop and clicked the live news link. He immediately disconnected the call when he saw Bouchard on the screen, waving her cameraman toward the scene. He turned up the volume.
Cassandra Bouchard was attempting to elicit a response from Detective Hardwick.
“You found the latest victim, but is she alive?”
“Yes, Detective, do tell us, did you get to her in time? Is she alive? I’m curious if you can save her,” Christian directed the question at the computer screen so didn’t really expect a response. All he sincerely hoped for was to see signs of life.
Hardwick didn’t reply to the questions being hurled at him. The detectives continued to step in front of the camera making it difficult to see what was happening, but they veered the wrong way once and the camera picked up a quick image of the struggle for life going on, on the cold concrete floor of the Bank of America Plaza parking structure.
Christian’s gaze widened and he sucked in a slow breath as his gaze raked over the swollen flesh already putrefying.
“If you’d taken my call, I may have been able to prevent this loss,” he murmured, rage burning his mind.
***
The detectives crowded around the flat screen television seated atop the captain’s desk; each man holding his breath as they watched the electricity surge through the body of Sequoia Richardson. Her body arched just seconds after Hardwick called, “Clear.”
“I get that those officers are attempting to prevent the public getting a firsthand view of this atrocity, but I’m ready to knock their heads together, because we need to see what’s happening,” Harding snapped.
Just then the ambulance arrived. With simultaneous shouts of outrage, each officer stood, futilely attempting to peer over the top of the ambulance on the screen. None knew whether she would be transported to the hospital or the morgue, because no one could see now whether she was alive.
***
From his car atop the BoA Plaza parking structure, Christian too grew more agitated and attempted to see what was happening as the ambulance skid to a halt, a position that blocked the sporadic view of the Channel 5 camera. When Cassandra Bouchard attempted to relocate for a better vantage, the two officers, placed in charge of preventing her access, stepped in front of her and stopped her from changing her location.
“The viewing audience has a right to know what’s going on!”
Christian heard her declare loudly.
“That’s right,” he concurred. “We have a right to know what’s happening, so move, you imbeciles! Me especially! I need to know.”
By the time he’d concluded that one demand, it was too late. The ambulance was on the move and so were the two police officers. They took off at a dead run toward their superior’s battered vehicle, jumped inside, and sped off after the ambulance.
Christian watched, only mildly amused, as the newscaster and her cameraman also bolted for their van; the cameraman doing all he was capable of to keep his camera rolling—and steady.
Christian heard the sirens since he was right above the place from where they were leaving, but he would only be able to monitor the girl’s progress through the news channel’s coverage, and that coverage was now being prevented.
The camera feed was still rolling as the van reached the mouth of the parking structure only to have a blockade of police cars impede their pursuit.
He screamed at the computer screen and slammed the lid.
“You should have never ignored my call. If you hadn’t…argh,” he yelled. With alacrity, he reached for his disposable cell and dialed the precinct.
“Atlanta Police—”
“This is Christian Price. Get word to Detective Hardwick that he needs Puff Adder anti-venom, and you better pray to God that you got that the first time.”
He then called the news station and reiterated the message to the receptionist in the same angry, clipped tone.
He hit the disconnect call button on the cell and threw it at the window again, knowing that if he continued hurling his cell, he was going to break it or the window of his automobile.
Christian sighed and lifted the computer screen, turning it back on. He hated that he’d been disconnected from the live feed—as had all viewers—but he needed to keep the connection up for when the reports started up again. He had to discover whether Hardwick got the news and whether or not the woman lived.
“Pray she lives, Detective Hardwick,” he whispered, “or by God, the next person I take will make you wish she did.”
Chapter 23
The captain’s phone beeped and he picked up the receiver, still watching the drama unfold on his screen, as Cassandra Bouchard went toe-to-toe with his officers, then the news feed went black and the coverage reverted to the two anchors.
“Captain,” the front desk officer said immediately, “Christian Price called in and said to get a message to Detective Hardwick. The doctor needs Puff Adder anti-venom.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
The captain clicked the remote and shut off the television. He immediately picked up his cell and dialed Hardwick directly. It rang five times and went to voice mail. He hit redial, tapping his fingers on his desk while he waited. After three redial attempts, Hardwick finally answered.
“What?”
“Hardwick, this is the captain. If you made it to the hospital, tell the doctors that she needs—”
“We’re at the morgue.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, I’ve been saying that a lot since we crawled into the ambulance. So, what were you going to tell me?”
“Price called. He said to relay a message to you that the girl needs—needed—Puff Adder anti-venom to save her life.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Yeah, I could’ve. If I had taken Price’s call. Dispatch tried to put him through to me but I didn’t…Oh, God! If I had taken the call, I could’ve alerted the ambulance to have the anti-venom; I could’ve…Oh God. I killed her.”
“Breathe, Hardwick. I think you’re losing perspective here. The ambulance wouldn’t have had it if you’d known because they were already en route. If you look at this rationally, which you aren’t at present, Price killed her the minute he injected her, and, if I have to keep perspective too, two of my officers probably leant a hand in her death by overlooking that closet—something I have to deal with rather shortly. Anyway, by the time you got to her…I saw her body lying on the concrete, bloated and blackened as it was. She was already dead. Come back to the precinct. Let the coroners do their job. I need you here to do yours.”
“You know he’s going to do this again.” Hardwick’s tone was flat and he sounded beaten. The captain drew in a sharp breath as he imagined his best detective defeated by a madman, and for a moment he wanted to join in the detective’s pity party. After all, if his best detectives couldn’t stop this insane nut job then he couldn’t imagine anyone who could.
“Yeah, he’s going to do it again, and I need you here so that when that call comes in, we can—”
“What can we do different, Captain? We did everything right this time…”
“No, we didn’t. Come in. We’ll discuss what happened and discuss what to do about the two officers who royally screwed this investigation. Do you need a lift?”
“No, Johnson and Peters followed the ambulance in my car. Shit! I’m gonna need a new car. Double shit! Captain, you need to have one of the units on scene stay there.”
“Why, what gives?”
�
��The missing maintenance worker. Something tells me that a search of the surrounding area is going to turn up another dead body.”
“You think Price killed the maintenance worker and then parked his vehicle in front of the closet, just to throw us off the scent?”
“No, I think it’s more likely that the maintenance worker arrived for work at an inconvenient time, parked there, interrupted Price’s work, and lost his life.”
“Damn. Nothing worse than wrong place, wrong time. Okay, I’ll have a black and white remain on site and do a search for this missing worker. You come on in.”
Chapter 24
It was several hours later when the news broke about Sequoia Richardson’s death.
Christian had been tapping his fingers on the wheel impatiently for the entire time, waiting expectantly as the news broadcasters filled the time prior to the announcement with a story of Sequoia’s life—after they’d discovered her identity.
A viewer watching the news had recognized Sequoia’s swollen face and called it in. From that point, the news was flooded with her life and accomplishments. They’d even dispatched a reporter to try to obtain an interview with family members but all they’d been able to report was that, “the family is too distraught at present to speak with anyone.”
It wasn’t until the news anchors interrupted one of their reporters with ‘breaking news’ that Christian relaxed the tapping, listening intently.
“We’ve just received word that Sequoia Richardson was indeed pronounced dead during transport and was taken directly to the morgue,” Patricia Wheaton stated, her expression saddened, but Christian knew that her affectation was a ruse. She was probably jumping for joy inside because bad news meant higher viewer ratings. He sighed as he continued listening to their exchange.
“What do you think this means for the citizens of Atlanta?” Charles Braxton asked, but his co-anchor didn’t reply. It was as if the gravity of the situation sank in with the suddenness of a brick thrown into water and everyone realized that another Atlanta citizen was likely to be murdered—and soon.
