by D P Lyle
“It does. We just haven’t found the key yet.”
“Do you think Garrett’s involved?” she asked.
“Somehow.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“Any ideas?”
“Not right off hand,” he frowned. “But my gut tells me he’s in it up to his neck. How, I don’t know.”
*
Dr. Caitlin Roberts and emergency department head nurse Rosa Gomez met the ambulance transporting Walter Limpke on the ramp leading to the treatment area. As the ambulance, sirens blaring, slid to a stop, they yanked open the rear door and, with the help of the driver, lifted the stretcher to the ground.
They hurriedly rolled him to Trauma Room 1 where Cat began to assess his injuries. She examined and probed the stab wounds that gaped open in his belly, listened to his heart and lungs, and performed a cursory neurologic exam.
Rosa jammed a large bore needle into his right arm, attached a clear plastic IV tube, which lead to a bottle of Lactated Ringers Solution, and thumbed open the clamp to begin the flow of life saving fluid. Sue Tilden repeated the same process on the left side.
Rosa released the valve on the blood pressure cuff with a soft hiss. “BP is 50 over zip. Pulse 125. O2 sat is 88%.
Cat completed her exam. “Four stab wounds to the abdomen. He’s in shock. Let’s get him to the operating room STAT.”
She and Rosa wheeled the stretcher down the hall toward the operating suites.
Cat shouted over her shoulder as they turned the corner. “Sue. No time for type and cross match. Get me four units of type specific blood to the OR and tell the blood bank to step on it.”
The IV tubes tinkled against the metal support poles and one of the stretcher’s wheels wobbled and squealed in protest as they flew down the corridor and into OR 4. Cat disappeared to change into surgery scrubs while Tony Wang, the diminutive anesthesiologist, helped move Walter Limpke from the stretcher onto the operating table. Tony deftly slipped an endotracheal tube into the critically ill man’s throat and began to pump oxygen-enriched air into his lungs.
The OR crew moved with practiced fluidity.
Tony administered a combination of intravenous and inhaled anesthetic agents, which would propel Walter Limpke into that unreal world between wakefulness and sleep, life and death.
Joe Watts, the circulating nurse, cleaned Walter’s abdomen with Betadine scrub and draped it with surgical sheets.
Jackie Gorman, the scrub nurse, ripped open a tray of instruments and prepared them for Dr. Roberts.
Blood arrived and Tony immediately hung two of the bags, running them wide open to replace Walter’s massive blood loss as fast as possible.
Cat, wearing cap and mask, completed her pre-surgical scrub and donned gown and gloves. Jackie slapped the scalpel handle into her hand and Cat hurriedly made a long incision down the midline of the abdomen from the diaphragm to the pubis. This was no time for cosmetics; speed was all-important.
Bleeding was minimal, most of his blood having been dumped in the mud outside Roberto’s trailer. Using the scalpel, scissors, and her experienced fingers, she deepened the incision until she popped through the peritoneal lining, entering the abdominal cavity. A gush of dark blood and thick maroon clots greeted her.
“Suction.”
Jackie slipped the curved plastic nozzle into the abdomen. It gurgled and squealed as it removed the blood and clots, drawing them into a long clear tube, which lead to a suction bottle on the floor.
Cat insinuated her hand into the abdomen, probing first one way and then the other. She slid her hand upward, over the liver, testing its glistening surface and rubbery consistency for defects. She found none. Sliding right ward, her hand palpated the stomach, then carefully examined the pancreas and spleen. She took extra care with these tender organs, knowing they can be easily injured by overzealous manipulation. Again, everything appeared intact.
She lifted the bowel, her fingers playing along every inch, searching for injuries. She easily located two lacerations of the small bowel and its fan-like omentum. She then examined each kidney. The left showed no injury, but the right had been slashed nearly in two.
Jackie dabbed sweat from Cat’s face, tossing the towel in a bucket at her feet.
“Looks like he got the bowel, nicked the superior mesenteric artery, and trashed his right kidney.” She peered over her mask at Tony. “How’s he doing?”
“Better. BP is up to 90, pulse 100, and O2 sat is 98%. Two units of blood are in and I’m starting the other two now.”
“OK. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter 16
When Sam arrived at the hospital, she stopped by the Emergency Department and chatted with Sue Tilden while Rosa Gomez called the OR to check on Walter.
Rosa hung up the phone. “Surgery is underway and Dr. Roberts said everything was going well.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “See you guys later.”
She went down the hall to the Pathology Department and Ralph Klingler’s office. Ralph sat behind his desk, which was strewn with Polaroids of Roberto and Walter. One caught her eye. It was Roberto, hanging by his ankles. From her perspective, he appeared to be standing on his toes as if performing some macabre ballet.
“Have a seat, Sam,” Ralph said.
Sam sat, facing him across his desk. “I just checked on Walter.”
“And?”
“So far so good.”
“Let’s hope it continues that way.” Ralph rocked back in his chair, brow knitted, and rubbed his chin. “Walter’s left-handed isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Is it important?”
“Maybe.”
Sam recalled images of Walter: standing behind the counter in his store, wearing a navy blue work apron, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling and chatting with customers; sitting at Millie’s with Margo and friends; pitching softball at the last Fourth of July barbecue.
“Yeah. He is. At least he pitches lefty.”
“Hmmm.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I wasn’t sure in Roger and Miriam’s case, but after seeing Roberto this morning, it’s clearer.”
“What’s clearer?”
“The person that killed Roger, Miriam, and Roberto was left-handed.”
“You don’t think...”
“I examined Walter’s wounds this morning before they hauled him away to the hospital. They may have been self-inflicted.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was.”
“Come on, Ralph. You don’t really believe Walter killed three people and then tried to kill himself.”
Klingler shrugged. “I’m merely reporting the evidence, but it sure smells like that’s a possibility.”
“Why would he?”
"I don’t know.” Ralph took off his glasses and cleaned them with a piece of lens paper. “Maybe he’s Garrett’s partner.”
Walter? Garrett’s accomplice? She couldn’t believe that. Or wouldn’t believe it. Either way, it didn’t fly. “I just can’t believe that,” she said.
*
Ten minutes later, Sam walked into Charlie’s office and sank into the chair by his desk. Charlie looked tired and drained.
“You’re not going to believe what Ralph had to say.” She told him about her conversation with the pathologist.
Thelma quietly slipped in the office and placed a cup of coffee on the corner of the desk in front of Sam.
“Thanks, Thelma.”
Thelma retreated to her desk.
“It gets worse,” Charlie said.
“It does?” Sam blew on the steaming coffee, then took a careful sip.
“Remember when Walter had that break in at his store a couple of years ago?”
“Sure.”
“He applied for and got a gun permit.”
“Yeah?”
“To get a permit, you have to be finger printed. This morning, I couldn’t get fresh prints from Walter because
of his injuries and the need to get him to the hospital as soon as possible, so I pulled his old ones. To compare them with the prints we lifted at Roberto’s.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “So we could exclude known prints and concentrate on those we couldn’t ID.”
“Walter’s prints were all over Roberto’s place. Front door, kitchen counter and drawer handles, and, of course, the knife. Other than Roberto’s and Walter’s, I didn’t find any other prints.”
“So?” Sam said.
“The prints we lifted at Roger and Miriam’s? The ones we couldn’t ID?”
Sam shook her head. “Don’t tell me.”
“They’re Walter’s.”
Sam was speechless. She stared at Charlie as if he were a space alien. Her mind spewed in a thousand directions like an out of control fire hose. Finally, she said, “So, Walter did these murders?”
“That’s what the prints say.” Charlie leaned back in his chair and propped a boot on the corner of his desk.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sam said. “Could he have a connection with Garrett? A follower? A previous friendship?”
“Damned if I see one.” Charlie tossed a frayed toothpick in the trashcan beside his desk and stuck a fresh one in his mouth. “Hopefully, Cat Roberts can pull Walter through and we can ask him. How’s he doing?”
“Still in surgery. The word is that everything’s going well.”
“Keep your fingers crossed.”
Sam stood and picked up her still full coffee cup from Charlie’s desk. “I think I’ll have a little chat with our guest.”
Charlie nodded. “Catch you later.”
*
Before Sam confronted Garrett, she retreated to her office and flopped into the chair behind her desk. She spun toward the window, sipped her coffee, and looked out on downtown Mercer’s Corner, where people went about their business. The town looked the way it did any other day. Demons didn’t run through the streets. Monsters didn’t hide in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting victims. Slobbering ghouls and goblins didn’t feed on the people who walked by.
None of this made sense. Walter Limpke. He was one of them. Not an outsider or stranger or beast from hell like Garrett. He was simple, soft-spoken, religious.
Weren’t ugly crimes, grisly murders committed by monsters with evil eyes and malevolent looks? Not normal, average people. People you couldn’t recognize as defective or deviant. People like your neighbors, friends, loved ones.
The shock was more than the act itself. More than the brutal mutilations. It was the culprit. If you can’t see the monster, discern him from normal people, how can you protect yourself? What clues would help reveal the danger? Life, unlike the movies, didn’t have background music to forewarn evil. Hell, Darth Vader had his own theme song.
Sam entered the jail area, snagged a folding chair, spun it around, and sat down, resting her forearms on the back. She eyed Garrett through the bars. He sat on his bunk, returning her gaze.
“What can you tell me about the murder of Roberto Sanchez?”
“Nothing.”
“And Walter Limpke? What’s your connection with him?”
“None. I don’t really know Mr. Limpke.” His expression was flat, emotionless.
“And you had nothing to do with these killings?”
“I told you. Lucifer commands all.”
“Lucifer made you kill those kids and he made Walter kill Roberto and the Hargroves?”
“Of course. But, I can see you don’t believe that.”
“That would stretch reality to say the least.”
“Which reality? The one that says God made the Heavens and the Earth and all the animals, then scraped some dirt off his boot, made a Gumby doll, blew life into it, and called it Adam?”
“I’m not sure I buy that one either.”
“Sounds like a good Catholic upbringing.”
“Maybe.” How did this arrogant prick know so much? “OK, Slick...”
“Beelzebub.”
“That’s right. I forgot. OK, Beetle Juice...”
“When you mock me, you mock my master. He is not as forgiving as I.”
“I’m terrified.”
“You will be.”
A cold chill rippled through her, depositing ice crystals in her blood. It wasn’t the words that spooked her. It was...was what? His black eyes? His calm self-assuredness? She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that was so unsettling.
“Enlighten me,” she said. “Tell me how you think this shit went down.”
“Are you versed in the principle of determinism?
No, you jerk. I’m not VERSED in anything.
“I don’t believe so,” she said calmly.
“Too bad. Your understanding would be so much deeper.”
“Don’t patronize me. If you have something to say, say it.”
“It was you who asked.”
Go ahead. Pull your gun and shoot him.
She took a deep calming breath. “By all means. Share your wisdom with me.”
“Determinism simply states that everything is predestined, scripted. Everything and everyone.”
“Then, these murders were inevitable?”
“Yes.”
“Unalterable? Not preventable?”
“Precisely.”
She leaned forward, capturing his gaze. “Why, then, do I have the feeling that if I put a bullet through your black fucking heart, all this would stop?”
“It wouldn’t.”
His calm arrogance was infuriating. “I see.”
“Lucifer controls all. Me. You. Mr. Limpke. Everything that has or will happen is as it should be. As it must be.”
“Like your ‘the devil made me do it’ defense?”
“Or allowed me to fulfill my destiny.”
“And Walter Limpke?” she asked. “Was it his destiny to murder and mutilate three people?”
“Apparently.”
“I don’t buy it. I don’t know how, but you’re involved in these murders. You know it and I know it.”
“But, Samantha. I’ve been here. Detained as it were.”
“Don’t call me Samantha. Only my mother called me Samantha.”
He smiled. “I know.”
Chapter 17
After leaving Garrett, Sam walked to the gym and released her frustration in a furious workout. A five-mile run on the rooftop track and an aggressive circuit training session were followed by a half hour of pounding the heavy bag. Now, she was into the fourth round of sparing with Jimmy Ryker.
Sam bounced two left jabs off Jimmy’s chin, followed by a solid right hook to the body. She slipped a jab, moving her head to the right as Jimmy’s left hand flicked by her ear, then deflected an overhand right. Bending her knees and sliding her left foot forward, she slammed a left hook into his ribs and a right and left to his head.
Jimmy backpedaled, circling to her right. He flicked two left jabs, both missing, as Sam bobbed right and then left. He landed a right hook on her shoulder and a short left to her head.
Sam ignored both punches and released a left-right-left combination, which backed Jimmy into the ropes. He wrapped his left arm around her head, clinching her against him, but she dropped out of his grasp and, from her crouch, unloaded another three-punch combination.
The bell rang.
Sam shook fatigue from her arms.
“You did a lot of good things in that round,” Jimmy said.
“Such as?” She walked to the towel, which hung over the ropes, trapped it between her gloves, and mopped sweat from her face.
“You’re slipping those left jabs better and your combinations are crisper, sharper.”
“Thanks.”
“There at the end, when you slipped out of the clinch and landed the three punch combo. That was beautiful. Few boxers I know can maneuver on the inside like that.”
“I didn’t think about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“That�
��s what I mean. Good instincts. If you have to think, it’s gone. Act and react.”
“I do feel more comfortable in the ring.”
“If you fight like this in Vegas, you’ll have no problem.”
“Let’s hope.” She clamped her left glove beneath her right arm and pulled her hand free, then yanked the right glove off. She stepped through the ropes. “I’d better get back to the office. See you tomorrow.”
After showering and dressing in jeans and a black pullover shirt, she strapped on her gun belt, nestling the weapon into the small of her back, and grabbed her jacket from her locker.
The sun had just kissed the horizon and the afternoon wind had begun to calm by the time she walked the block to her office. Before she could open the door, Betty McCumber and Marjorie Bleekman stopped her.
“Sam?” Betty said. “We heard about Roberto.”
“Yes. It’s sad,” Sam said.
“We’re scared,” Marjorie said while fiddling with the clasp on her purse.
“Of what?”
“Three jurors have died,” Marjorie continued. “Connie. Miriam. And now Roberto. We sat on that jury. What if he comes after us next?” Betty nodded in agreement.
“Who?”
“Garrett,” they said in unison.
Sam shook her head. “Relax. Garrett’s in jail. He didn’t do it.”
Betty jerked her chin up. “Then, somebody did it for him.”
“Maybe,” Sam conceded.
“I bet it was those kids,” Betty said, pointing toward the groupies a half block away.
“No, it wasn’t them, either.”
“Lanny Mills thinks so,” Marjorie said.
Sam couldn’t completely suppress the irritation that surged inside her. “He’s wrong. And he should keep his opinions to himself. Don’t let his wild ideas upset you.”
“Well, then, if it wasn’t those hippies, who was it?” Marjorie glared at her defiantly.
“We don’t know.”
“So, what do we do? Just wait to killed?” Betty said, her eyes collapsing in an angry squint.
Sam softened, sensing their fear. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. Why don’t you go home and keep your doors locked. If you hear or see anything, call us.”
