Colorado Crime Scene

by Cindi Myers

  “I could question him.”

  “No. You’ll scare him off. He’s really suspicious of strangers.”

  “You could tell him I was a friend of yours.”

  She smiled. “He picked up on the fact that we were together. I couldn’t tell if he liked that or not. He’s always been protective of me. But I’ll try to persuade him to at least meet you. There’s something else he told me—something that might be even more important to your case.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said he saw Danny put something in the food on one of the plates last night, right before it went out to the servers.”

  “What did he put in there?”

  “Scott didn’t say. He said Danny saw him watching, though, and threatened him. Scott was really frightened, so that’s something else that points to them not working together.”

  “Then it’s even more important that I talk to Scott. We need to persuade him to let us bring him into protective custody.”

  “Custody? Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “No. But if the suspect knows that Scott could testify against him in this poisoning case, your brother could be in real danger.”

  She put her hand to her chest, pressing down on the stab of pain there, then realized she had stopped breathing. She struggled to take a breath, her heart hammering. “You think Danny might harm him?”

  “If the man doesn’t have any qualms about hurting dozens of innocent people with a bomb or poisoning a race official, he wouldn’t blink at getting rid of a dishwasher he thought might cause him trouble.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “I don’t mean to frighten you. We’ll do everything we can to protect your brother, but he has to cooperate with us.”

  She nodded, grateful for the strength of his arm around her. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll try to make him see how important it is to trust us.”

  His phone vibrated, making her jump. He slipped the device from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “I have to take this,” he said, and stood.

  She rose, also, and went to the laptop, closing the window with the picture of her and Luke kissing, but not before studying it a moment longer. That had been such an intense, private moment. She felt a little violated, having their shared passion exposed to the world. All because some photographer thought it would make a nice—or maybe titillating?—contrast to the other scenes of violence on the page.

  Luke grabbed her arm, startling her. “We’ve got to get over to the hotel kitchen right away,” he said.

  “What? Why?” She tried to resist as he tugged her toward the door.

  “That call was from Travis. He just got word that one of the dishwashers is brandishing a knife, threatening to use it if anyone comes near him.”

  Chapter Six

  Travis met Luke and Morgan outside the kitchen after they’d rushed down the street and worked their way through a gauntlet of press, hotel employees and local cops. “What’s going on?” Luke asked.

  “One of the kitchen help, a dishwasher, lost it. He’s holed up in an alcove by the sinks, brandishing a knife and threatening to cut anyone who comes near him.”

  Morgan clutched Luke’s hand and let out a soft moan. He stayed focused on Travis but squeezed her hand to let her know he was aware of her distress. “Do you have a name on this guy?” he asked.

  “Scott. Is that the guy who ran with the suspect last night?”

  “He ran the same time as the suspect, not with him,” Luke said.

  “Scott is my brother,” Morgan said. She was pale, but her voice was steady and she’d let go of Luke’s hand. “I can get him to calm down, I’m sure.”

  “Has he ever done anything like this before?” Luke asked.

  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, then gave one quick jerk of her head. “Once. Before he was diagnosed. Not with a knife, but a couple of years ago, he barricaded himself behind a table in a pizza place where he used to hang out. He had a pool cue and told everyone they had to stay away.”

  “What happened then?” Travis asked.

  “I convinced him to come out. The local cops—guys he knew—took him to a hospital. That’s where he was diagnosed.”

  Travis glanced toward the closed kitchen door. “There are a couple of local officers in there with him now. I told them we had someone coming who might be able to help, so I think they’ll let you talk to him, but it’s their call.”

  Luke put a hand at her back. “I’ll go in with you. If you can convince him to put the knife down and cooperate, he’ll have to go to the hospital again.” He didn’t mention the possibility of custody and criminal charges; in any case, that wasn’t his decision to make.

  “The best thing for him would be to get help and medication,” she said.

  Luke nodded to Travis. “I think we’re ready.”

  Inside the kitchen, they were met by a young woman in a black pantsuit and an older man with the build of a former football player. They introduced themselves as Lieutenant Litchfield and Detective Young of the Denver PD. “Detective Young is one of our hostage negotiators,” Litchfield said.

  “Does he have a hostage?” Morgan’s voice carried a note of panic.

  “Thankfully, no.” Detective Young’s hazel eyes assessed Morgan. “I’m here to try to talk him into putting down the knife and coming with us quietly,” she said.

  “This is Morgan Westfield,” Luke said. “She’s the young man’s sister. She believes he’ll listen to her and cooperate.”

  “Any idea what brought this on?” Litchfield asked. “Does he have a history of this kind of behavior?”

  “He was diagnosed two years ago with schizophrenia.” Morgan kept her gaze focused at the back of the kitchen, though the sink area wasn’t visible from where they were standing. “He hears voices and gets upset about things sometimes. Please, let me talk to him.”

  “All right,” Detective Young said. “But don’t get too close until he agrees to put down the knife. We don’t want this to turn into a hostage situation.” She led them toward the back of the room. They turned a corner and the alcove came into view.

  Scott crouched on the floor in front of the big sink, one arm hugging his knees. In his free hand, he clutched a chef’s knife. His head jerked up at their approach, and he waved the knife, though he remained on the floor. “Don’t come any closer!” His voice was high-pitched and agitated.

  “It’s me, Scott. Morgan.” She bent over, leaning toward him. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “Go away!” he shouted.

  “I will, if you really want me to. But, first, tell me what’s wrong.” Morgan’s voice was gentle, full of sympathy.

  “I just want people to leave me alone,” Scott said. His face was angled toward her, his gaze unfocused, his eyes darting and fearful.

  “Who is bothering you?” Morgan asked.

  “Everyone. They keep looking at me and saying things.”

  “Is it the devils, Scott? Are they bothering you?”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head, then nodded.

  “I think we can make them stop,” Morgan said. She took a step toward her brother. Luke tried to pull her back, but she shook him off. “If you’ll put down the knife and come with me, I promise to help.”

  “No. Don’t come any closer.”

  She froze as he waved the knife. Luke kept his hands at his sides, poised to retrieve her if necessary. “You know I would never hurt you,” Morgan said. “And I’d never let anyone else hurt you.”

  “Who’s that?” Suddenly alert, Scott glared at Luke and jabbed the knife in his direction.

  “That’s my friend Luke. He wants to help you, too.”

  “He has a gun.”

  Detective Young gave Luke a quest
ioning look, but he ignored her.

  “Luke only uses his gun to hunt bad guys,” Morgan said. “He knows you’re not a bad guy.”

  He wished he did know that. For her sake, at least.

  “Bad guy. Bad guy. Bad guy,” Scott droned.

  Morgan glanced back at them, beautiful even in her anguish. “Maybe I’d better take over,” Detective Young said. She started to step forward, but Morgan waved her away.

  “Just give me a minute more,” she said. She looked back at Scott. “I was thinking about you the other day,” she said.

  Scott said nothing and gave no indication he’d even heard her. She took a step closer. “I was remembering when we were kids. Do you remember the neighbor we had—the old man who was so mean to all us kids?”

  “Mr. Invin.”

  “That’s right. We all waited for the school bus on the corner by his house and he was always accusing us of throwing trash in his yard and riding our bikes across his grass.”

  “And picking his pears,” Scott said.

  “Do you remember the time you were eating a pear while we waited for the bus and he accused you of picking it off his tree?”

  Scott grinned, his face transformed. Luke could almost see the young boy he had been. “I brought the pear from home just to mess with him. He had such a fit. He said he was going to report me to the police.”

  “And then on the way home from school, you came up with the idea that we should pick all his pears,” she said.

  “We waited until after midnight, then went over there and picked every single pear off that tree. Then we waited at the bus stop the next morning to see what his reaction would be. He was furious! I was half afraid he’d have a heart attack, he was so stomping mad. He ran out there and started shouting about how we’d stolen all his pears.” He laughed, a childish giggle. “I’ll never forget the look on his face when I said, ‘Do you mean all those pears on your front porch?’ He turned around and there they all were, bags and bags that we’d picked and put there for him.”

  “He left us alone after that,” Morgan said. “We made a great team, didn’t we?” By this time, she was almost within striking distance of her brother. Luke tried not to focus on the sharpened blade, gleaming under the bright lights. “You know, I’m always on your side,” she said. “I want to help you.”

  “You can’t help,” he said, all the joy gone from his face. “No one can.”

  “You have to let me try. It’s in the sister handbook.”

  His smile was sad. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Then maybe I ought to write one. I’ll be sure to put that in.”

  Much of the tension had gone out of his body. “What are you going to do?”

  She sat down, cross-legged, on the floor a few feet away from him. “Put down the knife and we’ll both talk to some people who can help,” she said. “New doctors who know about new medications. Ones that don’t have the side effects you hated so much before.”

  “What kind of medications?”

  While brother and sister talked medication and treatment options, Detective Young leaned over and whispered to Luke. “She’d make a good negotiator. She’s good at defusing the situation.”

  “Unfortunately, she’s had practice,” he said.

  “That’s the thing about mental illness,” Young said. “All the person’s family and friends become victims, too.”

  A clatter drew their attention. Scott had dropped the knife and risen to his feet. Morgan stood also and went to her brother and hugged him. She said something to him and he nodded, then she turned to Luke and Young. “We’re ready to go to the hospital,” she said.

  “We’ve got an ambulance waiting out back,” Young said.

  The three of them started toward the door to the alley, where they were joined by two uniformed officers. Scott halted in the door and turned to Luke. He looked more lucid now, though still agitated. “I ran away last night because I don’t like gunshots,” he said. “They scared me.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you,” Luke said. “I wasn’t shooting at you.”

  “I saw Danny after I left here. He said if I told anybody about what I’d seen him do, he’d kill me.”

  “Oh, Scott.” Morgan clutched at her brother’s arm.

  What did you see him do? Luke wanted to ask. He needed to hear the accusation against Danny in Scott’s own words. But he knew he would have to wait for the answer to question the young man further. He didn’t want to risk upsetting Scott again. “Thank you for telling me that,” he said. But there was one question he had to ask. “Where did you see him? I can pick him up and stop him before he hurts anyone else.”

  Scott shook his head, his expression clouded again. “I promised not to tell. He’s a bad guy. A bad guy. A bad guy...”

  An EMT opened the door to the ambulance. Morgan helped Luke inside, then started to step in after him, but one of the officers motioned her aside. “We can follow in my car,” Luke said, as the second officer stepped up into the ambulance.

  “All right.” Morgan stepped back. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Scott,” she called.

  Luke moved to her side. “I’ll drive you to the hospital,” he said.

  “Are you sure? I know you have so much work to do.”

  “I want to make sure you’re all right, first.”

  “I doubt you’ll get to question Scott today,” she said.

  “I’m not concerned about Scott right now.” Not really. If the young man could tell him anything useful—and that was doubtful—he’d find out soon enough. Right now, Morgan needed someone to look after her. He was making that his job.

  * * *

  MORGAN HUNCHED OVER the laptop, reviewing Wednesday’s blog for Cycling Pro.

  The second stage of the race brought the challenges of 8700-foot McClure Pass and 9,900-foot Kebler Pass before a steep descent into the town of Crested Butte, where crowds lined the streets to welcome racers. I spoke with US Team Amgen leader Andy Sprague by phone at the close of yesterday’s race. “This is a race that starts off challenging the riders right away,” he said. “But conditions have been prime so far and the fans have been incredible.”

  Prerace favorite Victor Vinko of Spain’s Team Contador suffered a nasty crash near the top of Kebler, tangling with team member Roberto Sandoval after losing control on a rough stretch of road. No word yet on whether Vinko and Sandoval will return to the race.

  At the end of Stage Two, British racer Ian McDaniel of Team Sky is the surprise leader, having pulled out a superb effort just ahead of the American peloton. The Americans hope to reclaim the yellow jersey tomorrow, when racers navigate 155 kilometers—approximately 96 miles—between Gunnison and Monarch Mountain, including 11,312 foot Monarch Pass, where the weather forecast is calling for rain and possibly snow.

  She finished reading and turned to Scott, who sat on the edge of the hospital bed, facing her. His shoulders slumped and he wore the blank expression of someone whose emotions were subdued under a fog of medication. But at least he no longer trembled or raged, as he had when they’d brought him into the psychiatric unit two days ago. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “If those guys think Kebler Pass was tough, wait until they see Monarch this afternoon. It’s two thousand feet higher, switchback after switchback.”

  “I meant about the article—though I think you’re probably right about the race. I wouldn’t even want to drive that pass, much less ride up it on a bicycle. What do you think of McDaniel’s chances? You knew him in London, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, his expression unreadable.

  She reached out and stroked his arm through the soft sweatshirt she’d brought him to wear instead of hospital scrubs. “I know you miss it,” she said. “Racing.” The doctors had encouraged her to talk to him about
what he was feeling and experiencing. Learning to be more open about whatever was going on in his head was part of his healing.

  He looked at her for so long without speaking she wondered if she’d made him angry. But finally he licked his lips and said, “I don’t miss the pain or the training or the strict diet, but, yeah, I miss race days. I miss being good at something.”

  “You’re a good photographer.”

  “There are a lot of good photographers out there. There aren’t a lot of good racers.”

  She turned back to the computer. “I’m going to send this, unless you can think of something else I should add.” The two of them had watched the coverage of yesterday’s stage on the television in the unit’s community room. Only one man had complained about their choice of television show, and an aid had escorted him to another area after a few moments.

  Someone tapped on the door frame of the room and a male aide stuck his head in. “How are you this morning, Mr. Westfield?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You have an appointment with Dr. Chandra in the therapy room at eleven,” the aide said. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “We don’t?” But Scott stood.

  “I’ll stop back by in about ten minutes to take you down there,” the aide said, and left.

  Morgan stood and began to pack away her laptop. “I’ll see you this afternoon. We’ll watch the wrap-up of the third stage together.”

  “You don’t have to spend all your time here babysitting me,” Scott said.

  “I want to be with you.” She was still managing to get her work done while he consulted various doctors and attended therapy sessions. At night, she returned to her hotel too exhausted to worry too much about Scott’s future.

  “What about your boyfriend?” The smirk reminded her of the old Scott—the teasing older brother.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

  “Right. Since when do friends make you blush like that?”

  She put a hand to her hot cheek. “There’s nothing between us.” She had thought there might be, but she hadn’t seen Luke since he’d delivered her to the hospital Tuesday evening. He’d called once while she was with Scott and left a message that he’d see her soon, but that was it. She didn’t blame him for keeping his distance. Her brother’s problems would scare off plenty of men, but she wasn’t about to turn her back on Scott for the sake of romance. “He’s very busy with work,” she said.