by Paul Cave
Carter nodded. “We could still be onto something with Ruebins though.”
Tyler frowned. “So far, I’d say Ruebins’ involvement - or lack of it - is the only sure thing we do have.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Carter said. “But the chance of another patient being capable of the murder is still a discrete possibility.”
“You’re right,” Tyler agreed. “The murder took place out of visiting hours. So that should greatly reduce the chance of a visitor’s involvement.”
Carter nodded. “What about security personnel?”
“A relatively short list to work through. I’ll check it out personally.”
“Okay. So for now, our only known witness is Joseph Ruebins. And he’s playing see no evil, speak no evil.”
“Yeah,” Tyler agreed. “Still, he’s the one link we have to the actual killer.”
“Or killers?”
Tyler frowned. “Killers?”
“We can’t rule out that this was done by more than one individual.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Seems too convenient that the original bed sheet found its way to laundry so fast, and Jones wasn’t found earlier, considering he was wired to a monitor.”
Earlier, Carter had finally found the whereabouts of the missing blanket. A young orderly had removed it after finding Henry Jones’ body. Deeply inexperienced and thinking that the blood found had been a simple result of him passing away, she had allowed the bed to be changed, not wishing for relatives to arrive to find their loved one in such a way. The soiled sheet had then been washed in the hospital laundry.
“But what about the orderly?” Tyler asked. “She seemed genuinely upset?”
“Yeah, embarrassed even,” Carter said. “Doesn’t mean she isn’t connected somehow.”
“So you think the whole hospital is trying to conceal a murder?”
“Not necessarily,” Carter replied, with a shake of his head. “Maybe they’re more worried about being sued for malpractice. Neither Ruebins nor Jones received adequate care last night, and perhaps the hospital is simply trying to keep the damage to a minimum.”
“So what are you getting at?”
“Maybe the orderly was told to remove the sheet, clean up the patient and then make it look as if he’d simply passed away in the night.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Tyler agreed.
“And then they find our killer’s calling card – and call us, forgetting their little cover-up in the panic.”
“Agreed,” Tyler said. “Finding such a thing would have thrown anyone.”
Carter shuddered slightly at the memory of the patient’s tongue. “Got ourselves one sick son-of-a-bitch, that’s for sure.”
“What do you think? We got a serial killer at work here?”
Carter paused for a second. “In all the time I’ve worked here, I’ve only ever known of one genuine serial killer. They’re not as common as films or books would make you believe.”
“Go on,” Tyler pushed.
“Okay, we need to understand what we mean by a serial killer. A person who kills multiple people, or, a person who kills for pleasure – for some sort of sick purposes? A purpose usually only known to them.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You could pull any gang member out of any prison, or the streets, and chances are they’ve probably killed more than one person. But that wouldn’t make them a serial killer. Wouldn’t qualify them as a Ted Bundy. No, nothing unusual in street killings or gang wars or even intentional hits. We’re not looking for someone here who kills for profit or power. More like for passion.”
“So you think Henry Jones could be the first for our killer? His baptism of blood.”
“I’m not sure,” Carter responded.
“Then why the dramatics?” she asked. “Why go to all that trouble, if you didn’t have something to say. A statement to us?”
Carter drummed his fingertips along the tabletop. His face flipped between emotions: thoughtful, confusion, and then too understanding.
“I don’t think the killer was leaving a message for us.”
“Then to whom?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his face returning to confusion.
“But the killer must know we’re not likely to go to the press with this. Not yet.”
“No,” he agreed. “But we’re not the only people to have seen the work of our killer, are we? At least a half dozen people at the hospital saw what happened to Jones; any one of them could be on the phone right now, negotiating exclusive rights to the story.”
“So you think the message could have been left for a relative?” Tyler asked. “Maybe as a warning of things to come.”
Carter nodded absentmindedly. “Maybe…” he muttered.
“So let’s get digging on Jones, see what comes up,” Tyler said.
“Good idea.”
“Okay, what else have we got?” she asked.
Carter stopped drumming against the table. “We’re waiting for forensics to come back with a list of fingerprints – see if anything stands out. They’re also running tests on the morphine drip and pump, to see if there could have been a malfunction, or if they were tampered with. Seems a bit pointless, I know, considering the way the victim was found, but we need to collate as much information as possible.”
“Right. I’ll start to compile witness reports, see if anything stands out. Late visitors, staff working in the wrong area and such.”
“Okay, I’m gonna see what the coroner’s come up with. Find out if a special type of instrument was used to cut the tongue. Something that might only be found in a hospital.”
They stood, and Tyler flipped her notebook shut. She slipped it inside her jacket. “Meet back here in an hour?” she asked.
Carter took a quick look at his watch. “Make it two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I need to look at past cases – both open and closed, see if there’s been a similar kind of crime in the city over the last few years.”
Tyler looked back at him. “Thought we’d agreed it wasn’t a serial killer?”
“We have. Still, records might just throw some light onto this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, motive, for one.”
Chapter Nineteen
Fear threatened to drag Presley out of the building, self-preservation ordering him to get as far away as possible while he still had the chance. Chance dictated otherwise, because fate had presented him with the opportunity for a serious score. Yet it was desperation that eventually spoke loudest. His original plan to buy a weapon to protect himself from the cops that hunted him by day, and from the Russians who hunted him both day and night, now seemed part of another life.
The debt he owed had made Presley too much of a known commodity, and his creditor wasn’t about to let such a large tariff simply walk away. No, there were people on the streets looking for him. The most worrying one of all was Detective Thomas Carter, a man who was going to stop at nothing until he was dead and zipped up cold in a body bag.
Presley couldn’t afford to walk away. And the arsenal of weapons and stash of cash upstairs demanded he risk it. That’s how he found himself at the foot of the stairs. He looked up, standing on his tiptoes, in an attempt to get a better view of the landing above.
He’d quickly checked the rooms on this level, finding nothing of the heavy or his assault rifle. Perhaps Timothy had returned to the weapons table in haste, ready to reload and continue his pursuit. Still, minutes had gone by now, with no sound or sight of him.
This is lunacy, Perkins thought, as he took the first step upwards. The board under his foot creaked slightly, a sound he hadn’t been aware of during his first two trips through the building. Now, though, his senses were at their highest.
He took a breath and started to climb.
What could he do with the money and weapons, even if he took them? The protection a firearm could of
fer was simple. If backed into a corner, like the night before, he would at least have options. The option to kill? Maybe? Although he didn’t consider himself a violent man, Presley knew now, without doubt, that he could never allow himself to go to jail. A life of privilege had taught him that. No, he understood that freedom was his only option. And what lay above could be his ticket towards winning it.
The landing came into view. Chunks of masonry littered the floor all along the passageway. The banister at the top of the stairs had been blasted into a toothpick. As he ascended, Presley looked along his pathway in the hope of spotting blood. Maybe his single shot had somehow caught Timothy, wounding him sufficiently enough to make him retreat? Not a single drop stained the stairs, nor was he able to find any on the ground floor. Timothy may have also reached the same conclusion as had Presley, and was already making his way outside with a bagful of loot. Moses would have been savvy enough to have given himself more than just the one exit to escape from, if the need ever arose. Timothy could be long gone by now, already planning his future and how to invest his newfound wealth.
This worrying thought spurred Presley on.
He reached the top unscathed and then paused for a moment, his beating chest forcing his lungs to work overtime. He waited until he’d caught his breath. Finally, he took a few steps away from the staircase and inched his way towards Moses’ room. His footsteps thudded noisily, masonry crunching under the weight of his shoes, and his breath came out in a tight, constricted wheeze. He reached the doorway to find one of the black gang members sprawled across the threshold, blood pooled out around him.
The stench of blood, innards and cordite was almost overpowering. Presley held his breath as he stepped inside. What he found there was the stuff of nightmares.
The second gang member lay where he’d fallen, his skull open to reveal a mess of orange-grey tissue. Pink, watery fluid had leaked out from the wound, staining the floor around him. However, the most terrible thing to hit Presley was the desperate wheeze that emanated from the kid’s lips.
He shuddered, understanding that what lay at his feet was his doing. His attention turned to the table. Moses Prey had been thrown back into his chair, and he sat there, faceless, grinning a ghastly smile from what was left of his lower jaw. Only the bottom half of his face remained intact, along with his bald scalp, and just a few hairs framed this ghastly sight with a greasy dark frame.
The cash that one of the kids had held was now scattered across the room, some soaking up puddles of blood, others gathered in small heaps like the winnings of a jackpot. All three victims lay where they’d fallen, the money sat untouched, and the cache of weapons still formed neat rows and columns.
Presley stepped over the wounded victim, careful not to tread in brain matter or blood, aware that any trace of his footprints would implicate him to the horrific events of the evening. He checked behind him, but nothing threatening appeared. Quickly, with his hand drawn into his sleeve, he moved around the table and opened one of the table’s drawers. Inside were a dozen or so small boxes, each with a calibre stamped on them.
What had Moses said about the Derringer? Something about it being the smallest Magnum in the world. He forced his brain to remember the recent conversation, but the scene before him pushed any reasoning out of his mind. Instead, he began to open boxes, carefully though, using just the rough tips of his fingernails, in the hope that any prints would go unnoticed. Then, once he’d opened a few, he clicked the Derringer’s loader open, retrieved the two spent casings, and began to withdraw single bullets, before trying them for size. They were all too small. He tilted the Derringer back, catching the incorrect bullets in the palm of his hand, before slipping the casings inside his jacket, leaving no possibility of fingerprints. Eventually he opened a box of .357s. The first round fitted perfectly, so Presley retrieved the entire box and then quickly loaded the second chamber. He clicked the loader shut before pocketing the box of rounds.
Now back in business, he turned his attention to the carpet of green bills scattered around the room. Most were twenty-dollar bills, some ten, and just the occasional five. All were stained by splatters of red. Presley figured that Moses must have a stash of cash readily available to him. He looked away from the scattering of blood money, and focused his attentions to the table before him. There were another three drawers to examine. The first was empty. An arrangement of wicked looking knives filled the second, ranging from small butterfly-knives to foot-long hunting knives. The last drawer presented Presley with what he’d come for: tightly wrapped rolls of green bills – and lots of them.
“Bingo,” chimed Presley.
His dirty fingers reached out greedily, snatching up as many bundles as he could. He raised the handful of cash to his nose and then breathed in deeply. A long exhale of pleasure escaped from his lips. One roll looked to be made up of hundred-dollar bills and, by its thickness, Presley guessed it to be worth at least five thousand. Another roll promised at least another few grand. In all, Presley guessed he was richer by somewhere in the twenty-five grand range.
The kid on the floor groaned again.
Presley’s arm rose slightly, and the Derringer wavered towards the kid’s open skull. A mercy killing, Presley told himself. That’s what it would be if he pulled the trigger. The firing mechanism felt in need of a hundred pounds of pressure to work it. The gun began to waver. Perkins took a deep breath and readied himself.
“Okay,” he said. “This is for your own good.”
His thumb clicked the hammer back to halfway.
The scrape of a boot pulled his attention upwards. In the doorway, blocking the only exit, was Timothy. The assault rifle was clasped in his hands, and his eyes looked directly at Presley. Timothy’s face looked ghostlike, white and gaunt. His eyes appeared red-rimmed and hollow. Then, with deadly intent, the weapon began to rise. Timothy opened his mouth and a single word came from between grey lips.
“Moses…”
Chapter Twenty
With night falling and visiting time almost over, Joseph held onto Marianna’s hand with an intensity born of fear. Darkness filled the window completely, and it pushed against the glass with overwhelming conviction. Worried about the safety of his wife and son, Joseph had convinced her to spend the night across town at Eugene Profit’s place. She’d agreed without comment, although not overly keen to do so, in an attempt to ease Joseph’s anxiety.
“What about you?” Marianna asked now. “Are you going to be okay?”
Joseph flashed her a crooked half-smile. “I’ll be fine.”
Marianna’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’m worried, Joseph. What if this killer decides to come back?”
“Then he’ll have to get through hospital security and the armed officer outside.”
“The kid’s barely out of his teens,” she responded, referring the fresh-faced officer guarding his room.
“Honey,” Joseph began, “I’ll be fine. I’ll watch a bit of TV and get some sleep. And before I know it, you’ll be back here. Nothing’s going to happen, I promise.”
“Okay,” she sighed.
Already asleep, Jake was curled up on the chair at the side of his father’s bed. The old coach had gone to bring his car around to the front of the hospital. Marianna bent to kiss Joseph on his lips and then moved over to Jake.
“Hey sleepyhead, time to go,” she said.
Jake murmured something meaningless and opened his eyes. He lay confused for a moment, his surroundings strange, before remembering where he was.
“What about Pop?” he asked.
“Pop’s staying here for another night. To make sure he’s all better,” she replied.
“Aww. I want to stay, too,” Jake moaned.
“Hey,” Joseph said. “Do as your mother says.”
Reluctantly, Jake climbed off the chair, kissed his father goodnight and took his mother’s hand.
“So, we’ll see you first thing in the morning,” Marianna said.
�
��I’ll be right here,” Joseph promised.
Marianna nodded, and then escorted Jake outside.
***
The guard looked up from the magazine at his lap, the one Eugene Profit had given him with Joseph on the cover – and smiled.
“Mrs Ruebins,” he said, climbing to his feet. He closed the magazine and placed it carefully – respectfully – on the seat behind him.
Marianna relaxed a little. Profit’s use of the old magazine seemed to have worked, and now the guard had a deeper understanding of the man he was here to protect.
“I’ll make sure Joseph stays safe and sound,” he said with utter conviction.
Marianna gave him a warm smile. She quickly read the officer’s nametag. “Thank you, Officer Gore, we appreciate that.”
Officer Gore reached up to activate a walkie-talkie at his shoulder. After a short bout of static, he requested for a guard to make his way up to room 2b. He clicked his radio off, ending the brief conversation. “It’s probably better we escort you to the lobby, just as a precaution,” he said.
Marianna’s heartbeat quickened slightly; the officer’s request once again proving that their world had become terribly dangerous.
After only a minute or so the elevator opened and a guard appeared before them. He walked over casually, and then with careless ease, ruffled Jake’s hair. “You up for a ride in the elevator, kiddo?” he asked, flashing a smile made from finely chiselled white teeth.
“Yeah,” Jake said.
“Okay, let’s go,” the guard said, leading the way.
Marianna took Jake’s hand and then followed close behind. The elevator doors trundled open. All three stepped in together. Jake stood facing the mirrored wall, pulling a series of funny faces.
“All aboard,” said the guard like the captain of a ship. His index finger pointed out towards the bank of buttons. Like an elevator itself, his finger went from the lowest button, marked B, to the highest which was numbered 8. He seemed confused for a second, as if unsure which level to press. His finger hovered at the 8 button for a noticeably long time. Then, as it appeared he was about to hit the highest button, a flash of starched material hurried through the doorway.
