For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  “Like what?”

  “He needs antiplatelet and anticoagulant drugs every few hours, plus what if the MRI results show something tomorrow? We still do not know what caused the initial transient ischaemic attack.”

  Carter looked back blankly.

  “What caused the mini-stroke,” Greenwood explained.

  “Then call us when you do know,” Carter replied abruptly. “Get me his medication and a nurse, and hurry. We ain’t got all day.”

  Greenwood stood for a moment, not used to being given instructions so forcefully. Then his professional instincts took over, and he quickly headed off in search of a nurse and Joseph’s medication.

  “Hurry, Doc,” Carter called after him.

  They held position in the lobby for a few agonising minutes, watching carefully as different teams of law enforcers arrived in their droves. Crime Scene Units appeared, some already suited in protective jump-suits, and more patrol officers filtered through to take up positions throughout the hospital.

  Eventually, just before Carter’s nerves gave out, Doctor Greenwood returned with an attractive nurse in tow. The nurse had a pack in her arms, and was struggling to keep up with the consultant.

  “Okay,” Greenwood said. “Nurse Walton will go with you. She’s one of our most trusted staff. She can report to me directly if anything happens to Joseph.”

  Carter acknowledged the nurse with a simple, courteous nod. “Right, let’s go.” He spoke into his radio, ordering a patrol car to move around to the front, and then turned to lead the way.

  “Just one more thing,” Greenwood called.

  “What?” Carter asked, already halfway outside.

  “If Mister Ruebins suffers another attack, or worse… Then you’ll be responsible.”

  Joseph and Carter looked at each other.

  Carter grinned apprehensively.

  And Joseph shuddered with dread.

  Chapter Thirty

  Viktor Mikhel looked away from the TV screens and at Presley standing by the open doorway. His face remained impassive for a second. Then, as if addressing a welcome friend, he jumped to his feet and strode towards Presley with open arms. The Boss was an imposing figure. Short yes, but thickset with a bull neck and broad shoulders. His eyes were two slashes of Mongolian heritage, cut on either side of a flat face.

  “Comrade Perkins, you have returned to us unharmed,” he said, his words thick with Slavic tones.

  Presley twitched nervously.

  Viktor put his arms around him in a crushing embrace. “You fell out with old Viktor? You seemed quick to forget who your friends are.”

  Presley truly believed Viktor was no such thing. A friend to him extended to no more than an obedient dog. Still, Presley grinned back and said, “I had business to attend to.”

  “Business?” Viktor quizzed.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know old Viktor, he respects people who appreciate good business.” Viktor stepped back to look over Presley’s face. “You lost weight since I last saw you.”

  “Had a lot on – you know, this n’ that.”

  “This n’ that…” Viktor echoed. His Mongolian eyes narrowed slightly with amusement. “This n’ that,” he said again, finding something funny with the simple saying. He turned to the four heavies on the sofa and laughed: “This n’ that!”

  They broke into an uncomfortable bout of laughter; clearly knowing that it was expected, but not sure why.

  Viktor turned back to Presley. “Come – sit,” he said, with a gesture towards the sofa.

  Presley moved over to the sofa, having to forcefully drag his feet just the few yards to get there. Now, in the presence of the Russian crime boss, his idea of atonement seemed foolhardy, desperate, suicidal.

  The four heavies shuffled over in anticipation of his arrival. He wavered for a moment, knowing all too well what kind of mind games Viktor was capable of, before sitting unwillingly between them.

  Viktor clapped his hands like an excited child. “Good – good.” He stood looking down at Presley for a moment before bringing one finger in front of his face. “Tut, tut – Presley been a bad boy,” he said, waving the finger from side to side.

  Presley gulped.

  “You take old Viktor’s money and then disappear without letting me know where,” he reprimanded.

  Presley’s hands rose in submission. “I got your money, Boss. All of it.”

  Viktor’s hands rested against his hips. This was an unexpected development. “You got Viktor’s money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “Safe.”

  “Where Presley?”

  “Here,” Presley said, digging in his pocket. He presented Viktor with a thick roll of green bills.

  Viktor just laughed coldly. “What is that?”

  Presley misunderstood Viktor’s apparent confusion. “It’s money. What I owe you.”

  Viktor snatched the roll of bills out of his hand. He rolled the rubber band off and then began to count the amount. “Comrade Perkins, there is only five thousand here?”

  “I’ve got the rest.”

  “Then let me have it.”

  “I don’t have it on me, but it’s somewhere safe.”

  Viktor shook his head. “What is this? What are you trying to do?”

  Presley shuffled awkwardly on the sofa. “Viktor, I need your help.”

  The Russian’s face almost collapsed with shock. “What?”

  Presley shuffled to the edge of his seat, leaning forward now, ready to make his play. “I need you to set me up – in Mexico.”

  Viktor looked shell-shocked. He turned to look at each of his men, individually, to make sure that what he’d just heard was indeed correct. All stared back at him equally amazed.

  “Mexico?” Viktor echoed.

  “Yeah,” Presley replied.

  Viktor’s face started to lift. He went from complete confusion to total amusement in a matter of seconds. “Presley, you had me going then. What is this, a trick?” He spun around to face the bank of TV screens. “Am I on camera? Candid Camera?” He started to look towards the corners of the room, in an exaggerated pantomime show of surprise and delight, looking for the hidden lens of a camera.

  Presley twitched nervously. “I’m serious.”

  Viktor stopped his performance instantly. “What – with this?” he said, waving the handful of bills in Presley’s face.

  “Like I said – I got the rest.”

  Viktor stood back.

  For the first time since Presley’s arrival, Pyotr Krylov stepped away from the entrance and moved towards Viktor. Bending into his boss’s ear, he spoke in hushed tones. Viktor nodded as they spoke. Pyotr took the handful of cash and then disappeared towards the rear of the room.

  “Mexico?” Viktor asked, now turning his attention back to his surprise guest.

  “Yeah,” Presley croaked.

  “They have lots of girls,” he said, winking to Perkins and to the men flanking him.

  Presley endured a short bout of laughter from the heavies. “So you can help?” he asked, after it had died down.

  Viktor paced up and down before him. “I am not an unreasonable man. You get me the rest, come back and we’ll talk.”

  Presley relaxed a little, understanding that he wasn’t about to be harmed. Yet, he also knew that it would be foolish to just return with his pockets bulging, leaving him little or no leverage.

  “How long will it take to get me tickets, and somewhere to stay – once I’m in Mexico?”

  Viktor’s brow creased as he worked it out. “Not long, comrade Presley. I have friends in many places. I can get you tickets, papers, and an address for a safe-house for as early as tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Presley repeated.

  Viktor’s head flicked from side to side. “Mmm – yes, this I can do.”

  “And we’ll be okay?” Presley asked. “No hard feelings. You get your money and I get a simple bus ride out of here?”


  “Simple.” Viktor said, his face forming into a smile – eyes tight unreadable slits.

  “Okay,” Presley said. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, for the money and tickets,” Presley prompted.

  “Oh – yes, we should meet somewhere beneficial to us both – yes?”

  “Yes,” Presley agreed. He had no wish to return here with the rest of the money, only to have a bullet waiting for him, ready to send him on his way.

  Viktor stood thoughtful for a moment. Then, after nodding to himself, said, “Union Station?”

  It took a few seconds for Presley’s mind to calculate the potential of Viktor’s suggestion. “Union Station?” he echoed.

  The Russian’s face became impassive.

  “Okay – sounds good to me,” Presley conceded.

  Viktor beamed now. “Let us toast tomorrow.” He moved away from the sofa and crossed to the opposite side of the room. There, he busied himself with the task of pouring out two drinks. With a glass in each hand, he returned to offer Presley one. Viktor raised his glass high, said “Salute!” and then downed the shot of Vodka in one.

  Presley tipped his glass back and drank. And as the fiery liquid burnt his throat, he sat there, praying that this wasn’t the start of his descent into the flaming bowels of hell.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Considering the kind of events that had happened at the hospital, the homicide department was almost empty. Chairs were left scattered, some with forgotten jackets resting over them, and desktops had been left cluttered. The room looked as if it had been vacated – en masse – in a hurry. No doubt it had, once the call had come in from St Mary’s.

  Joseph shuddered. The night seemed to have worked itself inside the building, searching out warm bodies to drain heat from living tissue. Joseph sat at Carter’s desk, alone, watching, waiting for the arrival of his wife and son. He turned towards the department’s clock. Only three minutes had ticked by since he’d last looked. It felt like three hours.

  The nurse who had accompanied them was now dozing in Captain Mendoza’s office, stretched out in the captain’s chair. Earlier, once they’d arrived, she’d administered Joseph his medicine and then carried out a series of simple motor-functional and neurological tests. Joseph had been forced to act out different positions with both arms and legs, recite a short passage that was printed on a card – the body of text printed in tiny letters – and finally, identify certain objects throughout the room, to prove he wasn’t suffering any form of dysphasia. His brain worked fine - apparently. Although he could not be considered as being in ‘good health’, he was at least not slipping any further towards sickness.

  Joseph checked the time again. Two more minutes had ticked by slowly. He turned his attention to the object before him. Folded up and propped up against the desk was the wheelchair he’d arrived in. Joseph grunted slightly with disdain. Doctor Greenwood wasn’t taking any chances of legal action, should Joseph receive injury whilst still in the hospital’s care. Once they’d entered the department, Joseph had swapped chair with wheels for one with legs, not wishing for Marianna or Jake to find him in such a state.

  Detective Carter appeared on the other side of the Department, carrying two cups of coffee. He reached his desk to place both down, before absentmindedly licking at his fingers in an attempt to clean away a trickle of the dark liquid.

  “Hope you like it black,” Carter said. “‘Cos that’s all we’ve got.”

  “Black’s fine – as my mum used to say,” Joseph responded. “She wasn’t a big fan of cream. Said her hips liked it though – liked it a lot.”

  Carter laughed slightly. “Yeah, I like cream too. The machine out in corridor must love it also, as there never seems to be any left.”

  Joseph reached out to take the hot brew. He took a sip, swallowing a mouthful of muddy liquid. The stuff had more bite than a rattlesnake – and he imagined this is what was used when long hours into the night were required. Like tonight.

  “Any news on my family?” he asked.

  “Hey – sorry, should have said, Tyler just rang to say they’re gonna be here shortly. Got caught up in traffic. Rangers game just finished.”

  “Oh.”

  A few moments of silence stretched out before them, both lost in their own thoughts, thoughts that were dark, worrying and full of dangers.

  Finally, Carter said, “You’ve had an eventful couple of nights, to say the least.”

  Joseph nodded. Felt like an eternity had gone by since he’d been slugging it out with the Warrior from Queens. He sighed, understanding for the first time that that had been the end of his career – carried out on a stretcher, unconscious for the entire world to see. A harsh laugh escaped him.

  “What?” Carter asked.

  Joseph shrugged the act of bitter amusement away. “Nothing – just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Right,” Carter said, absentmindedly.

  “It usually this quiet?” Joseph asked, scanning around the room.

  Carter looked around too, as if he’d not had the time to register something as mundane as whether or not people were at their desks.

  “Nah… Usually five or six work the nightshift, ghosts who like the darkness almost as much as night itself.”

  “They busy tonight?” Joseph asked, foolishly, forgetting that the two bodies left by the killer were work enough for a hundred cops.

  “You could say that,” Carter responded. His face softened slightly and he said, “It’s better that they’re not here. Some of them are a bit pissed with you.”

  “Me?” Joseph asked, a stab of fear twisting in his gut. What had he done wrong?

  “They lost money.”

  “Money?”

  “Yeah – from the fight.”

  “Oh – right, sorry.” He paused. “For the misunderstanding. Not the fight.”

  The corner of Carter’s eyes creased slightly. “No worries. Everyone gets tagged sooner or later.”

  Joseph opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, eager to explain that the fight had been stopped because of the mini-stroke and not by the hands of the ‘Warrior’. His lips came together. Not a single word left them. What would he say? Did it matter? If he started now, justifying his defeat to the ignorant, uninformed masses, then he’d never stop. Because individuals out there, he realised, thrived on other people’s misfortune.

  “Tell them they can take it out of my ribs,” Joseph responded. “Once I’m better.”

  The faintest suggestion of humour flickered across the detective’s eyes. “Don’t worry, they will. Me too, I lost fifty bucks on you.”

  Joseph just grinned back, then gave the detective a shrug of his shoulders.

  They fell silent again, each focusing on their steaming cups. Finally, Joseph was unable to contain the worrying sense of responsibility.

  “Did those two cops die because of me, Detective?” he asked.

  Very carefully, Carter placed his cup on the desk. He looked at Joseph straight and held his gaze for a long moment.

  “Did you get out of bed and kill them both with your bare hands?”

  Joseph sat back in his chair, the question almost too obscene to answer.

  “What?” he managed to say.

  “Did you kill them with your bare hands?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Then don’t ever ask yourself that again,” Carter said, understanding that Joseph hadn’t been looking for just an answer, but more an atonement, a purging of his soul – the very same thing that Carter had asked and sought many times during these last three months. Was he responsible for William’s death? Had he in some way been partially responsible for the shooting of his son? He’d come to understand after many nights agonising, that he wasn’t.

  “Look,” Carter began, “whatever’s happening has nothing to do with you. Not directly anyway. The old man’s fate had been sealed well before you arrived, and I guess the killer
returned tonight to make sure he finished what he’d started.”

  “Which is what?” Joseph asked.

  “His cover-up.”

  “What?”

  “Our killer revealed something tonight by his actions. He came to the hospital to cover up a mistake. And went to great lengths to do so. Goes against every profile we’ve got with regard to serial killers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay. Serial killers are very meticulous about choosing their prey. They go to great lengths to select the right candidate: right age, hair colour, shape, eyes, and then plan down to the minute detail how they’re going to torture, rape, brutalise their victim. But, surprisingly, they use very crude techniques to capture the victim.”

  “Such as?”

  “Pretending they need help, a flat tyre, unable to carry groceries to their car, wrapping an arm in bandages to fake injury, or just tailing the victim until an opportune moment arrives.”

  “And then what?” Joseph asked.

  “And then they usually knock them out cold or use a sleeping agent like chloroform. It’s when they arrive at the killer’s house that all the preparation starts to take place.”

  “Okay, so what did our killer reveal tonight?”

  “That he was desperate enough to return to the hospital, two nights running, risking detection, to carry out what should have been finished the night before.”

  “What, to kill me?” Joseph asked, fear tightening around his chest.

  Carter shook his head. “No, you were just an oversight. Wrong place, wrong time. The killer was there to slay Henry Jones, or more correctly, get the attention of someone close to the old man.”

  “Like who?”

  “In truth, Joseph, I don’t know – yet.”

  “But why come back for me, if his message had been sent?” Joseph asked.

  “Because this guy’s a pro – a real talent – and doesn’t like the thought of leaving potential witnesses behind.”

  “But I didn’t see anything, remember?”

  “Yeah – I do. But how certain was he? Considering you were meant to be someone else, waiting to die that very night.”

  “So I’m just a loose end – nothing more?”