Blinded by the lights, she turned and fired at the sound of the voice, hoping to buy a few seconds. Instead, there was a shot in return that struck her in the right leg. She limped around the corner of the house as the voice said, “I saw her. She just went that way.”
“I’ll let Jack know. We’ve got to get the governor to the hospital.”
Miriam realized she could no longer scale the wall without help. She pulled up a patio chair, climbed on it and hoisted herself over. When she dropped to the other side, pain shot through her right leg. She leaned against the wall for a moment, hoping the pain would subside and then knew that she had to move. She retrieved her fanny pack from below the tree. Blood was oozing from her leg. She used her knife to cut the stockings from the slippers and slit them long ways. Tying them together, she wrapped the bandage around her leg and tied it the best she could before putting her mask, gun holster, knife and slippers in the fanny pack. After tying on her running shoes, she started through the woods, realizing that the trip back to the truck was going to take much longer than she had planned. She could only hope that no one would spot her.
8
Wyatt had bolted out a door to the house and met them at the Suburban, pistol drawn. As they were leaving, Walt radioed Jack. “We’ve got the governor and his wife. He’s been shot. Two others are down. We think the killer escaped over the patio wall. Best guess from Hal is it’s a woman in a cat burglar outfit. Get back to the ballroom.”
Jeff and Walt laid the governor across the back seat. They encouraged Susan to ride in the follow car. She refused, insisting that she would hold her husband’s head in her lap. Walt called the Fort Worth Police and asked that the valet service be suspended. The scenes in the barracks were left behind, at least for the moment. Hal drove the Suburban with Walt beside him. Ryan and Wyatt jumped in the follow car. Like all detail members, Jeff was trained in first aid. He pulled the first aid kit from the back and, kneeling on the floor, started checking the governor. Both vehicles turned on lights and sirens as they made their way to the front of the house. Once on the street, they found most of it blocked. They jumped the curb and ran down the sidewalks and over shrubs to get to the next open street.
“Walt, he’s losing a lot of blood. Pressure is 45 over 20. Heart is racing at 120 and respirations are rapid and shallow.”
Walt called the emergency department at Harris Methodist Hospital to advise that the governor had a chest wound and relay the vital signs. As they hurried away, they got a report that Edward Hale was dead and Kevin O’Connell was wounded. Tears came to Walt’s eyes as he heard the news. He was overwhelmed with the thought that he and his team had failed.
As part of their preparations, Walt had traced various routes from Westover Hills to Harris Methodist, evaluating the routes at different times of day. It was standard protocol which he had never had a reason to implement in the ten years he had worked on the detail. Not until now. The two vehicles were met at the emergency department by a physician and a nurse practitioner. The team placed Lardner on a gurney and wheeled him into a bay. The emergency physician was a young woman with brown hair and a very professional manner. Her name tag read DeAnn Fisher, M. D. She checked his vital signs again. “No real change since you called. He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get a central line and a peripheral. Natalie, get him typed and cross-matched. We’re going to need at least five units of blood, maybe more. Get Frank Cisneros in here. I’m going to insert a chest tube.” Cisneros had trained under the legendary Red Duke in Houston and was the best trauma surgeon on the hospital staff. “He’s going to have his hands full. Meantime, as soon as we can, let’s wheel him to imaging. We need a chest x-ray and CT of his chest and abdomen. I suspect a collapsed lung and spleen injury. This is the governor, people. Let’s move.”
9
Returning to the ballroom, Jack’s mind filtered through an onslaught of ideas, discarding them until he settled on one. Joe Shannon was the Tarrant County District Attorney and a long-time friend. He pulled his cell and punched in a speed dial number.
“Joe, Bryant here. The governor’s been shot at the Hale mansion in Westover Hills. Big fund raiser. Edward Hale is probably dead and some power broker is wounded.”
“Yeah, I got an invite. Keep talking.”
“Lardner’s being taken to Harris Hospital right now. I’m here because one of the governor’s detail, Walt Frazier, is an old army friend. Walt left me in charge. There are two hundred or so people milling around in costumes. We think the killer escaped over the back wall. What the hell should I do?”
“First, cut off the valet service. Next, lock down the place. We’re going to need to know if others were involved.”
“I’m on it.”
“There may be some that will find a way out, but there will be a guest list. We’ll track them down later. Hold on a minute. I’m hearing chatter on my police band.” Joe paused a moment to listen. “Fort Worth cops, sheriff’s deputies and state troopers are all on their way. Tell all those people to take off their masks. If they have guns, confiscate them. I’ll have several CSI teams from the agencies bring kits to check for gunshot residue. Try to get everyone to calm down. Oh, and ambulances are also on the way for Hale and that other guy. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Wait, Joe. Make it three ambulances. There’s a guest who may need help, too. One more thing. The killer is probably female. When she left here she was dressed as a cat burglar. The governor’s limo driver thinks he may have wounded her.”
“Got it. I’ll get patrol cars on Roaring Springs. The sheriff and Fort Worth Police both have canine units. I’ll request them, too.”
Jack radioed the city cops and the security guards, telling them the plan. Rather than fight his way through two hundred and fifty or three hundred people, he looped around the ballroom and came in the delivery entrance. Edward Hale was lying on the stage. His wife was sitting beside him, holding his hand and sobbing. Kevin O’Connell had been helped to a chair. Someone had wrapped a napkin around his arm, just above the elbow. He was pale, but conscious. Jack surveyed the turmoil before him and started toward the stage when he spotted the hand-held microphone that O’Connell had been using. Sirens shrieked in the background. Jack hoped they were ambulances. Hale was probably dead, but O’Connell needed attention.
Rather than taking the stage and risk more contamination of an evidence site, he climbed onto a chair. He tested the microphone and found it working. “All right. All right, now. Everyone listen up. I’m Jack Bryant, a Tarrant County deputy sheriff. I’ve just talked to Joe Shannon, the D. A. I’m instructed to give orders for now; so bear with me. First of all, everyone take off your masks. The party is over. This is now a crime scene.”
Slowly, the guests did as they were told.
“Thanks. Now, I’m sorry to say that we have locked down this room and the mansion. No one is leaving until Mr. Shannon gives the okay.” Jack paused to think. “We don’t have any crime scene tape; so I want some of you men to start grabbing chairs and stools. We need a perimeter of about 30 feet around that bar where I’m told the shooter was all the way up to the stage.” Several guests and waiters started moving chairs into position as Jack directed.
Rumbling came from the crowd. These were rich people, not accustomed to being told what to do or when to do it. Tom Sinclair spoke first. “Sir, I’m Senator Tom Sinclair. You have no reason to hold me. I will cooperate fully and will make myself available at any time.”
“Yeah, that goes for me, too,” Darth Vader said.
Others started chiming in with similar comments. Jack, saw that things were rapidly escalating out of control. “Everyone calm down. Edward Hale is probably dead. Governor Lardner is on his way to Harris Hospital in critical condition. I hope that all of you would understand that some of your time is vital right here and right now. If anyone attempts to leave, that person will be stopped and will go to the top of our suspect list.”
“Well, could we at least sti
ll get some drinks?” Darth Vader asked. Jack could now see that he was a round-faced, bald man with sweat glistening on his forehead and bald pate. He resembled the Wizard of Oz when Toto pulled back the curtain.
Jack thought a minute and then nodded. “Let’s get the bar open. I hope to have you all out of here in an hour.”
Joe Shannon lived close-by and was there in fifteen minutes, at about the same time that various cops, deputies and DPS officers arrived. Shannon also decided to circle around and enter through the delivery entrance. He surveyed the scene. “Nice job, Jack.”
“Thanks. Not exactly what I signed up for this evening, but I’m doing my best.”
“I’ll take it from here.” Joe mounted the chair. “Attention, everyone. I’m Joe Shannon. If you don’t know me, I’m the D. A. in this county. Here’s what we’re going to do. First, enjoy your drinks. I’ll have various officers here any minute along with some CSI units. The CSI folks will be taking gunshot residue samples from every one of you. If you have a gun, we will have to confiscate it. Once that’s done and we have your contact information, you’re free to go. I’ve got enough teams coming that we should have you on your way in no more than an hour. I see some of the officers with clipboards coming through the doors now. Officers, if you’ll pick a table and take a seat, I’ll ask these good people to line up and give you contact information. As soon as the lab folks arrive, we’ll do the GSR tests. Oh, I forgot one thing. If any of you test positive for GSR, I’m going to arrange for some of the anterooms to be used by detectives from the different agencies. You won’t be able to leave until they give the okay. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
About as soon as he was finished, Joe saw CSI details entering, test kits in hand. “Officers, if you’ll coordinate with the CSI teams, we’ll try to get these people out of here.”
Joe stepped down from the chair to see that he was surrounded. Roger Culbertson, the Fort Worth Chief of Police, was joined by Randall Meacham, the Chief from the town of Westover Hills and Lance White, Tarrant County Sheriff. He greeted each of them before receiving a call from Colonel Max Burnside, the head of the Department of Public Safety. The governor’s protective detail ultimately reported to him. “Joe, Max here.”
“Evening, Max. I know you’re aware of what happened.”
“We’ll be taking over. The governor’s shot and Edward Hale is dead. I’ve got Rangers on the way. The DPS will handle it.”
“I hear what you are saying, but I’ve got Roger Culbertson, Lance White and Randall Meacham here. I suspect they may have something to say about that. This is a big house. I’m going to leave a deputy sheriff in charge here. We’ll go find a room where we can talk. We’ll call you back in no more than fifteen minutes.” Joe clicked off the phone. “Jack, you’re in charge. I’ve got to find a place to have a high level meeting.”
Joe led the heads of the agencies through the crowd from the ballroom into the house. Halfway toward the front he found a library that was empty. A table in the center of the room was surrounded by six chairs. He motioned for his entourage to follow him and shut the door. “Okay, if you would, please take a seat at the table. I’ll get Colonel Burnside on my cell phone speaker.” He punched a recall number. “Max, we’re in a library. You’re on a speaker. Westover Hills police department is in the ballroom, all six of them. Fort Worth Cops are showing up by the car load, deputy sheriffs, too. DPS is turning out in force. Crime scene teams are now on site.”
“Joe, gentlemen, this happened on my watch. I don’t blame my protective detail, but they have to bear some degree of responsibility. So, I want the DPS and Rangers to run this show. This is likely to turn into a statewide investigation. We’ve got the best crime lab in Texas in Austin. Our swat team is the best of the best. Besides, I’m required to have a Ranger team do an internal investigation since this is an officer involved shooting. No use duplicating effort.”
“Colonel, I hear what you’re saying, but I’ve got about every law enforcement agency around these parts right here already. Tell your Rangers they can come any time, but they’re not in charge, not yet anyway. I’ll be back in touch shortly.” He clicked off his phone and put it back in his pocket. You heard that. Colonel Burnside wants to be in charge.”
“Bullshit. This is clearly an investigation that should be handled by my department,” Culbertson said. He could already envision the multiple press conferences, garnering national media, as they tracked down the killer. He liked his current job but had a big ego and ambition to match it. Fort Worth was a wonderful mid-size city, but he certainly could picture himself as chief of police in Houston or Los Angeles, maybe even the Big Apple. “With all due respect to Randall, he’s got a fine town police department but only has about a half a dozen officers. He would need to call on us, anyway.”
“Just a damn minute, Roger,” Meacham replied, his face turning red. “It’s true we’re small and elite. You forget that I retired after thirty years in Houston to take this job. There’s no crime that I haven’t investigated. Maybe you just ought to butt out of Westover Hills. I’ll call you if I need help.”
Lance White was Tarrant County’s first black sheriff, a big man with a determined but easy manner. Speak softly and carry a big stick fit his demeanor perfectly. “You gentlemen forget that my department has jurisdiction over the entire county, including Westover Hills. We can conduct this investigation and track down whoever did this without calling on any outside force.”
Shannon contemplated what he had just heard. Four dogs fighting over a king sized bone. It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed jurisdictional battles, but never one of this magnitude, involving the shooting of a governor and the death of a billionaire. “Gentlemen, excuse me a moment. I need to make a call.” He stepped out into the hallway and hoped that Jack Bryant could hear his cell over the thunderstorm of noise in the ballroom.
“What’s up, Joe?”
“Jack, can you come into the house? Follow the big hall to the third door on the right. I’ll be in there with Sheriff White, Chief Culbertson and Chief Meacham.”
Shannon returned to the library. The three men were still bickering about who could do the best job. There was a knock at the door and Jack entered, cane in hand.
“I’m sure that you folks either know or have heard of Jack Bryant. Lance, in case you have forgotten, I asked you to appoint him a reserve deputy a couple of years ago. He is the one that single-handedly broke the Dead Peasants serial killings and put Beau Quillen on death row. I have just appointed him special prosecutor on this case. From this point forward, he’ll make all the command decisions. Jack, you want to have a seat and discuss how you and I concluded that we can use the combined efforts and resources of all of these departments.”
Jack looked at his friend, wondering why he had not been consulted on this appointment, but decided to talk to him in private at a later time. He didn’t want to embarrass Joe by declining the request. As far as conclusions, he had none. “Joe, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take a seat and let you outline where we go from here.”
10
It had taken Miriam Van Zandt nearly thirty minutes to limp through the woods. Twice she had to lean against a tree to take the pressure from her right leg and relieve the pain. She emerged from the woods to a fairway that led in the direction of the clubhouse. As she surveyed the scene in front of her, she could see a patrol car on Roaring Springs. Both the driver and passenger were operating powerful search lights that illuminated about two hundred yards. She dropped to a prone position when the light on the passenger side swept the fairway in front of her and bounced off the trees. When the patrol car had disappeared around a bend in the road, she stayed on the ground to see if another would be close behind.
As she did so, she pressed the bandage on her leg, hoping to reduce the flow of blood. Of course, she had to change her plan. They now knew the shooter was a woman, dressed in a cat burglar outfit. They also may have guessed that she was wounded. The idea of joggi
ng in the open back to her car was not only physically impossible, but trying to walk along the road was out of the question. Then another problem hit her. Dogs. It had taken her long enough to get through the woods that they could have dogs on the scene any minute.
She forced herself to her feet and started moving across the fairway to the trees that lined it. Close to the trees, she stumbled onto a creek, placed there long ago by the golf course architect as a water hazard. The creek appeared to line the fairway all the way to a green in front of the clubhouse. Having no way to know how deep it was, she stepped into it, ignoring the chilly water that late October had brought. Fortunately, she found it to be only a few inches deep where she entered. As she made her way toward the clubhouse, twice she stepped into holes and found herself in water up to her waist. Each time, she discovered that the cold water eased the pain in her leg. She paused to allow it to relieve the pain before slogging on. Nearing the clubhouse, she heard dogs barking up the hill, probably behind the mansion. They would surely pick up her scent from the area around the oak tree. With that thought she forced herself to hurry as the creek crossed in front of the green. Once past the green, it flowed into a culvert. Her only choice was to cross the street and pray the creek continued there. Hopefully, the cold water and her wet pants would have stemmed the flow of blood. On the other side, she was relieved to find that the culvert opened onto another creek lining a different fairway. She pushed as hard as she could down it for ten minutes until it flowed into a natural stream, several feet across and flowing to her left. She stepped into it and found herself up to her chest. She started breast stroking with the current, pleased to take pressure from her right leg. The creek flowed around the country club and along Alta Mere. Periodically, she paused to check the heavily traveled street, but saw no sign of patrol cars. And the sound of dogs had disappeared.
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