He smacks me hard on the chin again with the side of his right hand. Almost see white light. Nearly gone. His right hand, holding the knife, breaks free of my grip, and he lunges it toward my chest, but I block it with the open palm of my left hand.
A sacrifice.
The blade penetrates through the palm of my hand, and I see it cut through the top, near my knuckles.
Weird.
I grip the knife’s handle between the fingers of my punctured hand. At this point the pain means nothing compared to wanting to live. I clench the handle hard.
He’s forcing my knife-stuck hand down, trying to get me to stab myself in the chest. My own hand over my heart. So fucking strong. I can’t get my right hand free from under his knee. I grip the handle of the knife through my hand, move a bit to my left side.
Fuck if I’m going to die here!
I throw my upper body up this time, land my forehead into his nose. He loses his grip on the knife, and his knee lifts up from my right hand. Before he can regain himself, I squeeze the knife handle tighter into my palm to prevent the blade from pulling out. Another jolt of adrenaline flushes through me.
Surges.
I swing up hard with the back of my hand, the knife point piercing the left side of his neck just under the jaw. I cut in and slice out. When I remove the blade, blood ratchets out of his neck in a series of pulsating spurts, high enough to arc over the side of the bed, and some of it hits me on the feet.
Carotid.
I scramble up from under his massive legs. He tries to put pressure on his neck with his left hand and at the same time reach for what I have to assume is his sidearm with his other hand.
The movements seem strange, comical. He gives me a look like I should help him.
I step on his hand hard, preventing him from getting his sidearm. He throws silly-looking punches toward me, hitting my thigh once or twice, and allowing the blood to spurt out with more force.
Then it’s like he realizes. He knows.
I step back and kick him hard with the sole of my shoe. The kick lands under his chin, sending him out of his misery.
Part of his neck is opened up, like a second mouth spitting blood. He bleeds out fast. Heart pumping fast, but so is mine. Side of the mattress above his head is soaked, blood dripping down off the bed frame back onto him.
I lean down, lift his suit jacket, and remove the weapon from the holster attached to his belt.
Glock 17.
I back away from him, call 911.
Seventy-Five
I’m in the back of an ambulance parked in the motel’s lot, not cuffed but being watched closely by two uniforms from the Alexandria PD. Left side of my face is swollen. The ice pack they gave me helps. My shirt was cut off by the EMTs and replaced by a light blanket over my shoulders. There’s a second ambulance for the big man, though he won’t be needing it. His body’s still inside the motel room, being checked out by homicide detectives and the coroner. Several marked cruisers here, too, and a couple unmarked. The chief himself responded. It’s a small department, and most of them are solid workers. It’s a city that has its share of crime, so something like this isn’t a surprise. But it is to me.
Should have turned Biddy and Diamond in right away. Diamond would probably still be alive right now, and, most important, I wouldn’t have had to kill someone. I’ve seen people die, mostly when I was on the job. It all stays with you, even the sweet smell of fresh blood. Worse, the look on his face is gonna stay with me.
The EMT bandaged my hand and my shoulder. They want to transport me, but I refuse. I still got my right hand and shoulder. I’d rather take myself to the hospital, but the detective on the scene, Earl Campos, insists on driving me himself. I guess they’ve got too many questions, none of them really answered yet.
I hate to do it again, but Millhoff and Hurley need to be notified. Likely this is the man who murdered Diamond. I give Detective Campos their contact information. I’m sure I won’t be getting any favors from them soon. Campos moves away from me to notify them, then comes back a few minutes later and says, “Both of them are on the way.”
He slips his police notebook in his rear pants pocket.
“Neither of them knew anything about this motel room, though. Got the impression they were upset. Good thing you still have friends on the department.”
“I’d be pissed at me, too, if I were in their shoes.” I look back at the motel, lit up with police lights. “Thing is, I’m taking Robert Givens on as a client, so I didn’t have to tell them. Of course, being the ex-cop I am, I would’ve turned over evidence if I’d found it. Givens assured me that all he had was clothing and other personal items. I was just going to secure them for him. I did see a crack pipe on the floor and picked it up, but I dropped it after the big man jumped me.”
They’ll probably find a partial print on the stem, so I had to tell them. Most cops don’t give a shit about something like that. Hurley knows that Givens is a crackhead.
“I should take you to the hospital. We can talk more there.”
“It’s a good hospital? I don’t want to get my left hand or shoulder fucked up for a lifetime.”
“Inova Fairfax. It’s one of the best.”
“I know that hospital. Appreciate it.”
I drop the ice pack in the back of the ambulance. I don’t want to carry it through the crowd.
We get to his unmarked cruiser.
I notice a couple of news vans, cameras on tripods on the sidewalk. Pointed at me again.
“Is this related to the homicide at your house, Mr. Marr?” one reporter asks, a little too loud.
I don’t answer.
“I’ll sit in back with you,” Campos tells me.
I see how it is now.
His partner is already in the driver’s seat. Older guy, clean-cut, wearing a tucked-in polo shirt with an embroidered badge on it.
Campos opens the rear door for me. I scoot in.
He walks behind the car to the other side, where he sits in the back behind his partner.
“My weapon?” I remember to ask.
“The Glock nineteen on the floor in the room?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll take care of it. Everything clears we’ll give it back, but it’ll be a few days.”
“Robert Givens’s belongings, too. I told him I’d secure them for him.”
“We got it,” Campos advises me.
I slide in the backseat with a few grunts when my shoulder hits the back of the seat.
“That’s my partner, Gibbs,” he tells me.
“Avoid the potholes if you can,” I say.
“This is Old Town, man. We don’t have potholes,” Gibbs says.
“So you said you don’t know this big boy Wyatt, but you’ve seen him before?”
“Yes. He works the door for a nightclub on Connecticut Avenue. I forget the name. Millhoff or Hurley can fill you in.”
“What were you doing at the nightclub?”
“Having a drink, like most of the other customers. Listen, I don’t know that man at all, and he didn’t belong in that room. Did he have a key?”
“Why?” Campos asks.
“Because you should ask Detective Millhoff if the stabbing victim in DC, who was Biddy’s—I mean Givens’s uncle, had a motel key on him. I’m pretty sure he’ll say he didn’t.”
“We’ll do that. And who is Biddy?”
“That’s Givens’s alias, what I like to call him. But listen, more than likely this guy was there to do the same to Biddy but found me instead.”
“So let me get this straight,” Campos begins. “You’re working the homicide-burglary that occurred at your house?”
“Which I have every right to do.”
“Well, only if you don’t take certain matters into your own hands, right?”
“Of course.”
“But you’re working it, and you end up finding the burglar—”
“Biddy found me.”
“Okay, but then this crackhead burglar agrees to turn himself in through you. Why the hell would he do that?”
“I answered that exact question from Detective Hurley. That information would be up to Millhoff or Hurley to share with you guys, not me.”
“You’re retired. What are you doing acting like you’re still on the job?” Gibbs asks from the front seat.
“I’m working as a PI. I follow those rules now.”
Yeah, right.
“Like never working with us,” Campos returns.
“Not true. I don’t want to fuck up anything Millhoff and Hurley are working on is all.”
I’m starting to get pissed off. I need a drink and more. At the very least a smoke.
“But you just did,” Campos says.
“Just did what?”
“Fuck up their investigation.”
“Fuck that. I probably got them their murder suspect. Also, I only went in there for Biddy’s personal property. If I would’ve found any evidence, I would’ve turned it over. I even told Biddy that. And remember I entered that motel room on Biddy’s behalf, so there’s no crime there. That man had no right to be in there. The rest was self-defense. Where are you going with all this?”
“Trying to get to the bottom of everything is all,” Campos says.
“I’m not a suspect, or you’d have me in cuffs.”
“Not necessarily,” Gibbs says. “We can go two ways with this. Lock you up for murder and let the prosecutor sort it all out after we do the investigation, or do our investigation and give it to the prosecutor, who will present it to the grand jury. Let them sort it all out.”
“Oh, I like that. My life dependent on civilians.”
“We can put cuffs on you now if you want,” Gibbs says again.
“Naw, that’s okay. You’ll find it was self-defense. So will the prosecutor.”
“Pretty damn good weapon you were given to use against him, though.”
“Thank Wyatt for that.”
Gibbs chuckles.
“You could say it was handmade,” I add.
Both of them chuckle now.
“Fuck, I don’t feel so good,” I say suddenly.
“What do you mean you don’t feel so good?” Campos asks.
“Think I’m going to puke. Pull the car over. Quick.”
Gibbs drives fast, makes a right turn on some small road, and pulls to the curb.
I open the door, lean out.
I hurl everything I got inside, which is hardly anything, so it’s like dry heaves with occasional bile.
Can’t catch my breath, and with every heave, pain radiates throughout my shoulder.
I spit a few times, notice a couple cars pass and pedestrians on the other side of the road quickly walking by.
“Here,” Campos says, handing me a paper towel.
I close the door, take it, and wipe my mouth. That was the second time I’ve vomited in—how long? I don’t want there to be a third time.
“Damn,” I say. “That came out of nowhere.”
“Nerves, buddy,” Gibbs says. “Means you’re human.”
I grunt a laugh, but it hurts.
Seventy-Six
Mind if I smoke?” I ask.
“Go ahead. We smoke cigars on occasion,” Campos says.
“Appreciate it.”
I grab my pack out of my pants pocket. It’s smooshed up, but I find a cigarette that’s not all bent out of shape.
“Let me,” Campos says.
“Thanks.”
He takes one out of the pack, offers to light it with his own lighter.
I inhale. Eases the tension. Mouth is damn dry, though.
Before I can finish, we pull into the parking lot next to the emergency entrance.
Campos and Gibbs walk me to the emergency room. They follow as a nurse escorts me to one of the curtained enclosures.
The nurse picks up a hospital gown, and before handing it to me she asks, “Do you need help changing into this?”
“I can manage. Thanks.”
She hands it to me, exits, and closes the curtain for privacy.
“You two wanna watch?”
“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” Gibbs says.
I drop the blanket on the floor, have to use my left hand to take my belt off. A uniform officer took my handcuffs and the pouch with the two mags in it.
I drop my pants, sit on the gurney bed, and use my feet to kick my pants off. I leave my boxers and socks on. I unfold the gown, try to figure out how it goes.
“You want me to get the nurse?” Gibbs says.
The old guy’s starting to bother me, but that’s what cops do. Trying to get under your skin is a natural part of their nature.
“I’m good.”
I have a hard time slipping my left arm through, mostly the shoulder. Could definitely use a couple Oxys right about now, or at least a Percocet. But I manage the painful maneuver, except I can’t tie the gown because I can’t reach the string that wraps around.
Campos walks over, takes the string between two fingers, like he’s afraid he might accidently touch my ass.
“Thanks. You have a nurse’s touch,” I say.
His partner chuckles.
Campos blows it off.
I grab my pants. I notice blood on the legs. Don’t think it’s my blood. I still have my wallet, phone, keys, and the container with the capsules in my pants. Told them that was my medication. Partly true. It does state that Vyvanse is prescribed to me, but I keep those capsules somewhere else and use these bigger ones for the blow. A doctor or a good narcotics officer would be the only ones who could figure out these capsules don’t belong to the prescribed medication.
“These pants are going into evidence?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’re going to have to bag them. We know what you have inside, so you can secure those,” Campos says.
I take everything out and set it on the gurney.
“One of you mind getting me one of those hospital bags for my belongings?”
“I got it,” Gibbs says.
He leaves.
I drop the pants back on the floor, put my wallet, phone, keys, and container near the pillow.
I recline on the gurney bed.
Gibbs returns with a plastic bag.
I take it and drop everything inside the bag except the phone. I fold the top over and set the bag on the floor near the head of the gurney.
The younger cop’s cell rings. “Campos,” he answers. “Yeah. Yeah. Good thing. Got it. Right. At the hospital with him now. Yeah. Copy that.” He disconnects, slips it back in the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Do I check out?”
“Yeah, you do, but we knew you would.”
“I appreciate the confidence. So you don’t have to babysit me anymore.”
“We’re going to stick around, wait for your two detective buddies, and maybe ask a couple more questions.”
“Then why don’t you pull up a couple of chairs, make yourselves comfortable? It’s a pretty good story.”
Seventy-Seven
X-rays looked fine for the shoulder, but there’s possible nerve damage in my left hand. I’ll have to wait and see. So much for the tolerance for pain I thought I had. Damn. When they stuck a needle around and in the stab wounds to numb up the area, I wanted to cry like a baby. The wrap around my left hand looks like a boxing glove. My shoulder’s taped up, and my left arm’s in a sling.
Hurley and Millhoff are in the room talking to the Alexandria duo when I’m wheeled in.
I can tell Millhoff is pissed. Hurley not so much. He’s not easy to read. They allow me to get comfortable on the gurney before the interrogation.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Millhoff demands. “I should charge you with obstruction.”
Now I see a reaction from Hurley. Don’t think he expected that.
“Obstruction?” I begin. “For what, securing personal property?”
“Hell, you know there could’ve be
en evidence in that room. You don’t make that decision. We would’ve obtained a search warrant,” Millhoff advises me.
“I told Biddy if I found anything illegal or anything that might be evidence I’d turn it over.”
“And you believed him? That there was no evidence there?”
“Why the fuck would he give me his key if there was? All he wanted was whatever damn clothing he has left in the world and probably his fucking toothbrush.”
“Hurley locks up the guy who committed the burglary at your residence, and you don’t tell us he has a motel room in Virginia and that he might have evidence related to the burglary or even something more?” Millhoff says with a harder tone.
Because he’s talking about evidence that might be related to Jasper or the homicides.
Never apologize, even though I know I was wrong, especially to a cop.
Alexandria boys slide out, not wanting to get caught up in whatever might happen.
“And now we all know that Biddy—Givens—is telling the truth, because that man was there for him, not me. No way to keep this from Jasper now,” I say.
“He’ll find out, but I have a feeling he’ll keep doing his thing, patrol, but maybe drop out of the club. He’ll never seem worried about anything else,” Millhoff says. “But I’m not going to belabor the damn point. We both know what you did was bullshit, but still, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Well, I appreciate that. Don’t think I’m going to feel too safe once Jasper finds out I killed his boy.”
“Pretty sure he’s not the type to do the dirty work.”
“That makes me feel better. Maybe he’ll send another retired big boy to do it. Piece of shit. How can he still be walking free right now?”
“Because we can’t connect him to anything except his unsanctioned part-time, thanks to you. That’ll just get him a suspension, if that,” Millhoff says.
“Once the AUSA and the defense attorney sign off on the plea agreement, we’ll get rolling with Biddy and the other cooperator,” Hurley says.
Crime Song Page 23
