ALEXA WOULD NOT commit suicide!
But her words and the gunshot were still ringing in my ear. After a few seconds, I shook out of it and dialed the communication section at LAPD. I got a watch commander, who identified himself as Captain Doug Chang.
"Captain, I have a police emergency," I shouted. "I need an immediate phone check on this line." I then gave him my badge and home phone number.
"What is this regarding?" He seemed hesitant to run the trace.
"A possible police shooting. The call came in on this line. Officer down. I need an immediate trace on this number with the time the call was placed!" I shouted. "I'm heading out, so when you get it, call me on my mobile phone."
I gave him that number and hung up. Then I sprinted to my car, threw it in reverse and squealed out of my driveway, hitting my neighbors' trash cans and knocking them over. I punched the shift into Drive and powered up the alley toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. I had a vague hunch where Alexa was, so I took a chance and hit the 405 South.
Somebody inside the car was saying, "No. No. No." In a second, I realized it was me.
My cell rang and Doug Chang was back on the line. "Last call at ten-thirty this morning, only a few minutes ago, from area code three-one-oh. Five, five, five, six, seven, eight, four."
"Where is that?" I screamed.
"Compton," he answered.
"Okay. Get me a trace on that number from the reverse directory. I need to confirm the address. Call me back."
I was pretty sure I knew where she was. I transitioned onto the 105 East and put the pedal down. In seconds I was doing over a hundred miles an hour. I passed people like they were parked, putting my life and everybody else's on the line.
I was on Long Beach Boulevard when Doug Chang got back to me. "The number traces back to Four-twenty Cypress Street," he said.
"Roll an ambulance to that address right now."
"It's rolling."
I was going almost seventy. I couldn't get the monstrous idea that Alexa had committed suicide out of my head. I was going so fast, I overshot the house and hit the brakes half a block past, squealing rubber as I brodied to a stop. Then I hit reverse and fish-tailed backward, slamming into the curb in front of David Slade's house. I opened my car door and ran for the backyard. The front door was double locked and the quickest way in was through the broken back window. I reached the spot, jumped up, and shimmied into the guest bedroom, landing awkwardly on the floor. I gathered my feet under me and ran through the house.
"Alexa! Alexa!" I shouted, as I ran.
I found her in Slade's bedroom, covered in a spray of blood and cerebral spinal fluid. She was shot in the head and splayed backwards on Slade's big, unmade, king-sized bed. I ran to her.
Ragged pulse, shallow breathing, irregular heartbeat. And then, while my fingers were on her carotid artery, I felt her heart stop.
"Oh shit," I moaned as I grabbed her nose, pinched it shut, and leaned down, blowing two breaths of air into her lifeless body. After that, I rose up and did fifteen chest compressions. Blood, CSF, and little shattered pieces from her skull were all over the bed. The gun was her backup piece. A blue steel Spanish Astra, which had flown out of her hand and was lying against the headboard. Why had she packed two guns yesterday morning? We were on a training day. Had she known this was coming all along? I was in anguish as I kept up the CPR.
"Please," I mumbled and blew more air into her mouth and did more chest compressions. The Lord's Prayer became a silent mantra in my head.
And then, the distant wail of a siren. Seconds later, I heard the ambulance pull up in front. I had to leave her for a minute to let them in. I blew air hard into her lungs one more time and then sprinted for the front door, threw the latch, and screamed: "In here! Hurry, damn it! I'm doing CPR!"
Two EMTs ran up the steps carrying a medical kit and a light metal stretcher with folding wheels. As they charged past me I shouted, "Back bedroom!" then followed. They had already resumed CPR when I arrived in the room a second behind.
"AVPU unresponsive," the lead man shouted to his partner.
"Please, please don't let her die," I pleaded.
The EMT continued yelling instructions. "Gimme some four by fours," he commanded. "Gotta cover this hole. This is gonna be a scoop and run."
The other medic had just finished snapping on rubber gloves. He grabbed a large piece of cut gauze and a bottle of saline solution. He put the gauze pad over the exit wound in the back top of Alexa's head, then poured saline onto the pad.
Then he shouted, "Gimme the EPI, start an IV. We gotta get her to the truck fast."
The second EMT opened his case and retrieved a syringe of epinephrine. The paramedic shot it into a bottle of saline and started an IV.
"Will she make it?" I croaked as they got the IV started and continued CPR, using an oxygen bottle.
"Shut up and let us do this," the lead man snapped. Then he laid the stretcher on the floor and brought it up to bed height, and they made the transfer as he said to his partner, "Call trauma at Big County and tell them to have a neurosurgeon and a crash cart ready. Tell 'em we have a full arrest coming in." The second man triggered a shoulder mike and made the request.
"We can't intubate her," the lead said. "We gotta try and get some vitals going." They started out with her on the gurney.
"She's my wife," I said, trailing in their wake. They were working furiously and had dialed me out.
Then we were outside. I'd seen the drill half a dozen times before. She needed to be revived instantly or it was over.
I ran behind them and tried to follow her into the ambulance.
"You can't go," the lead man commanded.
I snatched my badge out of my pocket, shoving it into his face as I pushed past him into the back.
All the way to the hospital, the inside of the ambulance was a turmoil of medical procedures and shouted instructions from the radio emergency medical officer at the trauma ward. The EMTs told the REMO there was no pulse or respiration. The REMO said give her this, give her that. Take lactated ringers. Put the paddles on. Shock her. The second man yelled, "CLEAR." A zap, and Alexa arched her spine up to meet the charge. The EKG remained flat.
"She's flat-lining. No help from the defib," the paramedic shouted.
"Dial up the charge," the REMO instructed. "Try again."
All the way there, I was pleading, "Please don't let this be happening."
We got to County-USC in less than fifteen minutes. The EMTs ran her out of the back of the ambulance, pushing the rolling gurney into the trauma ward. I climbed out to follow, but my legs gave out underneath me. I went down on the hard concrete and couldn't get back up. Emotional shock? Traumatic paralysis? Whatever it was, for a moment I couldn't move. I just laid behind the ambulance, moaning.
Chapter 18.
I FINALLY GOT my legs to work and made it into the ER, where I took a swing at a hospital attendant who was only trying to keep me out of the trauma area. I knew I was being an asshole, but I couldn't stop myself. Two cops, who were there writing a report on a DUI who'd gone through his windshield, sat me down forcibly. I cursed them out.
"Just leave me alone!" I finally shouted and tried to get up. The one nearest me pushed me back hard. I hit the wall and a picture of two horses in a wheat field fell and landed beside me. For the moment, I guess I wasn't going anywhere. Detectives started to roll in. Word had spread fast that Alexa was in the trauma unit, a possible DOA from a gunshot wound to the head. A fallen officer rates a big turnout. Every unassigned detective or Code Seven car was on the way. By noon, there were thirty plain-clothed detectives, both men and women, and again half as many uniforms sitting with me in the waiting room. I tried calling Chooch but couldn't get through. Somebody handed me a Consent for Surgery form, which I signed.
Then Raphael Figueroa and Tommy Sepulveda arrived, walking down the hall toward me, resolute looks carved on their tired faces. I knew they'd been working this straight for almost fifteen hours. Tommy stopped a
t a coffee machine and got three cups while Rafie came over. He nodded at the two blues who were still standing close, keeping a wary eye on me.
"I got it," Rafie said, and they took a few steps back but continued to watch me from a distance. "How bad is it?"
"Horrible," I said. Tommy came over with the coffee and handed me a cup.
"I don't want that," I snapped, so he put it on the vinyl-topped lamp table beside me.
"We heard she was all the way down in Compton. What was she doing in that ghetto?"
"She was at Slade's house," I said, as I reached out and took the coffee, drank some, and set it back down. Bad idea. It was coming right back up. I swallowed hard three times and barely kept it down.
"What the hell was she doing there?" Rafie asked, surprised.
"I don't know," I flared. "Why don't you guys back off?"
"Listen, Shane. You're real lucky me and Tommy got this squeal. There's guys up at Homicide Special who would've wrapped you in canvas by now."
"So whatta you want? A thank-you note?"
"I want you to stop attacking us. I want you to give us a little help. We're on the same side," Tommy said.
"Right." I still felt like I was about to throw up. Nausea was coming in waves.
Then Rafie's cell phone rang.
"Figueroa," he said, then: "We're there now. Yeah sure, he's sitting here with us." Rafie handed me the phone. "Captain Calloway." Cal was our boss at Homicide Special.
"Hello?" My voice sounded dead even to me.
"Shane? Jeb." I've known this guy for six years and nobody ever called him Jeb, especially him. It was always Cal. The Jeb thing sat wrong. Something was going on downtown. Twenty years of dealing with Glass House politics had my alarm lights flashing. Then he said, "How is she?"
"She's . . . she's ..." I felt tears coming. So far I'd managed to hold them back. I didn't want to cry in front of these guys, so I took a moment to center myself. "Not so hot," I finally said.
"She's in good hands, Shane. The trauma guys at USC are the best."
"They're okay, but I want to move her," I said. "I have a friend who's a brain surgeon at UCLA. This slug . . . it. . ." Again, I couldn't finish the sentence. This time coffee-flavored bile rushed up my esophagus and filled my mouth. I spat into the paper cup and set it down. "Slug did a lot of damage, Captain."
"Sometimes this stuff looks worse than it is," he said.
"Yeah." I decided not to tell him there were bone chips from her brainpan all over the bed, or that her hair looked like a mop dipped in red paint. That I'd felt her heart stop while my fingers were touching her neck.
Then he said softly, "Listen, Shane. I've got to bring you in."
"I'm sorry, you have to what?"
"Chief Ramsey wants you in his office forthwith. He's got some issues."
"He's got issues? I'm the one with issues! Everybody's pissing on Alexa on TV and he has almost no comment. He owes her some fucking cover."
"Shane, he sent you a two-six hours ago. You can't ignore that. You're gonna have to deal with it."
"I've got a little situation going here, in case you haven't noticed. I'm not taking time out to deal with that moron." He said nothing, so I added, "I need to be here to make medical decisions if necessary."
"That's your call, but Rafie and Tommy can stay with her. They'll have your cell number and can keep you posted. The chief's office is only ten minutes away. It's probably gonna be a while till you get any word. Be smart about this, Shane."
"I'm not leaving her!" My voice was raised in frustration.
"Okay. Fair enough. Put Rafie back on."
I handed the phone to Figueroa. He put it to his ear and nodded.
"Yep. Can do," he said, then closed the cell and glanced at Sepulveda. There must have been a lot of hidden meaning in that look, because suddenly they both dove at me.
Rafie got my hands pinned. Tommy got his cuffs out. The two blues from across the room joined in and held me down. I'm good and I'm fast, but I was operating at half-capacity. My nerves were fried. It took them about thirty seconds to get the bracelets on while I struggled and hurled insults. Then they dragged me out of the hospital and shoved me into the back of their Ford.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked. They wouldn't look at me, neither willing to engage my eyes. We all knew it was wrong, but the order had come from the acting chief, so it wasn't up for discussion. I was going to this meeting.
Seven minutes later we were sweeping into the underground parking garage next to the Glass House.
We took the elevator ride to the sixth floor in silence. I stopped struggling and decided that if I wanted to leave this meeting without making a side trip to the Central Division Jail, then I would have to look like I wasn't carrying my shit around in a sock. Nobody wanted me raving insults on TV or feeding smug Roxanne Sharp her little gold angel pin.
I'd broken enough laws to merit a criminal arrest. The fact that Alexa was in critical condition or maybe already dead just didn't weigh very much compared to the media tornado that was threatening to blow careers up into the air before dropping them like twisted Chevy trucks. If I was looking for cool heads, loyalty, or a commitment to a fallen comrade, I wasn't going to find it on the sixth floor of the Glass House today.
Great White Mike hadn't wasted any time moving into Tony Filosiani's office for his interim stay as acting chief.
We paused in the outer part of the chief's suite and looked at a young female operations lieutenant from Ramsey's regular support staff who was sitting to the right of the double mahogany doors. She motioned us to a sofa, picked up the phone, and started talking softly, announcing our arrival.
"I can't face this turd in handcuffs," I said softly.
"If you go nuts in there, we're all gonna get it," Rafie said.
"I won't. I'm solid."
Rafie and Tommy glanced at each other. They weren't sure what to do. I had played these guys badly. They had been trying to deal with me for close to a day and I had lied, screwed them over, and physically threatened them. But they were good cops. Deep down they had sympathy for my plight. Beyond that, most of Alexa's detectives liked her. She was an evenhanded, fair-minded bureau chief. Nobody quite understood how all this made sense yet, but everybody knew she was getting a bum deal on TV.
So after exchanging a look, Tommy leaned over and unhooked me just as the door opened and a fifty-year-old Commander of Operations, named Keith Summers, looked out at us.
"Good," was all he said, then motioned us inside.
Great White Mike was standing by a large picture window that looked out over Olvera Street, which was the first street in Los Angeles and located in the most historical section of the city. The roof of Union Station was visible off to the north. Under most circumstances, Mike Ramsey looked like we got him out of Central Casting. He was pale-skinned, thin, and handsome in a forties movie star kind of way. He had slicked black hair and a trimmed moustache that rode below a patrician nose like a delicate afterthought. His sculpted chin was heroic. Deputy Chief Ramsey was the kind of cop who had spent the minimal amount of time on the streets before making a headlong dash toward administration. He liked being on TV and kept makeup in his briefcase for those unexpected prime-time appearances. But right now all of his swagger was gone. He looked tired. Tired and overmatched.
One of the things most media-relations officers will tell you is the press is like a furry little puppy that looks like it would be loads of fun to play with. And most of the time it is. You do an interview and then go home and tell your wife or girlfriend that you were on Greta or Geraldo, or that Ken and Barbie on Channel Seven were kissing your ass and couldn't get enough of you. The press would ask respectfully for your opinions. You quickly learned how to scratch the furry little pup under the chin, and how to kiss his damp whiskers without getting any drool on your lips. But then, sometimes without any warning, the little beast would snarl and bite you on the nose. That was what Great White Mike was just now discov
ering. The TV in his office was on and he was taking the brunt of a full media onslaught. Roxanne Sharp, Nathan Red, and a black activist named Reverend Leland Vespars, just in from New York, were all piling on. They felt that Deputy Chief Mike Ramsey was criminally mishandling the investigation. Police pundits were also weighing in. As I came through the door, I could hear the Deputy Chief screaming at one of his administrative assistants, a lieutenant from Press Relations.
"Who the hell is this guy?" Mike was pointing at the TV screen, where Fox News fair and balanced was peeling strips off Chief Ramsey in particular and the LAPD in general. "When was this antique on our dick squad?" He shouted at the screen.
I looked over at the TV and saw a gray-haired, retired, homicide detective who used to work for our old Special Crimes unit. I remembered him from the late eighties. I think his name was Merle, or Mel something. He'd pulled the pin over a decade ago and was now a Fox News analyst. He was just opinionating that due to the obvious racial component in this murder, the department owed the public a much more detailed description of events.
"I'm sure when this popcorn fart was on the job he was sharing all his case facts with these ghouls," Ramsey whined.
Then somebody motioned toward me and they all turned. The media relations guy crossed the room and turned down the volume on the TV.
"I need answers, Scully," the Deputy Chief said without preamble. "This department is getting the shit kicked out of it. I gave a direct order yesterday that you were to desist in this investigation. Then I gave you a forthwith to this office three hours ago! You ignored my two-six, just like you've ignored all my wishes for almost a day."
He crossed the room and took up a position directly in front of me, then rocked forward until he was at least a foot into my personal space. Some kind of lavender cologne was wafting off of him.
"I'm waiting for a response," he said coldly.
"Chief Ramsey, my wife is critical. She's in the gunshot trauma ward. I'm only here because of the two-six, but sir, I really need to get back to the hospital." I was trying my best to look and sound calm, but my voice was shaking.
White Sister (2006) Page 9
