by Paul Harry
After meeting the joint task team for Nye and Clark County, Judy offered whatever assistance the FBI could provide. She then begged her leave as she had her own investigation to follow up on. Chris followed her to her car.
“Thanks again for bringing me in,” said Judy. “This might be the break we need.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Chris retorted. “You know how it goes.”
“Yeah, I do,” she replied. “Just make sure I get a copy of your findings.”
“We’ll get them over to you as soon as we have them. Listen, Judy...”
Judy’s demeanor turned cold. “Chris, not now, it’s not a good time.”
Peeved by her overreaching assumption, Chris’ disposition soured. “I just wanted to suggest that on your way out you talk with that kid over there.” He pointed to a group of people standing behind the police line.
Judy felt like an ass. She turned and looked across the desert, spying the kid.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“His name is Zac Walker. He claims to be Daniel’s best friend and he gave us a lot of information. You may want to interview him.”
“Yeah... I will. She paused and attempted an apology. “Chris, I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” he replied, walking away.
* * * *
It was well past ten and Judy had been cooling her heels in the waiting room of Rose De Lima hospital for hours. Sipping her fourth cup of coffee, she killed the time pacing back and forth thinking to herself, while the other two agents with her coordinated their latest effort into the investigation of Mickey, ‘the Spoon’−a perp she’d been trying to bust for the last three years. He was the worst. A slippery eel who managed to intimidate and badger every potential witness she had ever found. And now it involved this kid. Who was he? And where did he fit in to all of this? Was there an outside chance that Benny Marcos was involved? That would be incredible.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the approach of her fellow agent, David Hennings. “Okay I just spoke with Metro,” the agent noted, joining her. “I told ‘em you want to hold off on picking up Mickey until we get a statement.”
“If we get that lucky,” Judy responded sourly. She took another sip of coffee, then glanced at her watch. “God, how long is this going to take? It’s been five hours already.”
David gave her a sobering look−and she realized she was being a bitch again. Her tone softened. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just really pissed. How many people have to die or get hurt before we finally nail that prick, Mickey?”
“Yeah, I know,” responded David. “They keep dying and he keeps walking.”
“Hey,” another voice called out from across the room. “I’ve got some news.”
It was Mimi, the third agent on their team. She put her phone away and got up from the couch, joining David and Judy.
“That was Charlie from Nye County forensics. He said they’re in the process of forwarding the lab work over to Metro, but they’ve got some preliminary results including a tentative timetable on Steven Raye’s death. He said it occurred at approximately 3:20 PM and that he definitely did not die from the fire.”
“Do they have confirmation on how he died?” asked Judy.
“Nothing conclusive yet,” answered Mimi. “But they identified the fibers on the victim as nylon rope−so we know he was definitely tied up. Charlie said they’ll have more for us in a few days, but it’s going to take time to sort through all the evidence. Much of what they’re finding is useless rubble, the fire was so hot in places it actually turned the sand into glass.
“Wow!” exclaimed David, “that’s one hell of a barbeque.”
Judy shook her head. “So we don’t have a murder weapon−damn it.”
Mimi started to respond, but was cut off by the sound of hospital doors opening. The three agents turned. From across the room, three doctors dressed in hospital garb entered the waiting room. They were talking amongst themselves when one of them excused himself. He broke away and approached the agents while the other two doctors left.
“Excuse me, I’m Doctor Anderson,” the man said, stopping before them. He removed his surgical cap. “I understand you wanted to see me?
Judy pulled her badge from her purse and flashed her ID.
“Good evening, Doctor,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m Judy Salinski, lead field coordinator of the FBI’s organized crime division in Las Vegas. These are agents Hennings and Atwater.”
“A pleasure,” the doctor responded, shaking each of their hands. “So what can I do for the FBI?”
“We’re here for Daniel Raye, the boy you just operated on,” said Judy. “How’s he doing?”
“Not good,” replied the doctor. “We had to remove a portion of his skull to extract a number of bone fragments that were putting pressure on the brain. There’s still some swelling, but we’ve done all we can for now. He’s being transferred to ICU and we’re monitoring him...”
“Did he ever regain consciousness−or say anything?”
“No... In fact we had to place him into a comatose state in order to perform the surgery. He’ll be on thiopental until he stabilizes.”
“Can he be moved?” asked Judy.
“Where?” asked the doctor, raising his eyebrows.
“Another hospital−out of state.”
Perplexed, Anderson gave Judy a quizzical look. “Hardly,” he answered. “Look, I’m going to be frank with you. The kid’s probably not going to survive the night. He’s got head injuries, broken bones, second and third degree burns on his hands, arms, and legs and that’s just the beginning. Honestly, I can’t believe he survived this long.”
Unexpectedly, the conversation between the doctor and the agents was interrupted as several newcomers entered the waiting area. Their appearance triggered Judy’s suspicious nature. She quickly pressed the doctor for information.
“What floor is ICU?” she demanded.
“Third floor.”
Judy shot Mimi a look. “See that it’s secure.”
“Will do,” responded Mimi, moving quickly to the couch to grab her purse and briefcase−she was out the door in two seconds.
“Doctor, where’s the boy now?” asked Judy.
“He’s been moved to recovery.”
“Where’s that?”
The doctor pointed to the area from where he had come. “Just past these doors, down the hall to your left.”
“David, get in there and don’t let him out of your sight.”
“You got it! Doc, it was a pleasure.”
Breaking away, David headed for the recovery room, leaving Judy and the doctor behind. It was Judy’s chance to learn more about Daniel’s condition and she seized the opportunity.
“Doctor, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Best offer I’ve had all night,” replied the doctor. “EDR okay? I’m still on call.”
“Sure.”
Taking the lead, the doctor led Judy out of the waiting room and into the hallway. “You’ll be surprised to know,” he said, strolling down the corridor with her, “that they make a good brew here... probably a lot better than what you’ve been drinking. And the apple pie is out of this world.”
“Something to eat sounds good,” echoed Judy. “I’m famished.”
Over pie and coffee, Judy filled Dr. Robert Anderson in on the situation facing Daniel and why she was concerned.
“I want to apologize for all the cloak and dagger,” she confided to the surgeon. “There’s a lot of speculation about what we’re dealing with and we have a strong reason to believe the boy’s life is in serious danger.”
“Something to do with organized crime?” queried the doctor.
Judy nodded. “You might say that, Robert... May I call you Robert?”
Dr. Anderson nodded. “Of course.”
“Robert, I want to thank you for all that you’ve done here tonight. But I need to caution you. If Daniel survives the night he will not be ou
t of the woods. And I was serious about getting him away from here as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” replied Robert. “But moving him out of this hospital is out of the question until he stabilizes. And that may be days, even weeks.”
“Okay,” Judy noted with resignation. “But one last thing. I have to ask... please do not speak of this case to anyone. And that goes for your staff as well. No one discusses anything about this boy, not to family, friends, or even other hospital staff−no one.”
Dr. Anderson nodded in affirmation.
* * * *
Three days after the hit on Steven Raye, a shiny, freshly washed Chevy Impala made its way down the Boulder Highway in Las Vegas. When it reached the entrance for Sam’s Town Casino it turned in and made its way to the east parking garage. On the fifth floor of the garage, it pulled into a vacant stall and parked. A moment later a door opened and Mickey, ‘the Spoon’ got out. He looked nervous.
Mickey lit a cigarette and surveyed the garage floor. It was noon and the place was empty except for a few cars parked randomly here and there. He took a drag off his smoke and adjusted his suit jacket. The heat inside the concrete parking tomb was already stifling. There was a noise−the squeal of rubber. A car was making its way up the ramp. A minute later a dark-grey stretch Mercedes with tinted windows came into view. It rounded the corner and pulled up to him and stopped. Mickey heard the sound of door locks. He threw his smoke on the ground, crushed it with his shoe, and got in. As he sat down and closed the door the car moved forward−the doors locking automatically.
The interior of the Mercedes was dark, with an opaque partition separating the front from the back. Another one ran down the center, effectively cutting the car in half. From where he sat, Mickey couldn’t see the other side. It was a weird set up, but one reflective of his boss, Benny Marcos. The man, well, he had his idiosyncrasies. On first appearance Mickey felt he was alone, with the exception of the driver, but he wasn’t sure. His orders were to meet the car. He had no idea where he was going, or what was going to happen; and the barrier isolating him, well that was something he didn’t want to breach unless invited. Mickey looked around, glancing momentarily at the small TV that was playing on the overhead console in front of him. The afternoon news was on−channel 8. He couldn’t hear anything, the sound was muted. He watched the news commentator on the screen mouthing her words in silence. Suddenly, the partition dividing the car began to separate; opening the other side to his view and out of the darkness an unfriendly voice broke the silence.
“So Mickey, what the fuck gives?” it asked.
Mickey turned to see a man sitting about four feet back in the corner of the rear seat, a cigar burning in his hand−it was Benny. Mickey’s mouth felt dry. There weren’t many men who scared him, but Benny Marcos wasn’t just anyone and Mickey knew he was in trouble. Amends needed to be made.
“Mr. Marcos,” Mickey began to purge. “Aye know yur upset, but aye swear to God. On me mother’s grave, aye was sure the boy died with his father. We tied ‘im to a chair before the ‘ouse blew. Sid and Bruno were there. Aye don’t know ‘ow ‘e made it... we all saw the ‘ouse blow into a million pieces.”
Benny was hot−and from out of the darkness he thrust his cigar at Mickey like it was a dagger, jabbing it repeatedly at him. “You fuckin’ dip shit,” he excoriated. “Do you think I give a rat’s ass about your excuses? Listen, you stupid cock. The kid’s alive and that means he can finger you and maybe me.”
“Mr. Marcos, aye won’t let that ‘appen. Aye promise. Aye’ve got people checking on things...”
“And I’ve got people checking on me, asshole. My gaming license is up for final review, the fed’s are hounding me about title thirty-one infractions, and now I’ve got to deal with your shit because you can’t keep your people under wraps. Understand my friend; this whole thing has got the boys in Chicago nervous. You brought a lot of heat down on us. For what? Because you lost control. Well, you better get things under control you Scottish prick or else... that kid don’t talk, capeech?”
“Yeah, Boss... Aye’ll see too...”
Mickey stopped in mid-sentence. His eye caught something on the TV screen−the picture of Daniel Raye. Benny took notice as well. He grabbed the remote off the seat and turned up the volume. The two listened to the breaking news.
“... we have just received word that Daniel Raye, the young Pahrump High junior hospitalized three days ago, passed away this morning from the injuries he sustained in the explosion of his home. A memorial service will be held at the high school next week according to the school’s principal, Blake Edwards. The Nye County Sheriff’s office says the explosion and fire are still under investigation. In other news...”
Benny clicked off the TV while Mickey sighed with relief.
“You got lucky there you Scottish bag of shit,” Benny swore as he took a puff on his stogie. “That kid dying probably saved your miserable, cock-suckin’ ass.”
Mickey nodded in agreement. He knew only too well.
“I’ll let Chicago know we’re in the clear,” mused the casino owner.
He flicked the ash off his cigar into the ashtray next to him, then took another puff. The next words he spoke were of direct warning to his lackey.
“But this’ll be the last time, Mick. You ever fuck up a job like that again and I’ll personally see to it that you’re fillet’d into tiny chunks and fed to the stripers in Lake Mead. You understand me?” The cold, hard glare in his eye was unmistakable.
Mickey nodded in silence as Benny hit a button on the door console. “Pull over,” he commanded the driver. Almost immediately the car slowed, coming to a stop alongside the road.
“Now get the fuck outta my car you worthless piece of crap,” Benny ordered.
“Okay, Boss.”
Mickey opened the door and jumped out of the car, his feet skidding on the asphalt. He heard the car door slam behind him as Benny’s Mercedes peeled out, the tires pelting him with small bits of gravel as it disappeared down the Boulder Highway. Relieved to be alive instead of lying in a pool of blood somewhere in the desert, Mickey took a quick look around. He was in the middle of nowhere, stranded on a deserted strip of land halfway between Vegas and Henderson.
“Fock me,” he swore aloud.
He took off his coat and wiped his brow. It was bloody hot and he was beginning to sweat like a wrung out sponge. Crossing the median to the other side of Boulder highway, Mickey stuck out his thumb, and hitchhiked the five miles back to his car.
* * * *
It was a moonless night−3 AM, and the grounds surrounding Rose de Lima hospital were dark with the exception of the accent lights illuminating the hospital. It was the graveyard shift, the place was slow, and the number of hospital staff at a minimum. At the rear of the hospital, carefully placed in strategic positions, FBI agents watched the comings and goings of the few people who were working or had business at the hospital. Their two-way radios crackled softly as they maintained a secure perimeter stretching from the rear of the hospital to the landing pad of the heliport−illuminated now by bright landing lights. From his vantage point atop the hospital, David Hennings watched as a helicopter began to descend toward the landing pad. He notified Judy.
“The bird is circling,” he whispered into his radio.
“Copy that,” a female voice responded in reply. “We’re ready.”
Inside the morgue, a body lay upon a gurney covered by a sheet. To any passerby, it appeared to be a deceased individual not yet in cold storage. However, that was not the case. Aside from the IV tree next to the gurney holding fluids and medicine, the body sported an oxygen mask and heart monitor and had two nurses in attendance. In addition to the nurses, the body was being guarded by four FBI agents including Judy Salinski and Mimi Atwater−another two agents were out in the hallway guarding the elevator. All were in their assigned positions with their weapons ready.
A voice crackled over Mimi’s radio−it was David a
gain. “The bird is in the nest,” he said.
“Copy that,” responded Mimi. She waited for Judy’s signal.
Judy looked around the room. “Everyone ready?” she asked.
“Let’s do it,” someone replied−the others voiced their agreement.
“Let’s go, then,” she ordered.
Moving in unison, the group moved toward the double doors of the morgue. Two agents took the lead pushing open the doors as the nurses followed behind. They were pushing the gurney, heart monitor and IV tree while Judy and Mimi brought up the rear.
As they entered the hallway Mimi gave David the head’s up. “We’re moving,” she said.
From atop the roof David caught Mimi’s notice. He set his radio down and picked up his rifle glassing the parking lot through its scope.
The plan for moving Daniel Raye from Rose de Lima to another hospital went without a hitch. The boy was flown by helicopter to McCarran airport and from there taken to UCLA Medical Center in California. Though Judy’s plan was not without risk it worked. Daniel arrived in an extremely weak, but stabilized condition, and was given the best possible medical care. The toughest part of the whole plan was convincing Dr. Anderson that there was no other option. Judy had to ply her wiles to get the doctor to sign off on the plan.
* * * *
For over four weeks, Daniel Raye lay unconscious inside the UCLA medical center with IV’s and tubes stuck everywhere. He was bandaged head to toe and weak, his body thirty pounds underweight. Though the swelling in his brain was no longer an issue, he was still a mess. His broken bones were still mending, and he was still under the threat of infection from his burns, and his eyes−well that was another story. Both eyes had suffered extensive damage from the fiery propane blast and were now covered with layers of scar tissue.
During the time that Daniel lay unconscious, he was guarded by the FBI. There was someone in his room every day, including Judy Salinski. Though she couldn’t be there twenty-four seven, she flew up on her days off and spent them with Daniel. Those days were spent reading to the boy, helping with his care, and encouraging him to get better. In the beginning it was touch and go, but as of late he seemed to be improving and she felt that he responded when she came to visit, that there was activity emanating from within him though nothing definite. To her great delight, she was there when he finally awoke.
