“Maybe.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, a kid down in one of our rental car offices just called me up. He said he saw someone that looked like the guy they have been showing all over the TV.”
“Spearman?”
“The kid is confident it was. The paperwork the guy filled out said his name was Mark Reynolds. Same with the identification he used.”
“Mark Reynolds?” I wrote it down.
“Yeah, Mark Reynolds. We pulled him up our surveillance video and followed him backward through the airport. He was wearing a straw hat and a Hawaiian shirt. The hat kind of made it hard to get any kind of visual on his face. He was dropped off in a black Lincoln. First he went to a restaurant and ate. From there he went over to the sports bar. He left in a hurry and went downstairs to the rental car office.”
“How did he pay?”
“Cash.”
“You can rent a car with cash?”
“Absolutely.”
“So we have a looks like from an employee and a cash car rental?”
“A little more than that. I looked at the photo I.D. the kid scanned. It definitely looks like the guy who is all over the news. Here’s where it gets fishy though. The I.D. he used was issued yesterday. I ran the guy to see if there were any flights booked under his name. It seems he was heading to Indonesia via Chicago and Seoul.”
“But he left?”
“Yup, he left about a half hour ago.”
“Do you have the vehicle information?”
“All the documents are right here. Want me to send them to your email?”
“Yes. Can you send a copy of the driver’s license he used too?”
“No problem. I’ll get them both over to you now.”
“Thanks Nick.”
I hung up.
“Did Nick get something?” Hank asked.
“He might have. I’m going to call up Timmons and get him going on it.”
I dialed Timmons desk in Patrol. He answered in a couple rings.
“Sergeant Timmons.”
“Hey, it’s Lieutenant Kane. I need a couple quick things.”
“Shoot.”
“We have a possible suspect driving a rented vehicle and need a BOLO for the car. I also have a scan of a license. I want to get everything I can on the name—the guy’s background, priors, you name it. Waterman from the airport is sending everything he has over to my email as we speak. I’ll forward it over to you as soon as it hits my phone.”
“You want me to just email you whatever I come up with?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
I looked at my phone. Waterman’s email was in my inbox.
“It just came in. I’m going to forward it to you. Let me know as soon as you get something.”
“No problem.”
I hung up and opened the emails. I zoomed in on the license photo. It looked exactly like the photos we had of Spearman. I showed Hank.
He took my phone and held it up. “Definitely looks like him. What did this guy do?”
“He had a ticket to Indonesia. I guess he left the airport in a rental car before his flight. The guy paid cash.”
I forwarded the two messages over to Timmons.
“How long do you think it would take to get here from the airport?” I asked.
Hank rocked his head back and forth. “Twenty minutes or so—maybe a half hour or more if he had to get a rental car.”
I thumbed the button on my radio.
“This is Kane. Keep your eyes peeled for a man in a Hawaiian shirt with a straw hat. Possible suspect.”
The radio called back: Roger.
My cell phone buzzed, alerting me that I’d received a message. I clicked the screen to open it. It was the rap sheet on Mark Reynolds. It was empty. He’d never as much as had a speeding ticket. His home address was the same as on the driver’s license. A home phone number was listed.
“What’s it say?” Hank asked.
“The guy is clean as a whistle.”
“Identity theft?”
I curled my mouth to the side and dialed the number.
“About to find out.”
I was connected, the phone rang.
“Hello?” A woman asked.
“Is this the Reynolds residence?”
“It is. Who’s this?”
“Lieutenant Carl Kane with the Tampa Police Department. Is Mark Reynolds there?”
“Oh. Um, one second.”
I could hear her talking to someone in the background. I heard her say it’s a cop.
“This is Mark.”
“This is Mark Reynolds? Do you have a flight booked this evening?”
“Flight? No. What is this about? Is this about my brother?”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Half-brother. Tom Spearman.”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hung up. It was the easiest phone interview I ever did.
“Hank, call Timmons. Let him know that Spearman is using his brother’s identification.”
“Guy is his brother?” Hank asked.
I nodded and dialed Waterman.
“This is Nick.”
“Hey it’s Kane. Get everyone on the lookout for that Mark Reynolds. It was Spearman. He’s using his brother’s I.D.”
“If he comes back, he won’t get out. I’ll let you know if I get a hit on him here.”
“Thanks Nick.”
Chapter 40
The chances of him walking into the hospital, finishing Jake off and leaving unseen were slim. He needed to blend in. He needed to look nothing like himself.
Tom took the key for the men’s bathroom from the gas station’s clerk. A metal horseshoe hung from the key ring so the customers would remember to return it—Tom wouldn’t. After a stop at the car to grab his booze and purchases, Tom unlocked the men’s bathroom and walked in. He closed the door at his back and flicked the deadbolt. The bathroom was dark and reeked of urine. Flies buzzed the toilet. Tom jammed his hand into the first bag and pulled out the hair clippers. With his knife, he sliced through the plastic packaging.
Within a few minutes, red hair filled the bathroom’s sink and his head was bald. He put on the non-prescription glasses he bought and looked at himself in the dirty, cracked mirror. Scars littered his scalp. The sight of them brought him back to that night. The scars in front came from the windshield—the ones on top and sides were courtesy of Jake.
Tom pulled the hair covered shirt over his head and dropped his pants. A few handfuls of water washed away the rest of the loose hair. The second bag he brought was from the uniform supply store. He pulled the tags from the green hospital scrubs and began to dress. With each lifting of his shoulder he winced in pain. The fishing line stitches were still holding strong in his shoulder, but the bottle of Ibuprofen he consumed at the resort was wearing off. Tom drank the remaining mini bottles of booze and fought through the pain. He gave himself a look in the mirror and tied the hospital scrub hat over his scar ridden head. He smiled. The disguise was perfect.
His knife from the sink got slipped it into his pocket. With the bathroom key in hand, Tom walked out. The door re-locked as it slammed shut.
Tom drove straight for the hospital. The bathroom key was tossed out the window on the drive. He backed the rental car into a parking spot in the structure and popped to the trunk. The carpeted piece of wood that covered the spare tire was pushed to the side. Tom took the car’s tire iron and jammed it into his waistline.
His destination was the fourth floor. He entered the lobby and looked for the stairs. He didn’t want to be trapped in an elevator with anyone who could identify him. At the front desk, he made a right. A sign on the wall pointed to the bank of elevators. The building’s stairwell sat across the hall. Tom walked over and leaned into the metal door.
A flash of yellow passed behind him. Tom looked to his right at the man who had just passed. The man wore a bright yellow polo shirt—he had the same ha
ir as the guy on the television. It was Roger Richwood. Tom stopped half way through the doorway. Richwood carried two cups of coffee. He made a left at the intersection in the hall. Tom let the door close and went to investigate. The hallway he walked split into a T. In front of Tom was a water fountain next to a pair of restrooms. Tom walked out into the hallway and went to get a drink. He looked down the hall as the water bubbled into his lips. Fifty feet away Roger Richwood stood next to his wife in the hall. A uniformed police officer sat guard in a chair outside of the room. A doctor came from inside and talked with the Richwoods.
Tom watched.
The doctor finished with the couple and then headed in Tom’s direction. Tom finished his drink and walked back the way he came.
He leaned against the wall, around the corner, in wait of the doctor.
Tom took notice of the open door to his right. He looked inside. It was an empty office. The plaque on the desk said: Dr. Picard. He went back to leaning against the wall. As soon as the doctor rounded the corner, Tom stepped from the wall and stuck his right shoulder into the doctor’s chest. The doctor careened backward—his clipboard fell to the floor.
He wore a lab coat over a pair of scrubs. The name embroidered on the coat read: Dr. Wallace.
“Oh, geez. Excuse me,” the doctor said.
“Sorry. It was my fault. Let me get that.” Tom reached down and picked up the clipboard. The name at the top: Jacob Richwood. He handed it back to the doctor. “I apologize. I came out of Doctor Picard’s office here and wasn’t paying attention.”
“No worries.” Doctor Wallace tried passing Tom to continue on his way.
Tom blocked him. “Hey. I was looking for Doctor Picard but maybe you could help. I had a question about something weird on this chart. You have thirty seconds? I have it in the office here.”
“Sorry. I’m right in the middle of something.” Doctor Wallace tried getting past again.
Tom blocked him again. “Just thirty seconds. Otherwise, I’ll have to spend a half hour trying to hunt down Picard.”
“I’m busy. Sorry. Just call the front and have him paged.”
Doctor Wallace walked past. Tom took two steps after him. He grabbed the doctor and pushed into the empty office as hard as he could. The guest chairs in front of Picard’s desk flew to the side as the doctor crashed through them. Wallace’s head caught the corner of the desk. He fell to the floor.
Tom entered and kicked the office door closed behind him with his heel. Tom leaned against the door. Pain surged through his left side from the exertion of force.
Wallace struggled to his knees. Blood ran down his forehead. He lunged for the phone on the desk and stabbed at the numbers.
“I’d stop right there if I were you, Doc. Good way to get yourself beaten to death.”
Tom pulled the tire iron from his waist.
Wallace froze. The phone’s receiver lay off its base on the desk. His eyes locked on Tom standing at the door.
“Take your hands away from the phone and sit down,” Tom said.
Wallace lifted his hands from the phone and sat behind Picard’s desk. He rubbed his head where it caught the desk. His hand came back bloody. “What is this?”
“Shut up and let me think.”
“What do you want?”
“I said shut the hell up!” Tom smacked the wall with the tire iron to make his point.
Doctor Wallace stopped talking and stared at Tom. There was a minute of silence.
“Here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to walk me past the parents and cop sitting in front of Jake Richwood’s door.”
“What?”
“I said you’re going to walk me past that cop. Did I stutter?”
“You’re the guy from the news. You’re the guy who attacked him. I won’t help you.”
Tom took a step toward him. “If you don’t, I’ll beat you to death. When I’m finished with that, I’ll kill the cop and his parents. Then I’ll kill Jake.”
The doctor sat at the desk quiet.
The tire iron hung in Tom’s hand against his leg. Tom eyed the size of the doctor and made his decision. “Take off the jacket,” Tom said.
Wallace focused on the tire iron.
“Why do you want me to take off my jacket?”
Tom raised the tire iron and pointed it at the doctor’s head.
“Because I’m going to wear it. Now, take it off.”
Wallace removed the coat and sat it in front of him.
Tom put it on.
“Now get up and let’s go. Nice and easy. If you signal that cop that something is off, you’re all getting it.”
Wallace stood, but didn’t follow Tom’s instructions. He dove for the tire iron.
Tom yanked it back and then swung. The back of the doctor’s hand took the brunt of the force as he tried to shield himself from the blow. Doctor Wallace collapsed to his knees behind the desk. He let out a wail. Blood ran down his arm. The doctor’s hand was twisted into an unnatural form. Pieces of bone protruded his flesh. He screamed in pain.
“Shut the hell up or it’s going to be your head.” Tom spoke through gritted teeth.
The doctor gasped in breaths through his mouth. He squinted and clutched his hand. He continued to moan.
“I said shut up!”
Tom looked out of the door’s glass to see if anyone heard the doctor’s cries. No one was coming.
The injured doctor wouldn’t do him any good passing the cop at Jake’s door. Tom couldn’t leave him. He’d run for help at the first chance.
Tom went to him. “Get up!” He yanked the doctor to his feet. “Get your ass in that closet.” Tom held him by the elbow and muscled him across the room to the small closet at the side. He opened the door and pushed him inside.
Doctor Wallace cowered in the corner of the small coat closet.
“Keep your mouth shut!”
Tom slammed the door and wedged one of the guest chairs under the handle. He pulled at the door. It wouldn’t budge. Tom stared out of the glass of the office waiting for the hall to clear.
Wallace screamed from inside the closet. “I’m in room 104. I’m in room 104.”
“Shut up in there!” Tom yelled.
He continued waiting. It was five minutes or more until the hall cleared. He flipped off the lights and slipped out of the door. The tire iron was once again cinched in his waistband.
Tom’s walk down the hall was calculated. His head faced down looking at a sheet of paper on Doctor Wallace’s clipboard. His speed was not fast enough to draw suspicion, but not slow enough for anyone to get a good look at him. Tom rounded the corner and walked the hallway toward Jake’s room. The cop that had been monitoring the door was gone. Jake’s parents were nowhere in sight. Tom walked straight up to the door and pushed the handle. It opened. He glanced left and right, no one was watching. He entered the room.
The hospital’s P.A. system blasted through the speakers in the hall: Internal triage room 104.
They’d found the doctor. Tom needed to act fast.
Chapter 41
I hung up the phone with the front desk of the hospital letting them know the doctor’s location.
Hank, Ross, Brunson, Murray and myself sat behind the doors for the Emergency Center in wait. I watched down the hall through a crack at the side of the door. A man in a doctor’s coat rounded the corner and headed for us. The height and weight were right. I didn’t see any red hair coming from under his hospital scrub hat he wore. The guy had on glasses. He stopped at Jake’s door and looked right to left. When he looked left I recognized his face from the driver’s license photo. His red hair had been shaved off, but it was Spearman. He walked in.
The PA system bellowed: Internal triage room 104.
“He’s inside. Let’s go,” I said.
We pushed the doors that separated the Emergency Center and the hall open. We stayed low and approached. Our guns were drawn.
Chapter 42
The only
light came from a pair of dim sconces on the left wall. The sterile smell that all hospitals carry filled the room. A few machines stood lit up at the headboard beside the bed. The television was off. Tom slid the tire iron from his waist band.
He walked further into the room and looked to his right. He got a full view of the hospital bed. The blankets were pulled up half over Jake’s head—leaving just his hair visible. A machine ran tubes under the blankets into Jake. Tom walked to the side of the bed and prodded him with the tire iron.
“Jake,” he whispered.
No response, no movement.
Tom jabbed at him with the tire iron again.
“Jake, wake up.”
There was still no response.
Unconscious, Tom thought.
He went to the door to see if there was a lock—there wasn’t. Tom needed something to barricade the door. He surveyed the room. If he disconnected the rolling monitors, the nurse’s would be alerted to his presence. The only other thing movable was a green faux leather recliner. It would have to do.
He scooted the large chair over and wedged it beneath the handle. He pulled at the door. The chair slid a bit, but then caught. It would hold for the few minutes he’d be there. Tom walked to the back windows and pulled up the blinds. He looked out. The room faced the back of the hospital complex. A small service road snaked away behind fifty feet of grass. This would be his exit. As soon as he finished, he’d break the window, climb out and disappear.
Tom looked to his watch. He could still catch his flight if he hurried. He went to the side of the bed.
“Bye, bye, Jake.”
He lifted it over his head and brought it down with everything he could. It connected with a hollow crack. He struck again. Another odd noise came from the strike. The third blow further confirmed something was off. The vibration that came back through the tire iron didn’t feel the same as before. Tom ripped the sheets back.
Chapter 43
We approached the door.
Officer Brunson, a thin SWAT cop in his early thirties attempted to allow us entry. He pushed the handle of Jake’s door while we covered him. He shook his head. “Barricaded by something,” he said.
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