13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  Brad rolled the top of the bag down and kept squeezing. Maggie had told him once—forever ago—that when the patient had internal bleeding, the paramedics couldn’t stop, the one thing that would save the patient was surgery. The fluid the paramedics infused kept them alive, to a point, but eventually, the blood became diluted, flowed like Kool-Aid and didn’t clot.

  Sharma yelled back, “We’re going straight to the operating room. They’re holding an elevator for us. We’re one minute out.”

  “Okay.” Jill grabbed the nearly empty IV bag from Brad and attached a full bag. “Keep squeezing to the OR.”

  “Where do you think the internal bleeding is?”

  “Hard to say. It appears the bullet went through. The shock wave of the bullet split his abdomen open. It could be anything and everything. Spleen, pancreas, liver, bladder, none of them or all of them.”

  “You said the bullet went through?”

  She nodded. “I think so. A high-velocity bullet will go through the abdomen like a hot knife through butter.”

  The siren stopped, and a backup alarm sounded. As soon as the ambulance came to a full stop, the doors were yanked open. Several orderlies, paramedics, and nurses surrounded the back of the ambulance. Brad had to push his way past the group to keep up with the stretcher. The last thing he wanted was for the IV line to become dislodged. They jogged down a hallway to a waiting elevator. As soon as the stretcher was in, the doors closed. Seconds later, the door opened, and the jog was on again. At the OR doors, nurses in caps, masks and gowns waited. One took the IV bag from Brad as others pulled the stretcher through the doors. As the OR doors closed, the heart monitor gave a steady, low tone.

  “Ah, shit,” Jill said.

  They stood in silence. Brad peered through the small glass window in the door until the patient was out of sight. He sighed and glanced at his hands. Some spattering of blood. He’d seen worse.

  Sharma was the first one to move. “We’ve got one hell of a mess to clean up.” He headed back to the elevator.

  “It will be easier to clean and stock at the station,” Jill said.

  Sharma nodded.

  “Can you drop me back at the scene?” Brad asked.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Late afternoon Pittman and Hirsch sat in front-row seats in the basement of the York Hotel. Three days and each day a seedier bar. The York sounded promising, perhaps upscale. They were wrong. Their first clue should have been the tough hookers lined up outside the door. Their second clue was that they headed to the basement Spotlight Club—a stripper bar. The girls here were nastier than the ones upstairs. A few could kickstart a Kenworth.

  Logan Hirsch’s eyes flickered around the bar. He didn’t like being upfront. If a fight broke out, they were trapped. He’d been in some low-end bars with rig workers, but none as rough as this place. Who knew what color the carpet was originally, but it squished from decades of spilled drinks. He wasn’t sure which odor was stronger—vomit, urine, greasy cooking, or disinfectant.

  A waitress came by, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, low-cut faded T-shirt and a too-short skirt on her eighty-year-old body. “What do you want?”

  Hirsch said, “Tray of draft.”

  Pittman slapped Hirsch on the shoulder. “We’re lucky to get great seats like this.”

  Hirsch stared at Pittman. What the hell? “Yeah, sure.”

  The stage lights came up and strobes danced across the floor. The husky dancer sashayed onto the stage. She wasn’t wearing a lot, but the little she had was leather, including a leather Catwoman mask. When she snapped a whip, Hirsch cringed. Then the speakers blared Whip It, by Devo. Oh shit.

  Hirsch was thankful when the aging waitress set a tray of draft on their table and he could focus on his beer.

  The dancer mesmerized Pittman who whooped and cheered. Every time she passed in front of Pittman, he slipped another dollar or two in her G-string. The cash they’d stolen from the dealership was running lower and lower with every sashay of her hips.

  Hirsch drank another beer. Thankfully the dance and the music stopped, with the promise of another dancer in ten minutes.

  “This is fantastic.” Pittman had an ear-to-ear grin. “A lot better than the peelers in the rig towns.” He downed a draft and grabbed another.

  “Hey,” Hirsch said. “Uh, are we gonna talk about the RCMP’s profile?”

  Pittman laughed so hard he spilled half his beer. “What’s to talk about? It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “They were specific. Like about holding a grudge.”

  “Sure, that’s why we’re doing this. Call it what you want. We’re tired of being shit on. We’re tired of gigantic oil companies making money, then dumping us when times get tough. The fuckin’ CEOs are parasites feeding off us. Grudge, revenge, taking a stand. It’s all the same. They’re getting what they have coming to them.” He glanced at the stage, then grabbed another beer.

  “Why do they think we’re military?”

  Pittman smirked. “Cuz we’re that damn effective.”

  Hirsch stared at Pittman and realized he didn’t know Pittman’s background. Just that he worked rigs. “Were you in the military?”

  “You’ve seen me shoot. I can hit a moose at fifty feet, maybe. You’re the one with an accurate shot.”

  Hirsch held up a hand. “Hey, I don’t mean nothing.”

  “The Horsemen are in your head. That’s what they wanted. Now you’re buying into their bullshit.” He jabbed a finger into Hirsch’s chest. “I don’t need no negative shit from you.” Pittman finished his beer. “Maybe the cops need a reminder.” Pittman slid a beer over to Hirsch and grinned. “Forget that shit. The next dancer is coming out.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Brad jumped out of the ambulance, thanked Jill and Sharma, and jogged through the sleet to the restaurant. He ducked under the police tape and glanced at the spot where the victim had fallen. Nothing but puddles. All signs of the victim’s blood were washed away. He wiped the moisture from his face. Not just water, wet snow. Well, this screws up our crime scene.

  Inside the restaurant, he shed his raincoat and tossed it over a chair. Briscoe sauntered over, coffee in his hand.

  Brad reached out. “Thanks.”

  “Get your own,” Briscoe replied.

  “You’re dry,” Brad said.

  “Got my rookie to do the outside work. Toscana’s out there coordinating roadblocks. We’ve stopped a dozen white vans, but no shooter. The Crime Scene Unit left for the hospital about ten minutes ago. Nothing for them to find in the rain.”

  “So, you’re sitting here, drinking coffee, and watching witnesses.”

  “Hey, I’m the inside guy.” He held up a clipboard. “I have the names of all the witnesses. I check off the names after they’re interviewed.”

  “Sounds like a tough job. I hope they got you a comfy chair to go with the coffee and arduous task.”

  “Luckily, I’m up to it.”

  Brad peeked around the corner of the restaurant. Not many people there. “How many witnesses?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “How many have been interviewed?”

  “Eleven.”

  “How’d they get that many interviewed so quick?”

  Briscoe sipped his coffee. “Griffin called for lots of backup. Every detective on duty is here. Sex Crimes, Drugs, Arson, Robbery, you name it.”

  Brad winced. “There’s not gonna be a lot of consistency in the questions asked.”

  “True, but from what I overheard, no one saw or heard anything. Those who heard something thought it was thunder. When they were asked where the sound came from, they were confused and pointed to the sky.”

  “We’re gonna get five buckets of nothing.”

  Briscoe nodded.

  “What about outside?”

  “What about it?” Briscoe wiped some sleet off Brad’s shoulder. “It was raining, now it’s snowing. Any evidence was washed away.”

  “Did
anyone search for the case or the bullet?”

  “Where the hell are we supposed to search? Besides, the bullet is in the body.”

  Brad shook his head. “Through and through.”

  Briscoe spread his arms wide. “Be my guest. You think you know where the case and bullet are, go for it.”

  Brad nodded and grabbed his coat. Before he headed outside, he ordered two coffees. At his car, he let Lobo out. “Heel.” Brad headed back to the spot where the victim had fallen, Lobo tight to his left side.

  Brad glanced up when Lobo growled. Sergeant Toscana was walking toward them. Brad held out a coffee. “Figured you could use this.”

  She took a sip. “I’m soaked to the bone and it’s getting colder.”

  “I see Mr. Personality has you outside doing all the work.”

  Toscana snorted. “Most of the time he treats me like it’s my first day on the job.”

  “I remember that. Once his rookie, always his rookie.”

  “You were his partner as a rookie?”

  Brad rolled up the collar of his coat. “No. I’d been on the street four years, but that didn’t impress him.”

  “Ouch, that had to hurt.” Toscana wrapped both hands around the coffee.

  “No different from treating a new sergeant that way.”

  “How did you cope?”

  Brad smirked. “The key is to push back. He’s waiting for you to prove to him you’re strong. He hates weak cops. Next time tell him to stand in the rain.”

  Toscana snorted. “That’ll get me bounced back to a constable.”

  “Nope. He’ll bitch, but he’ll do it.” Brad sipped his coffee. “Your life will be better when you show him you won’t take his shit.”

  Toscana toasted Brad. “Thanks for the advice.”

  Lobo stood and shook water over Brad. “Thanks, pal.”

  If the victim and his wife had finished dinner and were walking to their car, they were headed north. The injury was left to right. That means the shot had to come from the west. Maybe behind the victim, or it would have gone through the victim and his wife. Since it missed her, either she was a step behind, or the shot came from slightly behind. So, the shot came from the park to the southwest. He drew an imaginary line from the spot of the victim to the park and headed in that direction.

  “Lobo, heel.” They crossed Seventh Street into the park and stopped.

  Brad pulled out a spare magazine and held it to Lobo’s nose. Lobo sniffed the magazine. “Seek.”

  Lobo stood, with his neck extended, nose to the air. He shook his head a few times, rain and snow splattering Brad. Lobo glanced left, right, then left again and trotted diagonally across the park. He’d gone twenty feet when he slowed and his nose dropped to the ground. He rooted around. With a paw, he pulled back a branch and gawked at Brad, who shook his head. “Nope. Not a stick.” He held the magazine to Lobo’s nose again. Lobo sniffed the air, then headed to a tree and sat at the base of the tree.

  The snow had gathered under the branches, but close to the tree was barren. Brad eyed the spot where the victim fell. If he’d taken a step or two after he was shot, the shooter would be …

  Brad leaned against the tree and held his arms like he was shooting a rifle. If this was the right spot, the shooter had been closer than he’d been in the previous shootings. Less than fifty feet.

  After the shot, the case would eject from the right side. Most of the time, the case flew at least a foot away. By now the snow would cover it. Once again, Brad held the magazine to Lobo’s nose, then directed Lobo to the right. Thirty seconds later, Lobo stopped and sat, about two feet from the tree. Brad knelt and shone his Mini-Mag flashlight over the area. Nothing. Totally snow-covered.

  He slid on an examination glove and carefully brushed the snow away, starting in an ever-widening circle. He found twigs, rocks, bottle caps—and a case. With his other hand, he pulled out an evidence bag and dropped the case in. “Good boy, Lobo.” Brad pulled a couple of treats out of his coat pocket.

  Brad headed back to the tree and again raised his arms in a shooting motion. He focused on the area to the northeast of the victim. “Lobo, heel.”

  As they crossed Seventh Street, Brad’s gaze focused on a point to the far side of the parking lot. They crossed where the victim had fallen, then stopped. Brad held his Mini-Mag at his stomach and aimed it to the northeast. The beam lit a garage across the alley. They headed that way.

  The garage was timeworn and pitted. If a bullet was there, he’d never find it. Maybe not even in daylight. But he’d have Sturgeon send a team back here in the morning.

  His pager buzzed. He glanced at the message. From EMS. Their patient didn’t make it.

  Brad stared blankly at the pager. Jill said the injury wasn’t that serious. But he knew it was impossible to know what internal injuries a patient had. The icy slush turned to large snow flakes. He stood beside the garage, numb. He wiped the snow from his face. The murders continued, and they were no closer to catching the sniper.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Saturday Day Eleven

  Despite the cold wind, icy sidewalk, and early morning, the press was out in full force. Not only had they staked out the front doors, but they filled the back alley with TV vans with large satellite dishes. Reporters dressed in parkas, snow boots, gloves and beanies with microphones blocked the way. Brad fought through the mass of people and batted away microphones thrust into his face. He noticed two men, dressed in suit jackets, shivering as they held out microphones labeled ABC and CBS. Shit. The American press was here.

  “Detective, what can you tell us about the shooting last night?”

  “Have you identified the man killed?”

  “Detective, was this the sniper?”

  Brad headed into the crowd. Instinct from his football days came back. He dropped his shoulder, clearing a path to the back door.

  “Considering this shooting, do you think the RCMP profile is accurate?”

  “Should the RCMP be in charge since they have this detailed information about the sniper?”

  He swatted at microphones that were bouncing off his cheeks.

  “Do you think the RCMP press conference yesterday frustrated the sniper, and that’s why he struck again last night?”

  “Detective, why does the sniper want to talk to you? Is it someone you know?”

  He finally reached the back door where two uniformed cops stood guard. One of them opened the door as the reporters continued shouting questions.

  Inside, he took off his coat and shook off the snow and rain, then took the back stairs to the basement, into the gym and met Detective Windsor by the coffee machines. Windsor supervised the command center for the night shift. Brad refilled his coffee cup and offered some to Windsor.

  “Not for me. I plan on hitting the sack as soon as I get home.”

  “Busy night?” Brad asked.

  “Nope.” Windsor yawned. “Nothing happened, and even the tip lines were moderately quiet after the rush of calls following the RCMP news conference. No leads that made the high priority list. A few people confessed to crimes, everything from using their neighbor’s garbage can to running over a cat. Day shift can check those out. I heard the Crime Scene Unit heading back to the Ponderosa.”

  Brad sipped his coffee. “This stuff is shit. I don’t know why I don’t buy a half-dozen decent coffees on my way to work.”

  Windsor grinned. “They stopped about a dozen white vans last night after the shooting, but no suspects. The cops put stickers on the vans so they won’t get stopped again. You see those stickers all over the city. That’s all I’ve got. If you’re okay, I’m heading home.”

  “Night, Windsor.” Brad headed to the zoo and plopped into his chair. He wasn’t surprised it had been quiet overnight. After a shooting, 911 and the tip line lit up for four or five hours, then slowed to a trickle. Even the chronic complainers slept through the night. He spotted a file folder in the middle of his desk. He grabbed the folder and
flipped it open—a report from Sturgeon. They’d analyzed the case over night but didn’t find a useable print. Just a smudge. He tossed the folder on his desk.

  Something Windsor had said was nagging at the back of his brain. White vans. For six days, they’d been searching for a white van and they had stopped hundreds. Some five or six times until we started putting stickers on the ones we’d checked. They’d found a dozen drivers with outstanding warrants for everything from failing to appear to assault. They even confiscated a few rifles. But not the right rifle and not the sniper.

  Then they’d tracked through motor vehicle records for all white vans and cross-referenced it with people with criminal records. That netted another dozen suspects, but no sniper. They cleared up a few outstanding warrants.

  Interesting that there was no buzz on the street. With hundreds of confidential informants on the street, not one had any information to trade for the reward growing daily. The snipers were ghosts, even in the crime world. How was that possible? He took another sip of coffee and immediately regretted it. He tossed the cup in the garbage.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Hirsch drove down Twelfth Avenue SE and past the crack houses. The streets were quiet at this time of the morning. The crackheads came out after dark.

  Pittman’s fingers tapped rapidly on the dash. His right leg bounced to some unknown rapid beat as he chewed on his lip. “Can you believe those bastards? I figured Coulter was interested. He’s as corrupt as Carew. Screwed us over. Our note was clear. We would call the Ponderosa at eight this morning. How could I be clearer? We don’t have to use one of their lines where they can trace the call. I can keep it brief. Coulter and I negotiate.” The veins in Pittman’s neck bulged as his face reddened. “No one humiliates me. They think this is a game. Well, game on.” He pounded the dash.

  Hirsch slowed as he passed the Victoria Park bus barns, continued to the MacDonald Bridge, and swung a U-turn. He drove back even slower.