by Robin Cook
The noise that followed was like someone striking a couch cushion with a baseball bat, not once but quickly several times in a row. They were the kind of sounds that were felt as much as heard. Jack started, expecting he’d been shot but confused as to why he didn’t feel anything. Then, to his mounting shock, the man in front of him, who was no more than twenty feet away, fell over backward as if he’d been smacked in the face by an invisible hand.
The next thing Jack knew was that four men rushed by him, heading toward the downed individual. By now Jack had recovered enough to run ahead himself. He reached the group as three of the men hastened to hoist the stricken man off the pavement by his arms and his legs. The fourth man leaped into the Suburban, whose engine was still running. It was like a team executing a maneuver that they had practiced many times.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jack demanded. But the men, who Jack could see were all relatively young and of Asian descent, ignored him. Once they had the tall gunman off the ground, they wasted no time. They again went past Jack at a run, awkwardly carrying the stricken individual, who was not moving. At that moment the first Suburban laid a bit of rubber as it accelerated down 106th Street in the direction of Columbus Avenue.
From the direction of the playground Jack could hear someone yell his name, but he ignored it. Instead, he rushed after the mystery men lugging the wounded man. “Who are you people?” he shouted.
The busy men didn’t bother answering or even to look at Jack. They concentrated on literally tossing the unconscious man into the backseat of the second black Suburban, then jumping in themselves. Jack tried to grab the arm of one of the men but received a vicious Karate-style blow to his chest for his effort, which caused him to stagger backward to retain his footing.
With yet another screech of tires, the second Suburban sped off in the direction of the first. At the same moment, a sizable contingent of fellow basketball players reached Jack’s side, where he was standing dumbfounded in the street. Among them were Warren and Flash.
“You okay?” Flash demanded, grabbing Jack by his upper arms and looking directly into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. He felt dazed. He detached himself from Flash’s grasp and glanced down at the front of himself, as if looking for signs of blood. “I guess I’m okay.”
“What the fuck was that all about?” Warren demanded.
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I don’t even know if I was involved or not. It all happened so fast.”
“Were those gunshots we heard?” Flash demanded.
“I’m afraid so,” Jack said. “But they weren’t directed at me. The tall guy you said was hanging around the neighborhood seemed to get shot . . . unless the whole thing was staged.” The idea occurred to him out of the blue. The entire episode seemed unreal.
Jack got his mobile phone out of the gym bag he always brought to the playground to carry a towel and extra wristbands. He turned on the flashlight app and walked back to where he thought the guy had been shot, if he had been shot.
Warren and a few others followed him. “What the hell are you looking for?” Warren asked.
“Blood,” Jack said. “But I don’t see any.” He turned off the light.
“I saw what happened,” Warren said. “Granted, I was back on the basketball court, but I saw the dude get shot. No question. What’s going on, Doc? I need to know. I can’t have this kind of shit happening around here. Sometimes I can’t decide if having you in the neighborhood is an addition or a liability. These other dudes also looked possibly Chinese from where I was. Were they?”
“I’m not sure,” Jack said. “They were Asian. That I’m sure of. And young, like college age. None of them spoke, or I don’t think they did. It all happened so fast.” Jack started to dial 911, but Warren grabbed his hand and stopped him.
“Who are you calling?” Warren asked.
“The police,” Jack said.
“Why?” Warren asked.
“I can’t believe you’re even asking,” Jack said. “Someone seems to have been shot. You even said so yourself.”
“Yeah, but why call the police? What the fuck are they going to do at this point? You tell them you think someone got shot and was taken away in one of two black Suburbans. That’s bullshit. You’re just going to cause yourself and the neighborhood a lot of grief for nothing.”
“The idea of not calling the police didn’t even occur to me,” Jack said.
“Well, I think you should give it some serious thought,” Warren said. “For me, as a black man, I wouldn’t call. There’s no victim, and they sure ain’t going to stop and search all one hundred thousand black Suburbans that are roaming around the city tonight, so there isn’t going to be a victim. You’re a medical examiner, and you know all that shit about corpus delicti. I tell you, the police are going to do zip except use it as an excuse to stop and harangue every black kid around here wearing a hoodie.”
Jack pondered the situation because he truly respected Warren and cared about the neighborhood. He also again questioned if he’d been involved in the episode or somehow just caught up in it by accident. Yet he remembered the man pointing the gun at him, and Warren had said the man had been hanging around since midafternoon. Combining that with having met more Chinese people earlier today than he ever had made it hard to dismiss. Yet was it a coincidence? He had no idea.
“What about this Chinese billionaire you had lunch with?” Warren asked. “Did you guys leave on an okay note?”
“Not entirely,” Jack admitted. “But I was the one who was bent out of shape. The man had me probed, personal life and all, and it provoked me enough to leave before I did something or said something I’d regret.”
“What is it that you were investigating out there? You didn’t answer my question earlier about whether it involves anything shady.”
“There is possibly something shady,” Jack said. “But certainly not something I would imagine could lead to murder.”
“You’re beating around the bush, Doc,” Warren complained. “Tell me straight!”
“I was looking into some sort of irregularity in the way a transplant organ was obtained for a young woman who I autopsied on Monday,” Jack began. “I don’t know if you are aware, but there’s a very elaborate system set up so that the allocation of available organs is fair. Unfortunately, there are episodes where the system is perverted, like for celebrities, because the supply doesn’t come close to the demand, and it can be a life-threatening situation.”
“That sounds pretty serious to me,” Warren said. “Did any of the people you met act pissed you were out there asking questions?”
“Quite the contrary,” Jack said. “They treated me like a hero, since it had taken me some effort to identify the woman I autopsied. They weren’t aware that she’d died, and it was important for them to know, as they were responsible for her surgery. The Dover Valley Hospital is a recently certified transplant center, and they need to follow their cases closely.”
“All right, Doc,” Warren said. “What’s it going to be? You going to call the cops or not? If you are, we’re out of here. If you’re not, we’ll go back and run a few games.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said as he continued to dither. Yet he was slowly calming down and able to think more clearly. What he realized was that he didn’t know whether it was a crime not to report a crime. And if he was involved, whether he’d be considered an accessory after the fact.
“I think I have to call,” Jack said.
“Okay,” Warren said. “It’s your decision. But I tell you what, I’ll have some kids watching out for strange cars along your block. I’ll let you know if those dudes or any of their friends come back.”
“Thank you, Warren,” Jack said as he fist-bumped his friend. Jack was appreciative of the offer. From past experience, Jack knew that when Warren said he’d keep an e
ye out, he meant it.
As Jack dialed 911 and put the phone to his ear, Warren herded all the other players together and announced that b-ball was over for the night. He specifically said he didn’t want any witnesses to be available when the police arrived.
When the 911 operator came on the line, Jack described what had happened and gave his name and location. After making sure Jack felt safe, the operator told him to remain where he was and that police officers from the Twenty-fourth Precinct would be dispatched immediately.
“I still think you are making a mistake,” Warren called out, as he and all the others, including Aretha, started home, with most heading in the direction of Columbus Avenue.
Jack waved to indicate he had heard, but didn’t call out. Crossing the street, he went to his stoop and sat on the top step. A bit of light shown out through the door lights. It was a dark night, with isolated puddles of illumination under the widely spaced streetlamps. Even the lights on the basketball court had gone out with no one playing. His heart, which had been racing, began to slow.
Within minutes, Jack could hear the typical undulations of an approaching siren in the distance. As he waited for the police to arrive, he planned what he would say. Then, because of the unreality of the experience, his mind went back to the thought that the episode possibly had been elaborately staged. The main trouble with the idea was that there would have to have been a reason, and Jack couldn’t think of one. Had he been caught in the situation by chance? He doubted it. According to Warren, the Suburban had been sitting there for hours, only to pull out into the street just at the exact moment he’d stepped off the curb. At the same time, thinking of the event as a true attempt on his life was equally as mystifying and confusing. Not only was he forced to explain why someone would want him dead, he’d have to explain why he’d been saved and by whom. It would mean there were two unknown groups: one that wanted him eliminated for an unknown reason and another that wanted to make sure he wasn’t.
The undulating police siren eased off as the squad car made the turn from Central Park West onto 106th Street. It then drove toward Jack much faster than Jack thought reasonable. In the back of his mind he could hear Warren advising him not to call the police. Certainly, if there had been kids playing in the street, which they often did, they could have been in jeopardy.
The police car skidded to a stop and two uniformed officers leaped from the vehicle, donning their peaked hats in the process. With their hands on their holstered guns as if they thought they might have to use them, they scanned the area. It made Jack wonder what the message was that they had gotten. Both were Caucasian, with one decidedly older and heavier than the other. Simultaneously, they saw Jack as he got to his feet.
“Are you Jack Stapleton, who put in the call about gunplay in the street?” the older one called out.
“I am,” Jack said as he passed between parked cars and walked out into the street to face the policemen. He squinted from a small LED flashlight held by the younger cop, who was shining it directly in Jack’s face.
“An Asian man was shot by four other Asian men,” Jack began. “Either that or the five men were a troupe and playacting very convincingly.” Jack went on to describe what had happened as far as he could remember. He said on the spur of the moment that he thought the taller Asian man was aiming the gun at him, but he admitted that might not have been the case. Jack explained that the shooters were in a second Suburban behind Jack, essentially putting Jack in between them. “It all happened so fast, it’s hard to remember the details,” he added.
“Did you happen to catch any of the vehicles’ tag numbers?” the older policeman asked. He eyed Jack’s beat-up, drab workout clothes. Jack wondered if he thought he was homeless.
“No,” Jack said. “It was dark and, as I said, it all went down so quickly. I wouldn’t even be able to tell you what state the plates were from.”
“Where exactly was the location that this individual was supposedly shot?” the younger officer asked. Jack could tell by his tone that he was skeptical of the whole story, which Jack understood was unique, since homicide perpetrators generally didn’t make a habit of collecting their victims.
“Just about where your squad car is,” Jack said.
The older officer directed the younger to back up the vehicle. When the younger emerged from behind the wheel, he now had a monstrous flashlight.
“Okay, where, exactly?” the older man asked.
Jack tried to remember how the Suburban was oriented and then how the tall man had come out of the car before pointing the gun in Jack’s direction. “Somewhere around here,” Jack said, indicating with his finger a circular area ten to twelve feet in diameter.
The younger officer used the light to illuminate the pavement in the indicated area. It was powerful enough to turn night into day. All three searched. There was no blood.
“Are you sure you didn’t imagine this?” the older policeman said, looking askance at Jack.
“Were there any other witnesses?” the younger policeman asked.
Instead of lying and saying no to witnesses, Jack explained that he was a medical examiner at the OCME who had been playing basketball on the now darkened court. He pointed out the playground. He also pointed out his house, saying he was the landlord. This new information dramatically altered the atmosphere of the interrogation and increased the respect the two officers showed him.
“It is still a very strange story, sir,” the older policeman added after a bit more discussion. “By the way, my name is Sergeant Bob Adams. This is Officer Stan Perkins.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Jack said. “I appreciate your responding to my nine-one-one call. But I’d like to ask, what exactly are you going to do about this episode?”
“We’ll file a report and alert the detective division,” Sergeant Adams said, tripping over his words. “I don’t know what else we can do. Whether the detectives do any follow-up is up to them. I mean, without a body or some blood, there isn’t much to go on. Is there something specific you would like us to do or think we ought to do? Would you like us to request some surveillance?”
“I guess not,” Jack said. Although Jack wasn’t terribly surprised that the policeman was essentially saying nothing would be done, once again he was impressed with Warren’s street smarts. Warren had guessed the police would do little under the circumstances. Jack just hoped the second part of Warren’s prediction wasn’t correct—namely, that the cops would use the event as an excuse to harass black teenagers in the neighborhood. That had been a problem in the past and might happen again if police surveillance was instituted.
“We’ll also let the duty desk know about the incident,” Officer Perkins said. “They will alert any patrols tonight to look out for suspicious behavior involving Suburbans with Asian drivers.”
“I think they’re long gone,” Jack said.
“I think you’re right,” Sergeant Adams said.
After the police had left, Jack wearily climbed the stairs up to the apartment. Although he hadn’t played as much basketball as usual, he felt particularly exhausted. He wondered if it had to do with the scary and weird shooting or all the running around he’d done that day. The frustrating part about the day was that despite all the effort, he really wasn’t any closer to a definitive cause of Carol Stewart’s death, and now Helen VanDam’s, nor to understanding the curious details surrounding Carol’s lifesaving surgery.
Getting his keys out to open the apartment door, Jack took the opportunity to check the time. Inwardly he groaned when he saw it was almost 9:30. The guilt of having abandoned Laurie to her parents, which had kept him from playing a third basketball game, came back with a vengeance. He was certainly much later than he had intended.
Jack paused for a moment to think what he would say. He thought about using the shooting as an excuse but then quickly nixed the idea. If he’d been an integral part
of the event, which was still a possibility, Laurie would insist he be more forthcoming about what he had been up to that day. He was reasonably sure that if Laurie heard the details, she’d demand he turn the whole affair over to the authorities. Since he was not willing to do that as of yet, he thought it might be best not to bring up the shooting. After all, he rationalized, he didn’t know for sure it involved him.
As it turned out, Jack’s reception was far better than he’d feared, even though he had ended up being gone for two hours. Apparently, the children had been uncommonly angelic, including Emma. Consequently, Laurie was in a fine mood and wasn’t at all captious about his playing, and Sheldon proclaimed he was jealous of the exercise, wishing he was thirty years younger so he could have participated. Jack had smiled at this suggestion but inwardly was glad Sheldon was not thirty years younger. Not everybody could play street basketball, as it was more a contact sport than the uninitiated imagined. Dorothy was the only one who attempted to poison the atmosphere by making a point of complaining that Jack had not been available to help put the children to bed. To her credit, Laurie immediately came to Jack’s aid by describing how easy it had been, even with Emma, who was often a struggle to get to nod off.
Despite the unexpected general bonhomie, the moment it was socially appropriate, Jack excused himself to take a quick shower. While he did so, Laurie was happy to warm up the pasta they had had for dinner.
29
THURSDAY, 5:15 A.M.
With everything that had happened on Wednesday underscored by the bizarre and unnerving shooting episode, Jack had had trouble going to sleep and was still tossing and turning well after midnight. Also disturbing had been a call from Warren to inform him there was yet another Suburban parked on his block with an Asian driver. The only difference was that the driver was significantly younger than the previous, tall dude.