by Steven James
“Get an ambulance,” I said. He rummaged through his pockets for his phone as I eased Mr. Sikora to the floor and onto his back.
After pulling the gun from his hand and sliding it away from us, I cradled his head as gently as I could while applying pressure on the gunshot wound with my other hand.
But I couldn’t stop the bleeding.
“Don’t let him . . .” Grant coughed, struggled for breath.
I wanted to tell him that everything was going to be OK, that he didn’t need to worry, that the shot wasn’t serious, but I’m not a very good liar. “Relax,” I said softly. Nothing but the truth. “Help is coming.”
He drew in a gasping, strangled breath but said nothing.
The blood on Grant’s chest was frothy and bright, which meant the bullet had hit his lung, possibly nicked his heart. Even if the paramedics arrived within the next couple minutes, I didn’t think he’d make it.
“The paramedics are coming,” I said. Considering the recorded message in Colorado and the tight security here, I doubted that he’d loaded the gun himself. “Who loaded the gun for you, Grant?”
He struggled for a breath. “Hurry.”
“They’re on their way. Tell me a name. Who was it?”
He swallowed, took a coarse breath. “You have to get . . . hurry . . .”
Four officers came bursting through the door and swarmed around us. One of them retrieved the S & W from the floor, the other three aimed their weapons at Mr. Sikora’s face.
“Back off,” I said. “Give him some space.”
They hesitated.
“Back off!”
As they retreated, Grant Sikora pulled me close. “Please.” He coughed a fine spray of blood onto my cheek. I was sure I was the only one who could hear him.
“Promise me you won’t let him do it again.”
“Grant, you need to––”
“Promise me.” Urgency. Desperation. “For her. For Celeste.”
I had to say something. “I promise,” I said softly. “I promise I won’t let him do it again. Now, please. Tell me who loaded the gun. A name.”
But he never heard me finish my request. As I was speaking, he closed his eyes, his hand fell away from my arm, and Grant Sikora died.
No!
If we were ever going to bring him back I needed to keep his blood flowing. I started chest compressions, but after a few minutes when the paramedics still hadn’t arrived I felt Ralph’s presence beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s gone.” Ralph’s voice was as gentle as he could make it. “Pat.” He knelt beside me, put a hand on my shoulder. “He’s gone.”
I kept going. Maybe he was wrong.
Two more compressions, three more, four more, but it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. A crew of paramedics streamed into the courtroom, and as they took over trying to revive Grant, I leaned back, out of breath. My heart pounding.
I tried to relax, to calm my breathing, but couldn’t seem to do it.
Throughout the courtroom the spectators and jury members were emerging from their hiding places. Richard Basque stood nearby, watching me. His deep, thoughtful eyes touched me, swept over me, a psychopathic mixture of coolness and warmth. “Thank you, Dr. Bowers.” He spoke just loud enough for me to hear, then let a smile play across his lips. “I owe you my life.”
That’s it.
I rose and started for him.
This time it was Ralph’s turn to hold me back.
“Let it be, Pat.” I strained to get free, but he didn’t let go. “Like you said before, not like this.”
“I’m OK.”
I tried to shake his hands off. Finally, he let go on his own and studied my face.
“I am. I’m all right.”
“That’s good,” he said softly. “Because right now you need to be.” He stayed within reach.
The body and the blood.
Still tense. Still angry.
The EMTs were using a defibrillator on Grant, but by the look on the face of the lead paramedic, I could tell that this was one patient he didn’t expect to bring back.
A grieving father was dead, a remorseless killer was alive, and I’d made a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
Everything can change in an instant.
6 minutes later
Giovanni watched the ambulance roll away from the courthouse.
From listening to the police scanner he knew that it carried the body of Grant Sikora rather than that of Richard Basque. And he’d used his credentials to find out from one of the marshals outside the building that Special Agent Patrick Bowers had been the one to stop him.
Well.
Giovanni had expected, of course, that Sikora would be wheeled out of the building with a sheet over his head, but he’d thought that with his background as a gunnery sergeant in the Marines, he would have been able to accomplish his mission first. Of all the family members of the victims, he’d been the best choice.
But he hadn’t been good enough to get past Bowers, which at least confirmed what Giovanni had already suspected—that Special Agent Bowers was the perfect choice for story number ten.
It looked like a slight change of plans was in order.
Time to get back to Denver.
To tell tale number five.
15
My side ached.
My heart ached.
And Grant Sikora didn’t make it.
He’d been pronounced dead upon arrival at St. Francis Medical Center thirty minutes ago. The officer he’d shot would need a little time and physical therapy to heal but would eventually regain full use of his arm, so it looked like even though there’d been one tragedy, one had been averted.
Two, if you counted Basque escaping with his life.
The courtroom we’d been in had become a crime scene, so the bailiff had taken the jurors to the jury room, and all the members of the media and relatives of the victims had been ushered downstairs to the lobby. The medical and law enforcement personnel and a few people such as myself who were involved in the trial had moved to a smaller courtroom across the hall.
I located one of the Chicago police detectives and gave him my statement, although, with more than a hundred witnesses in the courtroom, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambiguity about what had just happened.
Even though this wasn’t the time or the place to sort through all the issues we needed to discuss, after coming so close to being shot, I felt the need to talk to Lien-hua, to hear her voice. I punched in her number, but she didn’t pick up.
I decided not to leave a message.
I left my shirt, still soaked with Grant Sikora’s blood, with one of the crime scene investigators, and while Ralph went to find Calvin to get a change of clothes from my suitcase in his trunk, I asked one of the paramedics to take a look at the bruises on my side.
A quick examination was all it took.
“You’ll need X-rays to see if the ribs are broken,” he said.
I’d been in my share of scuffles, so I already knew that the treatment for a bruised rib and a broken rib is pretty much the same—keep it wrapped, avoid straining yourself, and take lots of Advil. I figured I’d wait and see how much it bothered me before going in for X-rays.
“Thanks,” I said.
He wrapped a snug dressing around my chest and gave me a cold pack to help reduce the swelling. “Take care of that, OK?”
“I will.” As he was stepping away, I saw Ralph approaching, bringing me a fresh shirt and jeans. I accepted the clothes, thanked him, and went to find a restroom to clean up and change.
A few minutes later as I was buckling my belt, my phone came to life and I figured Lien-hua must have seen that she’d missed my call. I answered, “Hey, you.”
“Hello, Pat.” It was Detective Cheyenne Warren. “I heard what happened up there. I’m glad you’re all right.”
“That makes two of us.” I realized that I wasn’t disappointed it was Cheyenne rather than Lien-hua.
She got right to business. “It doesn’t look like Taylor left the recorded message in the mine.”
“What? How do you know?”
“We found him this morning, dead, along with a woman. I should say we think it’s only one woman. It’s hard to tell.”
Her words could mean only one thing. “Dismembered?”
“Yeah. The killer dumped her in the water at the northern swimming beach at Cherry Creek State Park. Killed her at Taylor’s house, though; we matched the blood at the two sites.”
I let her words sink in as I returned to the courtoom. “Taylor had a house in the Denver area?”
“Up in the mountains. Near Evergreen. That’s where he was beheaded—tortured first, though. We’re still looking for his head.”
Unbelievable.
The envelopes had all been mailed within the Denver metroplex, so I’d suspected that Taylor might be living in the region, but still, it was disconcerting to hear that he’d been that close to us and we hadn’t found him.
“Suspects?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
I was considering everything she’d just told me when the bailiff led the jurors into the room. I only had time for a few quick questions. “Besides the dismemberments,” I asked, “are there any evidentiary links to Heather Fain’s death?”
“No physical evidence yet, but there was an anonymous 911 tip, just like with Heather’s body.”
Judge Craddock and the two lead lawyers emerged from the judge’s entrance.
I tried to think of any criminals I’d run into who could have found, overpowered, and killed Taylor, but came up short. “Anything else?”
“We’re going to Taylor’s house in the morning to finish processing the scene. Early: 7:00 a.m. It’s about half an hour from downtown; maybe you can ride with me, reduce our carbon footprint.”
Normally, it annoys me when people try to sound so progressively green by using the “carbon footprint” cliché, but from Cheyenne it just sounded natural.
“I’d come,” I said, “but I’m not scheduled to arrive in Denver until almost noon tomorrow.”
“So change your flight. Come back tonight.”
It was a possibility.
I suspected the judge would call for a mistrial, but I wouldn’t know for a few more minutes. “I will if I can. I’ll call you back when I know more.” Judge Craddock situated himself behind the bench and called for order. I needed to get off the phone. “Do me a favor. Text Agent Ralph Hawkins for me. Fill him in.”
“All right.”
I gave her Ralph’s number, ended the call, and turned off the phone. After everyone had taken their seats, Judge Craddock faced the jurors and cleared his throat. “This incident involving Mr. Sikora bears no relevance to the trial at hand. We are conducting a trial concerning the defendant, Richard Devin Basque, not this man who just tried to shoot him. If this event is allowed to disrupt the judicial process, our justice system would be too fragile, too easily manipulated to be efficacious.”
He took a deep breath. “And so, considering all of these factors, I am not calling for a mistrial. You will be sequestered until Monday. No news media. No outside contact. During the weekend we will provide independent, court-appointed psychologists to conduct, at no charge, confidential counseling sessions with any jury members who wish to discuss their feelings regarding the shooting. We will resume proceedings Monday at nine o’clock sharp when Dr. Bowers returns to the stand.”
I could hardly believe his words, and by the looks of the jury members’ faces, neither could they. I wasn’t sure what would be normal in a situation like this, but resuming the trial on Monday—
“I will not let this grievous event train-wreck the judicial process. Not in my courtroom.” He let his eyes click from one jury member to the next. “This trial will move forward. We will proceed and we will reach a verdict, and justice will be served.”
Even though I was surprised by his decision, the more I thought about it, the more I found myself understanding the logic of it. The actions of Grant Sikora weren’t at issue here, and shouldn’t be allowed to affect the trial’s outcome. And the longer we waited, the more likely the jurors would be to remember the shooting and forget details from the trial.
I expected Ms. Eldridge-Gorman to object to the judge’s decision, which she did, quite vociferously. She would certainly appeal if Basque were convicted, and the state would do the same if he were acquitted. What a mess.
“Objection denied,” Judge Craddock squawked. “Dismissed!” He slammed his gavel down, rose, and had his robe half off by the time he entered his chambers.
Just like me, the jury must have thought he was going to call a mistrial, because they sat in shocked silence, most of them staring blankly at the door to the judge’s chambers, which was now slowly swinging shut.
I took a moment to think.
I really wanted to take a look at the crime scene where Taylor had been killed. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet, so I could probably catch an earlier flight and still make it home tonight, then return to Chicago Sunday evening.
A quick call to the airline told me there was a flight that would arrive in Denver just after ten tonight, and I still had ninety minutes before the departure time, so, even with Friday rush hour, I figured I could make it.
I confirmed a seat assignment and was ending my call when Ms. Eldridge-Gorman crossed the room toward me. She came close and spoke quietly, only for me to hear. “I know what you did in that slaughterhouse, Dr. Bowers. On Monday morning I will move that you be held in contempt of court for refusing to answer the question today.”
She might have been baiting me to see if I’d say something she could use against me when I returned to the stand next week. I didn’t respond.
“If you tell the truth, the jury will discount your testimony and empathize with my client.” A sense of dark satisfaction threaded through every one of her words. “And if you lie you’ll perjure yourself. Either way, Richard will be set free, Dr. Bowers, and you’ll be the one to thank.”
Everything had suddenly become even more complicated. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Eldridge-Gorman,” I told her.
“I will.” She snatched up her briefcase and gave me a half smile.
“And I will look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
She strode away, and I noticed that Ralph had been watching us. He walked to me, and after she was out of earshot he asked, “What was all that about?”
“A misunderstanding.” I’d never told him what had happened in the slaughterhouse, and now was not the time to get into all that.
His gravelly voice became even lower than usual. “Something you need to tell me, buddy?”
I considered my options, his friendship, the case, my future . . . and decided to let things stand for now. “No. It’s nothing.” I gestured toward the door. “You heading out?”
“I gotta give a statement to the press. Being the senior agent on site . . . You know.”
“Gotcha.”
He mumbled a few choice words concerning how excited he was about talking to the reporters. When he paused for a breath, I said, “I booked an earlier flight. I need to get to the airport.”
“I’ll give you a shout tomorrow.”
I nodded, he lumbered away, and after I’d picked up my knife and SIG, I headed toward the back door so I could avoid the media drones swarming around the courthouse entrance. On the way, I called Cheyenne and told her I could make the 7:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow morning. “I’ll swing by your place at about 6:30,” I said.
“How about I drive? That is, unless you have power issues with a woman being in the driver’s seat?”
I had the sense that she wasn’t just talking about carpooling but decided not to go there. “All right. You can pick me up.” Only after I’d said the words did I realize that they contained at least as many meanings as hers had.
“Sounds good to me,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll see yo
u at 6:30.”
She’d never been to my house before, so I told her my address before we ended the call. Then I speed-dialed Calvin to let him know I was taking a cab to the airport and that he could just hang on to my suitcase until Monday. While I waited for him to answer, I exited the courthouse’s back door.
And found him standing on the steps, sheltered from the drizzle by a broad gutter high above him, scouring his pockets, looking for his ringing phone. “Oh, there you are, my boy, I’ve been waiting for you.” He found the phone, looked at the screen, then at me. “Shall we speak in person or on our mobiles?”
I stared at him. “How did you know I was coming this way?”
“I know how much you like to appear on the news. Come along. I’ll give you a ride to the airport.” He repositioned his coat and stepped into the rain.
But I hesitated. “I just changed my flight less than five minutes ago. How did you . . . ?”
“My dear boy, I can’t give away all my secrets.” He pulled out his car keys. “Come along, there’s something I would like to ask you on the way.”
16
For nearly twenty minutes Calvin wove through traffic without speaking. Maybe he was trying to give me an opportunity to deal with Sikora’s death. Hard to know.
The rain was easing up, but the clouds hung heavy and gray above us. I knew the sun wouldn’t be setting for a few hours, but already the day seemed to be withering into night.
We hopped onto the Kennedy.
More time passed.
A car swerved in front of us, and the driver flashed Calvin a rather elaborate finger gesture I’d only seen a few times before, on the streets of New York City. For a moment it reminded me of my years in the City, and of Christie, the woman I’d met there, fallen in love with there, married and then buried there.
Death.
Surrounding me.
Touching my life no matter where I turned.
And now this week, more of it: the two victims on Wednesday, the day before I joined the case . . . Heather Fain and Chris Arlington yesterday . . . Sebastian Taylor and the unidentified woman, and now Grant Sikora . . .
So much death in my past, in my present. I’d chosen this career, this life for myself, but sometimes—