by Doug McCall
“Do you have a cell phone?! Scallion yelled. Before the man could answer, a loud screeching sound, accompanied by metal striking metal could be heard coming from the highway, followed instantly by gun shots. Scallion and the other man ducked in unison.
“No. Not with me. But I’m an anaesthetist.”
“That’ll do.” Scallion tossed his phone to the man. “Call 911. Then do what you can to help him.” He started to climb to his feet. Murtaugh grabbed his arm.
“Get that son-of-a-bitch, Pete. Get’m for me.” He was trying to speak forcefully, but his voice was weak; he was starting to choke on blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.
Scallion stared at the man for only a second. It didn’t look good. “You can bank on it, Denny. I promise.” It was the least he could do for the man who had probably saved his life. He freed his arm from the man’s weakening grip.
Hurrying to his car parked in front of the sales office, he drove rapidly through the gate, stopping at the intersection with the highway to determine Kritz’s path. He anticipated an unpleasant scene; he wasn’t disappointed.
Looking to the left, he saw a patrol car with its left front fender crushed-in, the vehicle having been pushed to the side of the road at impact, leaving black skid marks on the asphalt. The crazed man had evidently smashed his way past the roadblock.
He pulled adjacent to the damaged car. “Anyone hurt?” he yelled through the passenger-side window.
A uniformed officer manning a radio stepped out. “My partner was standing behind our car when it was struck. It got knocked in to him. Just bumps and bruises—I think. He’s stretched out on the shoulder.” He nodded toward the side of the road.
“What were the shots I heard?”
“The suspect fired once wildly as he rammed through, then I returned a couple of rounds. But he was already past us by then. There are two units in pursuit, and I’ve just radioed-in the situation.”
“Get back on the horn and tell ‘em we’ve got an officer down inside the complex. Looks critical. Nine-one-one’s already been alerted.” Not allowing time for a response, he gunned the accelerator, ready to join the chase.
Radioing the Communication Control Center, Scallion asked to be patched-in to the patrol cars in pursuit ahead. Fortunately, the area still had not developed to the extent that heavy traffic was a major problem. He soon heard frantic voices coming from the officers in front of him indicating Kritz still had been able to sideswipe a few more vehicles. The desperate killer was in full flight; nothing would stand in his way.
He spoke into his radio, getting the attention of the others. “I think he’s trying to get to 290, then probably head back toward town.”
“Appears so,” one answered back. “We’re only about a quarter-mile from the on-ramp near Hockley. Christ! He just grazed a delivery truck. We’re hitting ninety—can barely keep up!”
“Have you called for the eye-in-the-sky?”
“Right. Chopper should be overhead soon.”
Harris County kept a small fleet of Robinson R44 choppers on call, mainly for traffic control, but also for help in situations like this. If they could lock-on to the fleeing vehicle from above, the chances of escape were lowered. Scallion then recalled the man had escaped the overhead birds before.
“I may have an idea where he’s heading,” Scallion said. It was only a hunch; there was no reason behind it. “His office is roughly halfway between the ramp and the 610 loop. He may try to exit and hole-up there.” He searched rapidly through his console for his notepad. Locating the address he’d written down weeks earlier, he broadcast it to the other cars.
Ten minutes later, he was still well behind the three vehicles ahead racing along Highway 290. Voices could be heard over the radio of others joining the chase; Harris County as well as HPD. Kritz had taken to the wide shoulders of the expressway, bullying his way past shocked motorists. His pursuers didn’t have that luxury; they had to moderate their speed, conscious of the danger to unsuspecting drivers.
Scallion was relieved when he heard someone announce the suspect was exiting the expressway, taking a path that would, in fact, lead to his office. He took little satisfaction in being right—it didn’t help in apprehending the lunatic. He was close enough to see the county chopper drifting overhead, evidently having drawn a bead on the fleeing truck. With undeniable feelings of excitement and foreboding, he knew for certain there would be a bloody end to the chase. Kritz was in no mood to go peacefully.
33
Luther Kritz observed a troubling scene as his office building came in view. The cops had somehow discovered his destination; they had the entrance to the parking lot blocked off. More marked cars lined the street; cops were standing by their cars, weapons drawn, forming a gauntlet. Their goal was obviously to stop him from entering the building, using force, if necessary.
“Screw’em. They can’t stop me,” he muttered. “No one can.” He raised a hand to wipe blood from his forehead dripping into his eyes, only to press a shard of glass further into his flesh. He bellowed in pain, then tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Starting a block away, he increased his speed even more, until he felt as if he were flying. Warning shots were fired. He ignored them. The heavy pickup became a pointed missile, aiming for a small gap between two cars parked dead center in front of the tower. Smashing through them, he split the two vehicles apart, causing severe damage to his already dented pickup. The noise of the collision was ear-splitting, but it didn’t phase him. He continued on, covering the fifty or so feet to the concrete steps leading to the front entrance, leaving the manicured lawn shredded in his wake. The truck bounced violently up the steps. He turned the extended cab sideways, finally coming to a stop only feet from the door. Using the body of the vehicle as a shield, he quickly jumped from the truck, then disappeared inside the building.
He took the stairwell to his office, not wanting to wait for the slow elevator. He could hear the sounds of voices behind him as the door to the stairs slammed shut; they were coming in after him. Ignoring the pain of his wounds, he quickly bounded up the steps, exiting onto his floor.
Trudy McDaniel sat with her eyes glued to the latest People magazine as her boss entered the office, his head a bloody mess. He had stormed out barely an hour earlier without a word, clearly upset by a phone call from the sales agent at Cypress Bridge Acres. Seeing him now, she was too shocked at first to speak.
“Mr. Kritz! Are you all right?” she managed to say. She started to rise, but her legs gave way, weakening at the sight of his bloody face.
Without answering, he lunged past her into his inner office. Rifling through his desk drawer, he extracted a box of shells; more ammo for his battle. Hurriedly turning the tumbler on the small safe hidden behind a book shelf, he threw the steel door open, grabbing a bag containing slightly more than eighty thousand dollars. It was money he’d rat holed; money he had thought about using to have the meddling idiot Kevin Brand taken care of. It was all he had, so his decision had been to handle things himself. Stuffing the money bag inside his shirt, he returned to the reception area, ready to fight his way out. He gave no thought to the overwhelming odds stacked against him, or the possibility he might not escape the building.
Scallion pulled to a stop in front of the office tower, nudging his car in between a cluster of official vehicles. Catching sight of the black pickup at the entrance, it was clear the action would be somewhere inside. Knowing the crazed man was armed, he popped the trunk, grabbed an Kevlar vest and velcroed it on. Entering the lobby of the building, he flashed his badge at a uniformed HPD officer standing guard at the door, then asked for an update.
“He’s on the second floor. I guess it’s his office.”
“Right, it is. How many guys you got up there?”
“Five in the hall outside his office. We’ve got the stairwell clogged up too.”
Scallion thought there was little chance the man would leave the building alive, given hi
s earlier actions. “He’s a suspect in a murder case I’m working. Okay if I go up?”
“Fine by me. You’d better take the elevator since the stairwell’s jammed. I’ll call the officer in charge up there so you won’t be a surprise.”
Cracking the door opening into the hall just enough to survey the scene, Kritz quickly slammed it shut. There were more than he had anticipated waiting for him. Retreating to his secretary’s desk, he wrapped a beefy hand around her neck, pulling her to her feet.
“Mr. Kritz?!” she tried to yell, her voice choked off by his grip. She was in shock, unable to grasp what was happening.
“Shut up!” he demanded. “Just do as you’re told.” Pushing her toward the door, securing her neck in the bend of his elbow, he told her to open the door. “Slowly.” he warned.
When she didn’t respond right away, he tightened his hold. “Open the fuckin’ door!” he bellowed into her ear.
With trembling hands, she turned the knob. Kritz shoved her through the opening, holding her body close to his.
“Step back!” he commanded to the lawmen, all aiming their weapons in his direction.
“Let the lady go.” The officer in charge countered. “There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”
“The only one who’ll get hurt is her if you don’t drop your guns and move away.” He put the gun next to her head. Her shock wearing off, she began to sob uncontrollably, tears rolling down her face and onto his arm.
Hesitating for a moment, sizing up the man’s demeanor, the officer made his decision. “Okay, men. Do as he says.” Placing his sidearm on the floor, he looked at the large man, towering over the helpless woman. “Just tell us what you want.”
“For starters, I know you’ve got men in the stairwell. Have ‘em clear out. I don’t want to see anybody in there, from top to bottom.”
The officer spoke into his radio, relaying the command to the men in the stairwell, explaining there was a hostage involved. Kritz then dragged the woman to just in front of the door leading to the stairwell. He leaned back, taking a look through a narrow opening as he nudged it open. He seemed satisfied, and was turning back when the elevator door suddenly opened.
Scallion emerged, with his gun drawn. Recognizing once more the man who had spoiled his dreams, Kritz’s eyes grew wider, practically bulging from their bloody sockets. Without hesitating, he aimed and fired a shot at the detective, striking him in the chest. The force of the round knocked Scallion onto his back, spread-eagle on the floor.
The secretary screamed; her eyes rolled back into her head. She then grew limp, fainting, her body now no more than a rag doll. The woman was now dead weight, sagging under Kritz’s grip. Kicking the door open, he shoved her body at the officers, then disappeared into the stairwell.
“The hostage is safe!” the officer in charge quickly radioed. “Man’s in the stairwell. Take him down!” He turned to check on the wounded detective, but saw him scrambling to his feet, dazed, but okay.
“Paid for itself today,” Scallion said, patting the vest. He could feel the sting from the round, but the shock of adrenaline was in charge. “Pete Scallion,” he identified himself quickly “Harris County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Sergeant Mike Faver,” the man replied in kind. “Houston P D Tactical Squad.” Faver was a solidly built man of medium height, with a neatly trimmed moustache, wearing dark glasses. His countenance indicated military training.
“Come on,” Scallion said, “ let’s don’t let the others have all the fun.”
“You got it,” Faver replied. He assigned one of his men to see to the woman, then motioned for the rest to follow.
Yielding to the man in charge, Scallion followed the HPD officer into the stairwell. Peering over the railing, they could see only uniformed men beginning to make their way up again. “He’s going up,” Faver announced.
Advancing up the stairway, two men peeled off at each floor, checking out the possibility the suspect might have sought refuge. Scallion didn’t bother following them in. Instincts told him the man would seek the highest level—the roof. Experience had taught him suspects on the run always reached for the loftiest position possible, an inborn survival technique, but one usually futile.
Faver seemed to share the same idea. He led Scallion and the other remaining cop up the stairs, discovering the door to the roof ajar. Fearing the man could be lying in wait, the sergeant held out his hand to keep the others back. He spoke in muted tones to the others.
“When I throw the door open, I’ll go out first. When I give the signal for you to come out, go low, and fast as you can. If I draw fire, try to locate the source.” He paused, looking at Scallion. “What’s this idiot’s name again?”
“Kritz. Luther Kritz.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Impressed by the man’s calm control of the situation, Scallion steeled himself, willing to accept the sergeant’s instructions. He felt soreness beginning to settle-in on his left rib cage where he had been hit. But he was ready.
The police sergeant kicked the door wide open, then waited. True enough, two rounds glanced off the metal surface. The officers all ducked against the wall. Pausing only a second, Faver lunged for the opening, dropping and rolling until he was able to find protection behind a metal shed housing the cooling system. He sat with his back to the side of the small building, looking back at the door, giving a wave for the other two to follow.
Scallion was next. Leaping onto the gravely surface of the roof, he copied the rolling motion of the sergeant, coming to rest next to him. They looked around to get their bearings. There were no other structures of any size to provide cover, only a few small turbines. That meant the suspect was hiding behind one of the two sides of the shed hidden from their view. It also meant there was a limited amount of shielding devices for the next man out. Faver managed to get the attention of the officer waiting in the wings of the roof door, waving him to stay back. The added body could be a liability.
Arriving on the roof, Kritz had rushed to the side of the building where he thought there was a fire-escape ladder positioned. There was. Taking a quick look over the edge, he cursed when he saw a crowd of police gathering on the ground, some pointing up. That path was closed to him. Retreating to the cooling tower, he sat leaning against a wall to take stock. He had plenty of ammo; he would wait, let them come after him and pick them off one-by-one. Hearing the sounds of his pursuers pushing the door to the roof open, he fired off a couple of shots in that direction, hoping to slow their approach. Resting his back against the side of the cooling shed, he counted up the shots he had taken—six, according to his tally. Time to reload the chambers. Fumbling with the box of shells, he found his vision blurred. The flow of blood had ceased; coagulation had set in. But his eyes felt like needles were penetrating their edges due to the glass particles. He was afraid to rub the painful wounds, for fear he would again drive the shards deeper.
A staccato sound suddenly loomed. He could see well enough to spot the chopper hovering, possibly near enough to have him in its sights. Then he heard a voice calling him out, one too easily recognizable, one he thought he had silenced only minutes earlier.
“Kritz! You have nowhere to go! Throw out your gun and put an end to it!”
How could the man still be alive? The hit was dead center. Then he realized it must’ve been body armor. Next time, he would aim for the face. “Why don’t you come and take my gun, Scallion? I’ll be glad to give it to you.”
“Luther.” It was another voice that answered. “Sergeant Faver: Houston Police Department, Tactical Squad. I think you should listen to the detective. You see that bird out there? We’ve got a marksman sittin’ side-saddle, his high-powered weapon drawing a bead on you with a telescopic lens, even as we speak. Look close enough, you might see him.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll just knock him outta the sky.”
“You can try. What do you have? A .38, maybe a .44? Your range might be good enough
to reach the edge of the roof, or maybe a few yards farther out. You’re more likely to hit some innocent bystander on the street, due to gravity. And if you try, I’ll radio the chopper. You’ll be dead before the bullet hits the ground.” Faver paused, letting the hopelessness of the man’s situation sink in for a moment. “So, whatta you say?”
“I say, go to hell! And Scallion. I got your worn-out partner, and I’ve got a round saved just for you.”
Scallion bristled at the man’s comment, but was helpless to do anything but accept it. The macho saber-rattling ceased, and an eerie silence settled in, along with a warm breeze brushing across the faces of the lawmen. The sun was beginning to peek through, breaking up the clouds that had been thinning out with the heat of the day. Allowing a few minutes to pass, Faver evidently decided it was time to make things happen. He motioned for the detective to proceed in one direction, while he tried the other. They would come at him from both directions. Pressing flat against the wall, they eased along the edges, ready to make their turns in unison.
In spite of his resolute reply to the lawman, the realization had finally struck Luther Kritz that he wasn’t going to make it. The truth enveloped him like a cold, heavy blanket. It just wasn’t fair; he had only done what was necessary. He thought back to that night ten years earlier, when things were just starting to fall into place for him. If only those women hadn’t seen him. One sorry dirt digger would never have been missed. But four women?
And for the longest time, even that hadn’t been a problem. But what had led to the emptying of the lake? How did they know to look there? Carlos! It had to be him! They had somehow found him—or did he find them? He had made a terrible mistake in sending him away; he should have killed him instead. It did little good now to think about things he should have done—his dream was over. But there was one satisfying thought he held on to firmly. Scallion, the man who had caused him such misery, and ruined his life, would never take him in. He couldn’t allow that to happen. The other lawman—the older one, was already disposed of—he was sure of it. But he could never face the humiliation of being paraded before the courts, proving to everyone that his domineering father had been right about him. It simply couldn’t be allowed. He continued loading the chambers, but he didn’t load them all.