by J W Becton
“Blissett’s working with the rope now,” Vincent said. “Drew off a good length of it. He’s got a knife.”
“God, I hate knives,” I muttered, instinctively checking my gun belt as I ran. With my M&P secure, I reminded myself of my training. Distance is my friend. Don’t get within arm’s reach. Use commands to disarm him.
“You know I’m suspended, right?” I reminded Vincent as Blissett’s house came into view.
“I know, but he’s up to something back there, and it doesn’t look good.”
I shook my head, hoping this wouldn’t turn ugly. The last thing I wanted to do was fire my weapon while suspended pending a felony investigation.
Just as that thought bubbled out of my mind, I realized that something worse could happen. And it did.
A news van appeared behind me.
“Crap,” I said, glancing at it over my shoulder. “The press found me.”
“Ignore them,” Vincent said, “and get over there. Blissett just used the knife to sever the rope. He dropped it near the base of the saw.”
I had Blissett’s house in sight, and when I cut across the street and onto the sidewalk, the news van stopped too. I did my best to ignore the reporter, a short brunette I recognized as Emily Something-or-other, and her cameraman.
I couldn’t see into the yard, but I needed to be close if I had to step in for some reason. We couldn’t enter his property of our own accord. We needed a reason to be there without a warrant. If he were about to hurt himself or someone else, I was obliged to try to stop him.
Even if I was currently suspended.
“What’s going on?” Emily asked, following me as I paced the sidewalk like a hungry lion.
“What the hell is he doing?” Vincent murmured into my ear.
“What?” I demanded of Vincent, straining to hear what was going on behind the fence. “What’s happening?”
“I just asked you the same question,” Emily said, louder this time. “This looks like an investigation. But aren’t you suspended?”
I whirled on her, and her eyes widened.
“Shut up! I’m trying to prevent….” I didn’t know what I was trying to prevent, but by God, I was going to stop it. “A disaster here.”
“I think he’s tying the rope to the saw table,” Vincent said. “Hard to tell even with the binoculars.”
“What?” I repeated, turning back to the fence and away from the reporter. “Why would he do that?”
“He’s psyching himself up again,” Vincent said, his words coming fast. “Pacing. Running his hands through his hair.”
Then there was a long pause, and when Vincent spoke again, his voice came in a sharp bark. “Get in there!” he ordered. “Blissett’s tying himself to the saw.”
“What?” I asked for what seemed like the hundredth time, already sprinting toward Blissett’s fence.
I had just reached the massive privacy gate when I heard the saw whir to life.
At the same moment, Vincent shouted, “Holy shit! Get in there now! I’m behind you.”
Then the line went dead. The shrill sound of the saw stopped, and the street fell silent except for the reporter’s voice behind me.
“What’s going on? Where do you think you’re going? That’s private property!”
I jammed my phone in my pocket and threw myself toward the gate. I grasped for the handle and pushed the thumb latch. It clicked, but the gate didn’t budge. The saw screeched to life again, but this time I heard Blissett begin to scream.
“Oh, my gosh!” Emily said. “What’s going on in there?”
I ignored her, and out of desperation, stupidity, or a little of both, I rammed my shoulder into the locked gate.
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t move.
I remembered hearing Blissett throw some kind of bolt latch the other night. Quickly, I looked toward the top of the ten-foot gate. No way would I be able to reach that high.
The screams grew louder, and the saw bogged down as if it had initiated a cut in an unyielding surface.
Crap! I didn’t have time.
I had to get in there.
I checked around for something, a ladder, a chair, anything I could use to get me over that fence. What I wouldn’t give for Sydney’s stepladder!
A large planter made of what looked like cement seemed to be my only option. I lunged for it, yanking as hard as I could to tip it over.
“Help me turn this over!” I shouted to Emily, who did as I commanded, dropping to her knees in her little reporter’s skirt.
Fortunately, the planter was much lighter than I expected, and we managed to upend it, giving me a two-foot-tall pedestal to use.
I balanced on top of it and leapt for the fence. Grasping the top edge as hard as I could, I used my legs to propel myself upward, pushing off the rough wooden surface. Climbing was not my forte, but the sticky soles of my boots managed to get traction on the fence. I hefted my upper body over the top and froze at the sight before me.
“Keep the camera rolling! Use the pedestal!” Emily said to the cameraman.
I was so focused on the horror before me that I barely registered her words.
Blissett’s hand was tied to the saw table, his wrist positioned just beneath the fast-moving blade. The saw screamed through the cool air, and the man’s eyes looked wild, like those of a psychopath hopped up on meth.
Blood spurted, and his screams intensified.
Momentarily shocked into stillness, I stared at the scene, unsure if I could trust my own eyes.
Then, without further thought, I threw myself forward, falling hard onto the grass below and my phone dropping from my pocket in the process. Panting, I tried to shout at Blissett, but he couldn’t hear me over the saw and the sound of his own screams.
I was too late.
God, what could I do?
I ran toward Blissett as my mind searched wildly for the right course of action to disentangle a man from a saw. My training classes hadn’t covered this particular scenario.
If I tackled him, which was my first inclination, we could end up in a worse mess. His wrist was tied to the table of a running saw, and with all our limbs flailing around…I didn’t want to think of what might happen.
So I did the next thing that came to mind. I altered my direction slightly, aiming for the bright yellow extension cord. I dove, making sure to avoid the table legs, and grabbed for the place where I thought the saw cord merged with the extension.
I missed.
More blood spurted, and the sounds…. God….
My knees dug into Blissett’s plush grass, and I started grabbing frantically for the cord again. My clumsy fingers fumbled along it until I finally saw the connection point where the cord from the saw met the extension.
Gripping both sides, I yanked them apart.
The saw fell silent, but Blissett’s screams did not stop.
For a split second, I remained on my hands and knees at his feet, breathing hard and riveted by the pain in his wild eyes.
Blissett stared blankly forward, still screaming. He probably didn’t even realize I was there.
Then, everything crystallized around me. This man needed help fast.
I lurched to my feet and grabbed him around the waist, doing my best to support his weight as I eased the saw’s control arm from his fingers.
“It’s okay, Randy,” I said, panting heavily. “I’ve got you. Just let go of the saw.”
One by one, his fingers released the handle, and very slowly, I let the saw blade lift to its upright position. Bone scratched against the metal blade as it moved, and I gagged.
Before I could take another action, an enormous crash sounded, and Vincent appeared, the gate giving way beneath the force of his mass. The two reporters appeared in the gap in the fence, cameras trained on the gruesome scene.
Vincent sprinted toward us, assessing the situation en route. Immediately, he took Blissett from me.
“The rope. Cut the rope.” Vincent thrust hi
s head toward the base of the saw. “Knife. Over there.”
Desperate, I searched the ground, my fingers sweeping through the blood-tinged grass. Finally, I found where Blissett had dropped the knife and used it to slice the rope that held his partially severed hand to the saw. Carefully, Vincent lowered him to the ground.
I couldn’t remember where my phone was, so I turned to the reporter. “Don’t just stand there,” I shouted at the woman who gaped at me. “Call an ambulance!”
“Yes, yes,” the woman said, fumbling for her phone. “I’ll do that.”
Blissett lay on the ground, shaking. Vincent had used the knife to cut away Randy’s long sleeve, exposing the wound. Raw, ragged skin exposed bone and bloody muscle.
I lowered myself to the ground next to Blissett’s head.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “The ambulance is coming. We’ll get you to the hospital.”
“No!” Blissett rasped. “No! Don’t take me!”
Vincent ignored Blissett’s ranting. He murmured to himself as he quickly assessed the wound, reaching for the abandoned coil of rope. “There’s no way pressure alone will stop this.”
“I—I…,” Blissett croaked.
“Quiet,” Vincent ordered him before turning to me. “I need something I can use for leverage: a stick, a tool, something sturdy.”
I dashed inside Blissett’s garage, located his toolbox, and pulled out the first sizable implement I saw: an enormous flathead screwdriver. By the time I returned with it, Vincent had already tied a section of rope two inches above Randy’s wrist. Despite the added pressure, bright red blood pumped from the open wound, puddling in the grass.
“Here.” I put the screwdriver in front of Vincent, and he reached for it without looking away from his patient.
“Blankets,” he said to me as he placed the screwdriver on top of the knotted rope and quickly tied another full knot, his fingers sure and steady. He began to twist the screwdriver clockwise, tightening the tourniquet.
I nodded and then dashed into Blissett’s house, grabbing a blanket I saw on the sofa and darting into the nearby kitchen for some towels just in case.
When I got back this time, Blissett’s arm was oozing black, thick-looking blood. Vincent held the screwdriver in place and watched as the flow finally slowed.
“Cut off a section of that rope and help me tie off the screwdriver.”
I did as he said, and soon Vincent was able to release his hold while the tourniquet remained tight.
I laid a hand across Blissett’s forehead and found it cool and clammy. His breath came rapidly through blue lips. I didn’t know much about battlefield first aid, but I knew shock when I saw it.
I covered Blissett with the blanket and used the towels as a pillow. As I lifted his head to slide the towels beneath, he tried to focus his eyes on me and attempted to speak again.
“It—It….”
“Shhh,” I said, using one hand to cradle his head and the other to stroke his forehead. “Just relax. The paramedics will be here soon.”
“I can’t leave,” he said, his eyes huge and fearful.
“You have to go to the hospital,” I said. “They’ll take good care of you.”
“No, no!” Blissett shook his head. I had to use both hands to try to keep his neck still.
Confused, I glanced at Vincent.
What did the man have to fear at a hospital? Hadn’t he just essentially performed surgery on himself? Surely, he wasn’t afraid of blood and pain.
Blissett began to thrash wildly, and Vincent laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of his good arm. Though pain blossomed in Blissett’s eyes, he continued to struggle until he finally went limp, passing out as we held him.
I gently lowered his head to the makeshift pillow and then leaned back in the blood-spattered grass, feeling a demented kinship with the unconscious man. Sure, Blissett was crazy, but on a base level, I knew how he felt. He had gotten himself too deep into some mess, and he was desperate to find a way out.
He was willing to do whatever it took.
Twenty-nine
What seemed like hours later, but was actually probably only a minute or two, an ambulance screamed down the block, and paramedics rushed toward us. An MPD cruiser arrived soon after.
I relinquished my place beside Blissett and went to speak with Tolt and Jones, two officers I knew fairly well from my time on the force. They both looked as if they had gone on crash diets since last I’d seen them. Considerably slimmer bodies had replaced their stereotypical, pastry-induced police physiques.
Their first order of business was to shield the scene from the reporters, closing the gate firmly behind the ambulance and threatening the cameraman with a peeping tom charge if he tried to film over the fence again.
“Well,” Tolt said, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt and rocking back on his heels to look over the bizarre scene before him. “I would say that this is an unusual sight, but given the fact that you’re here, Jackson, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”
He gave me a wide smile, and if I’d had any energy left, I would have returned it. At best, I managed a small grin.
Jones gave me a heavy pat on the shoulder and nearly knocked me over.
“We heard about your trouble,” he said, still gripping my shoulder. “Just wanted you to know that we think you’re getting a raw deal. We know you didn’t frame nobody.”
Beside him, Tolt nodded. “Anything we can do,” he said. “You know where to find us.”
My throat tightened a bit at their show of support. Since I’d been laid off from the MPD, we’d only crossed paths occasionally, like when I needed someone to sweep my place for crazed gunmen or I’d been involved in a car chase around Mercer. You know, the usual stuff.
I gave them a quick nod, grateful beyond what I was capable of expressing at the moment.
“So,” Tolt prompted. “Tell us what happened here.”
I explained while the paramedics continued to work at stabilizing Blissett. Since no crime had been committed, when the ambulance departed with Blissett, the MPD cruiser followed suit. The patient was not technically in DOI custody. After all, we had not proven definitively that he had been faking his back injuries, and his decision to cut off his own hand wasn’t a crime unless he attempted to claim insurance money from it.
Given Blissett’s mental state, I couldn’t be sure what his intentions were.
No matter what, it was clear that he needed to be supervised until he could see a psychiatrist. The paramedics assured us that he would receive the physical and psychiatric care he required.
Still recovering from the adrenaline, Vincent and I collapsed on Blissett’s back steps and sat for long moments. Both of us were covered in spatters of now-dry blood, and a crust had formed on the saw blade. Around us, blood stained the tips of the blades of grass.
Maybe it was because I was so tired, or perhaps I was becoming immune to gore, but I felt almost emotionless as I looked out at the carnage. My limbs felt heavy, and my arms rested limply on my lap.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, nodding at the saw. “None of this makes any sense.”
Vincent turned his head, regarding me quietly.
“Blissett probably thought he could make this look like an accident. Maybe he believed he could collect what he needed to replace the workers’ comp money he thought he lost. What a waste.”
“I guess I get that,” I said, shaking my head. “But I really don’t understand why he would go to such extreme lengths. Did he really view dismemberment as a better option than going back to work?”
“Maybe to him the situation felt dire. He does face fines and jail time.” Vincent paused as if to consider his own words. “Perhaps he viewed cutting off his own hand as a last resort. I’ve heard stories of hikers and mountain climbers who severed their own limbs after being trapped under rocks or fallen trees.”
I’d heard such stories too, but those were tales of survival, of life and de
ath. Blissett’s circumstances were completely different. Weren’t they?
“Maybe he has legitimate psychological issues,” Vincent suggested.
“Seems like it,” I said. “Here’s hoping the hospital shrink can help him.”
To my mind, only psychological issues could explain Blissett’s drastic actions. Thinking back on the man’s history, I figured that explanation might actually make sense. Traumas often serve as catalysts for mental deterioration, and Blissett had certainly suffered his share of them.
His on-the-job injury heralded what appeared to be total upheaval. After his surgery, he experienced chronic pain. At least at first. While he was still recovering, his wife had divorced him and taken his son out of state.
That’s when he began sequestering himself, removing himself from the world so gradually that no one really noticed that the process had begun. Early investigators reported following him through local retail stores, but in recent years, he’d begun having his food and supplies delivered. Now, he very rarely left his home.
“Maybe voluntarily maiming oneself is a symptom,” I suggested. “Maybe he is truly mentally ill.”
Vincent shrugged. “Could be. It’ll be interesting to hear what the shrink says.”
“Maybe Blissett’s not a dangerous criminal,” I said, feeling sad for the man. “Maybe he’s just a guy who really needs help.”
We closed Blissett’s gate and discovered reporter Emily and her cameraman waiting for us.
I narrowed my eyes when the cameraman raised his lens.
“Haven’t you gotten enough footage for today?” I asked.
Emily looked sheepish and said, “It’s okay, Jimmy. We’ll do this off the record.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And I appreciate the help with the flowerpot. You helped save a man’s life.”
Emily nodded, appearing more hesitant than a news anchor ought to be.
“Is that what you do for your job?” she asked. “Leap fences and save people? Get covered in blood?”
“Not all the time,” I said.
From beside me, Vincent added, “But more often than you’d think.”