Heartshot

by Steven F Havill

  “All those things,” I replied. “He even seemed relieved to be going home, relieved that it was over.”

  “But apparently it wasn’t,” Holman said.

  I looked at Estelle Reyes. “None of the five kids saw Fernandez before he started running across the grass toward Hewitt?”

  “No, sir. They said that there were several people out all around the park. Apparently the late hour didn’t brother anyone. Certainly not the kids. They said they were getting nervous, though, that the village police might drive by. But they said Hewitt laughed and told them he’d fixed that up good. Something about cross-eyed headlights.”

  “He did that, as a matter of fact.”

  Holman asked, “Did Hewitt make a buy from any of the kids?”

  Estelle Reyes shook her head. “Apparently not. We’ll have to ask him, to be sure. But those kids were scared enough about the whole thing that I think they would have told me. I get the impression they thought he was some kind of big-city freak. He made them nervous.”

  “He enjoyed playing the undercover role to the hilt,” I said. “Maybe too much so. He had nowhere near enough experience. We should have realized that. I should have monitored what he was doing much more closely.”

  Holman slapped the arm of his chair lightly. “This is no time for self-flagellation, Bill. Sure, maybe he was inexperienced. Maybe you should have confiscated Fernandez’s gun. But that’s all wonderful twenty-twenty hindsight. What we need to know is what triggered Fernandez. When he left you, he was mellowed out and homebound. What, about an hour later? About that? You had time to go out to the airport for a while. An hour later, he dashes into a park, charges into a gang of kids, and blows one of them away. We have to know exactly why.”

  “There’s only one person who saw Fernandez before he ran into the park, and that’s Art Hewitt,” I said. “He was able to tell me that he saw a person he thought was Fernandez talking to someone on the sidewalk on the east side of the park. Now, Doc Sprague lives over there, in those new apartments, and he says that he heard the shots. But there was no reason for the doc to be looking out beforehand. He says he didn’t see anyone.”

  Holman looked up at Estelle Reyes, and he put his fingers against his lips, deep in thought. We waited, and finally the sheriff said, “But there’s no reason for Hewitt to make something like that up. So what do you plan to do?”

  Even though the question wasn’t addressed to me, I was ready to answer, but Estelle put her small notebook back in her pocket and said, “Until we know exactly what happened, we keep digging. There are a lot of people who live around that park. We’ll talk to all of them. And somebody might come to us.” She turned at the sound of footsteps coming up the polished hallway behind her. Dr. Alan Perrone’s gown was blood-spattered, but he was obviously too tired to care. With him was Eva Young, a middle-aged surgical nurse who would manage to look stylish and groomed in the middle of a volcanic eruption.

  She nodded at us and headed off toward the nurses’ station.

  “We’re transferring Mr. Hewitt to Albuquerque,” Dr. Perrone said. He held a manila envelope in one hand, and motioned down the hall with it. “Come on into the office for a minute.”

  The three of us obediently followed, and he closed the door behind us.

  “How’s he going to do?” Holman asked, and Perrone pulled out the X ray and snapped it into the wall light.

  “We’ve got some real problems,” Perrone said, facing the X ray. “But to give it to you in a nutshell.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and used it as a pointer. “You can easily see the largest fragment in situ way over here, right behind the heart.”

  “Christ,” Holman muttered.

  “The point of entry was over here, exactly under the last rib on the right side. There was minimal damage to the ascending colon, but considerable to the right kidney. About this point, the bullet began to shatter.” He shot a quick glance at Holman, frowned and turned back to the X ray. “Considerable damage to this lobe of the liver. Then tearing of the central tendon here. The diaphragm.” His index finger traced a diagonal, upward path. “Most worrisome, of course, is the cardiac damage. This is the bullet’s center core and part of the brass jacket. It shows up very plainly. We’ve managed to achieve some stability with the patient, but arrangements have already been made to fly him to Albuquerque. They have far more advanced facilities there, and in addition”—Perrone raised an eyebrow—”they have Dennis Chatman. He’s the best cardiac surgeon I’ve met. Luck was with us because he was in Las Cruces, and he agreed to meet the air ambulance and ride over. That way, he can be with the patient en route.”

  “Odds?” Holman asked.

  Perrone shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine how a single pistol bullet could have been fired to inflict more damage. But the prompt emergency assistance certainly helped. We were able to stabilize the patient, and he seems to be responding well. He lost an incredible amount of blood, as you can imagine, but by good fortune, our blood bank has an adequate supply of his type.” He made a wry face. “Or at least it did.” He put the pen away and slid the X rays back into the envelope. “One of the Medivacs is in Las Cruces, by good fortune. I imagine it will be here before we have Officer Hewitt transported to the airport. Sheriff Holman, I can’t give you odds. I am optimistic. We have a few things in our favor.”

  “A few.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is there any chance that we’ll be able to talk to him?”

  “That’s very unlikely. He’s just been through almost six hours of surgery. He won’t even be out from under the anesthetic for some time. On the flight north, he’ll…well, you don’t need to know all that, but I can appreciate your concern. I’m also aware of the investigation and the delicacy, no doubt, that is warranted by that. If one of you needs to ride in the airplane, by all means do so. I would suggest to you that they probably have room for only one of you.”

  “Bill?” Holman asked, and I nodded.

  “You’ll need to be out at the airport now,” Perrone said, glancing at his watch. “Although the patient hasn’t yet left the hospital, it will only be a couple of minutes. They won’t wait for you, believe me.” He nodded at us and left abruptly.

  “Let’s move,” I said.

  Estelle Reyes paced me out of the building and in the parking lot handed me a small tape recorder. “You might need it if he comes around for a minute or so. We want to know who was standing with Fernandez before the shots were fired.”

  “I know what the hell we need, Estelle,” I snapped and climbed into 310.

  “Sorry, sir,” Estelle said quietly.

  I slammed the door and buzzed down the window, already sorry I’d barked at her. “Have someone come out to the airport and pick up three-ten so it doesn’t get a stone through the windshield,” I said. I tried a smile, but it didn’t work.

  “You want me to make arrangements for your trip back?”

  “No, I don’t know when or how that’ll be.” I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the ambulance lining up at the hospital’s emergency doorway. At the same time, we could hear the synchronized moan of the air ambulance’s engines as it circled over the mesa and turned toward Posadas County Airport. Such goddamned good timing, I thought. The plane would arrive exactly on time, and would still have its engines idling for a quick transfer. Why was it, I thought, that timing, or fate, or whatever you chose to call it, couldn’t work in our favor beforehand? Why couldn’t Art Hewitt’s frantic roll on the ground to dodge the bullet have been better timed, or Benny Fernandez’s gun hand been less lucky?

  “Just don’t miss anything, Estelle. Don’t overlook a goddamned thing,” I said, and then the ambulance began to move. The detective stepped away from the car, and I pulled out onto the street, lights and siren in concert.

  Chapter 11

  The transfer was flawlessly executed. The ambulance pulled up alongside the airplane as I was trotting across from the patrol car. It took a moment of carefu
l jogging and shifting of the gurney, and then patient, medical staff, and paraphernalia were aboard. The ambulance pulled away promptly. I recognized everyone except a rail-thin nurse and a man who was almost tiny in stature. There was no time for introductions, but I guessed, correctly, it turned out, that the diminutive man was Dr. Chatman. Even as the door locks were thudding into place, the boarding-side engine came back to life.

  One of the aircraft officers recited instructions to us about buckle-up, and I noticed that the crew up front was performing whatever checks were needed while the aircraft rolled down the long taxiway. From where I sat, I could turn and see only the right side of Hewitt’s face and neck, down to the white sheet. Tubes and plastic packets of drip joggled and vibrated. Three people were obviously planning to spend their every moment tending and monitoring, and I shifted a little, trying to relax for the takeoff. I must have looked even less assured than I felt, because a hand patted my shoulder and one of the flight officers smiled reassuringly.

  “He’ll be fine, Sheriff. We’ll really be hoofin’ it, so it’s only an hour and a half flying time to Albuquerque. And the weatherman promises smooth skies. So relax, huh? He’ll be fine.”

  For a good hour, I believed him. And then things fell apart. The first sign was a slight stirring from Hewitt. He hadn’t regained consciousness, but one leg flexed slightly and his head turned to the left. The emergency crew went to work, and I had sense enough to stay out of the way. I had to watch, though. I tried to will their efforts to success. At one point, the EMT officer who accompanied the aircraft slid forward past me.

  To the pilot, he said clearly and loudly, “Straight in, Tom. We got a cardiac arrest.”

  We were in a gradual descent, and by the high pitch of the engines, it was apparent that the flight crew was taking every advantage of power and gravity, booting that airplane through the sky for all it was worth. In back, I saw those awful electric paddles that come out as a last resort in all the movies and jolt the patient back to life. Chatman vetoed their use this time, though, with a quick shake of the head. At the same time that I saw the doctor plunge an enormous hypodermic into Art Hewitt’s chest, I heard the pilot, just a couple of feet behind my head, say, “Albuquerque approach, Air Ambulance Niner-one-niner is forty south, request change to priority straight on three.”

  “Double Alpha niner-one-niner, plan straight in on three. Are you declaring a medical emergency?” The voice of the controller was as calm as ice.

  “Niner-one-niner, affirmative.”

  “And niner-one-niner, where do you want the ambulance? He’s parked by the Aero Club now.”

  “Albuquerque, have him right at the intersection with eight. Can you do that? It’ll save us taxi time.”

  “Roger, niner-one-niner. We will hold traffic commencing in five minutes until you’re down.”

  “Roger, Albuquerque. Thanks for the expedite.”

  “Niner-one-niner, you’re cleared straight in. Report twenty south and then proceed at your discretion. Tower has you.”

  I have no idea how fast that Piper Navajo was traveling on the final approach, but any lineup with the runway was done at a dead run. Working at his own dead run was the doctor in back. He had given up the needles and my stomach tightened and churned as I saw him shifting position, face intent and scalpel in hand. With a single, decisive slash, the doctor cut into Art Hewitt’s rib cage. Blood welled up along the eight-inch incision that started just below the left nipple and curved down his side in line with the ribs. The EMT was at Hewitt’s head, working the masks and tubes there, and faintly, over the steady bellow of the plane’s engines, I could hear the click and hiss of the medical machinery. The nurse was hovering beside the physician, and the doctor, sweat now running down his cheeks, had his hand inside Art Hewitt’s chest, rhythmically massaging the young man’s crippled heart. I think, at that point, that the only person breathing in the airplane was Art Hewitt, and that was only by dint of mechanical assistance.

  Suddenly the doctor’s face cracked in a grin. “All right!” he cried jubilantly, sounding like a high school football coach after a touchdown. As if in answer, the engines dropped in RPM. I closed my eyes and rested the back of my head against the bulkhead. Alan Perrone had said something about the Albuquerque surgeon’s being the best he’d seen. I wondered how often Dennis Chatman had done cardiac surgery in a plunging aircraft.

  The flight officer squirmed forward and then back. “Touchdown in about a minute,” he told the doctor, and the crew made only brief preparations. Everything was already as tied down as it could be. The EMT at Hewitt’s head stayed close and put both hands on the patient’s shoulders. The doctor ignored them all. His patient’s heart was beating. It wouldn’t have mattered to Chatman if they had been in a balloon floating over the Eiffel Tower. He was working to field-dress the incision and was lost in his own world. I heard the engine beat decrease, and seconds later, the transition from air to pavement came as only the slightest jar.

  I found out later that runway 3, from the initial touchdown point to the intersection with runway 8, where the ambulance sat waiting, was almost eight thousand feet long. Our pilot used it all. Slow taxi was not in his book. He let the Navajo roll under considerable power. I opened my eyes and saw the big intersection of two other runways flash past. We must have been humping along at close to seventy miles an hour. Finally the nose dipped and we braked, not violently but insistently. Before the aircraft was stopped, the flight officer had the door unlatched. I looked out as we rolled up toward the ambulance and saw that the aircraft engine on that side was already windmilling to a stop.

  “Let’s move it,” the doctor snapped, and in seconds the transfer was made. If I had taken time to blink I would have been left behind. I did see the Gallup police car, and the two men in it. I assumed one of them was Chief White. I could have ridden down with them, but I stuck with the ambulance. The explanations could come later.

  It wasn’t many minutes to the downtown hospital, but the nurse found thirty seconds to offer me a handful of facial tissues. I mopped the sweat that ran freely on my face.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “The hell with me. How’s he going to be?”

  The nurse nodded and smiled slightly.

  “I thought we’d lost him back there for a minute,” I said.

  She pursed her lips and looked as if she was going to scold me. “Dr. Chatman does not allow that to happen on his airplane,” she said.

  “Damn right,” Chatman said without hesitation.

  I suppose the logistics of what they had done was simple for them, but all I could do was sit there and wad Kleenex. Punk, I thought, you’re on a roll. Keep those numbers clicking.

  Once inside the hospital, all I could do, along with Chief White and Detective Stan Buchanan of Gallup, was sit, talk, and wait.

  Chapter 12

  The nurse sneezed discreetly, but it was enough to jar me awake.

  “You look like you could use about forty-eight hours straight,” Dr. Harlan Sprague, Jr., said quietly. He was sitting nearby, a slender briefcase leaning against the chair leg. He let the journal he was reading fall closed, but kept the place with his thumb.

  I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself upright in the chair. “Must have dozed off.” I looked at my watch. Two hours of dozing. “When did you come up?”

  “About an hour ago. I flew in.” He fully closed the journal and put it in the briefcase. “Your two compadres left?”

  “They had some kind of problem they got called on. Someone else from Gallup was supposed to be here by now.”

  Sprague nodded. “I’ve got a two-day conference that promises two days of boredom. Had I known you were going to make the trip, I would have offered you a ride in my plane. More comfortable, I suspect, than the air ambulance.”

  “It wasn’t too bad. I appreciate the thought, though. About all we’ve been doing is waiting. Hurry up and wait.”

  “I can imagine,” Sprague sai
d gently. “Anyhow, I saw you here and thought you probably wouldn’t be asleep too long.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “I have about an hour, if there’s anything else you need. I’m impressed, by the way, with how thorough your Detective Reyes was, however.”

  “We appreciate your cooperation,” I said, trying to marshal my thoughts. What I wanted was a chance to clean up. I was still in uniform and acutely aware of how scruffy I must have looked.

  “I wish I could be of more help,” Sprague continued quietly. “Apparently the young officer saw Mr. Fernandez with someone just before the incident. On the sidewalk near the town houses.” He shook his head ruefully. “Had I only looked outside. But, at that hour…” He shrugged.

  “I never had much of a chance to talk with Hewitt,” I said. “We’re anxious to do that.”

  “How long has he been in surgery now?”

  I looked long and hard at my watch, numbed by the passage of time. “God. Would you believe almost six hours?”

  Sprague grimaced. “And almost that long down in Posadas?” I nodded. “Well,” the doctor said, “if they finish up right now, it’ll still be a number of hours before there’s any chance of coherent consciousness. I would guess that it’s wishful thinking to expect anything before late this evening. Better tomorrow, even.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said. Hell, it was getting to be a habit, waiting. Easier that than anything else. No news was good news, goes the clichÉ. Sprague nodded in sympathy and glanced at the tape recorder that I had with me.

  “Why don’t I go find out what’s happening for you?” he asked. “I suspect I’ll have an easier time of it than you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Harlan Sprague was gone for perhaps twenty minutes, and when he returned he smiled some reassurance. “You can relax a little. The officer has been out of surgery for nearly twenty minutes. I’m sure they would have told you, but there’s been no opportunity. Apparently a messy traffic accident. Anyway, the officer is in ICU recovery. The nurse there says it will be at least six hours before they’ll even think of letting you in the room.”