by David Grace
“Do you mean Captain Tanner?” Cheng asked, and Virgil saw the answer in the droop of Cheng’s eyes and the pained gap between his lips. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Captain Tanner did not survive. For what it’s worth, she didn’t suffer. She was struck by a piece of debris and died instantly. I’m sorry.” Virgil closed his eyes, and Cheng waited until he opened them again. The doctor paused then glanced uneasily behind him as if concerned that someone might overhear.
“There is one more thing you need to know, Detective. I could give you an inventory of the chemicals commonly used to cook methamphetamine, but in addition to them are the byproducts produced by burning them. Undoubtedly, you absorbed all kinds of substances through your skin and your lungs before you got out of that building. We have no way of knowing what, if any, effect they will have on you.
“It’s extremely important that you let us know if you experience anything unusual – headaches, internal pain in areas other than your chest, sores, changes in your urine or stools, blackouts, loss of memory, auditory or visual hallucinations, loss of hair, sensitivity to light or odors, essentially any physical or mental conditions that are out of the ordinary. That’s not necessarily a serious problem. I would expect all kinds of short-term aches, pains, and ailments after what you’ve been through, but we need to keep on top of them so that we can separate the ordinary and expected from anything that we may need to deal with.”
Virgil opened his mouth, but the doctor held up a hand.
“I’m not saying you will have serious or long-lasting complications. As I said, I’m hopeful that you’ll make a full recovery, but it would be reckless not to be on the lookout for any conditions that we might need to monitor or treat.” Cheng studied Virgil’s face. Did he understand? Was he terrified? After a moment, Cheng forced a professional smile and moved on.
“So, I want you to try to get some rest. I’m going to give you something that will help you sleep and depress your cough reflex. I’ll see you again in the morning, and then we’ll get you back on solid food. If everything goes well we should be able to discharge you by tomorrow afternoon. I don’t want you talking any more than you have to between now and then, but if you have a short question I’ll try to answer it.”
Do I have a short question? Do they have any leads on the guy who set off the explosion? Have they found Chain Boy? When is Janet’s funeral? What kinds of complications are they really worried about? Virgil closed his eyes and repeated in his head the things the doctor had warned him to look out for.
“My lungs,” Virgil whispered. “How bad?”
“We’ve got you on a prophylactic course of antibiotics to forestall any infection, but all our tests have come back negative for any serious structural damage. The big concern is always pneumonia, but so far we’ve seen no signs of that. Again, right now I think the chances for full healing are good. Anything else?”
Anything else? What else had the doctor warned him about?
“Mental problems? Hallucinations? Memory loss?” Quinn asked in a whisper.
“Some of the chemicals you inhaled have known psychotropic properties and hallucinations have been reported in some patients who were involved in drug lab . . . events. It’s just a possibility,” Cheng said in a rush when he saw the concern on Virgil’s face.
“If you did, I mean if it did happen, it would likely only be a short-term problem. I just mention it so that it doesn’t freak you out. It would just be something we would monitor, and I would expect it to resolve on its own as your body purges itself of the chemicals.” Cheng patted Quinn on the shoulder and took a step back. “I want you to get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. The nurse will be back in a moment to give you something that will help you get a good night’s sleep.”
Cheng turned and gave the nurse in the corridor a little wave. Before Quinn could ask them to call the squad she was already at the bed, jamming a needle into his IV port. A moment later he felt the room cloud up and drift away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Only five calendar days had passed since the last time Virgil had been in the squad room, but it felt as if it had been weeks. Virgil saw a man inside Janet’s office, hunched over a pile of paperwork, scribbling as if his life depended on it. The rest of the team were at their desks grinding their way through phone records, interview transcripts, tips calls and the like with an almost palpable air of defeat. It felt like the atmosphere on a factory floor the day before a promised strike.
Stan Kudlacik was the first one to notice Virgil standing quietly at the back of the room. The big man pushed away from his desk and approached Quinn as if confused about what he should say. The rest of the detectives hung back, depending on Kudlacik to ask the awkward questions they were all thinking.
“Virgil, how are you?” Stan asked in a voice appropriate to a question whispered in the back of a church.
“I’m OK.” Quinn took Kudlacik’s outstretched hand. “A little shaky but the docs say I should be ready for duty in a few days.” Virgil involuntarily glanced at the man working at Janet’s desk.
“His name’s Parker,” Kudlacik said, catching Virgil’s look. “Rogers sent him over from Major Crimes to take temporary command. He’s a paper-pushing hump,” Stan whispered, leaning close. “All he cares about is that the 91s are filled out right and that nobody puts in for overtime unless he approves it in advance. . . . So, will you be coming back when medical signs off on you or . . . ?” Kudlacik let his words trail away.
“Hell yes,” Virgil said more loudly than he’d intended. “Any leads on the guy who set us up?”
Kudlacik frowned and shook his head. “Major Crimes is running the case on what happened to you two,” Stan said. “They’re working with Narcotics on who might have been running the meth lab. So far they’ve got a few names but nothing concrete.”
“‘What happened to us’?” Virgil snapped. “They murdered a police officer. We were set up, probably because we were getting too close to the Mad Dog crew.” Quinn’s voice slowly rose in volume, and a couple of heads turned toward them. Kudlacik waved them off and eased Virgil over to the corner.
“The department is spinning it that you two were injured while investigating a reported drug lab instead of that you were attacked and the Captain was killed by person or persons unknown.”
“We–”
“I believe you,” Stan said, making a shusshing motion with his hand. “I’m just telling you how the PR slugs are playing it.” Virgil scowled and counted to three, then gave Stan a nod.
“OK, understood. Did we get anything more on Paulie Sturdevant’s associates?”
“We’re zeroing in on Latwan Monroe. He’s our prime candidate for ‘Johnny Chains.’ We’ve run down some of his girlfriends and a few of the places he used to hang. Nothing yet but guys like that don’t just disappear. If we get him, he may lead us to the rest of them. Carl’s been running down his old cell mates and the guys who he’s been busted with. We’ll get him, sooner or later. He’s no rocket scientist.”
Kudlacik caught a change in Virgil’s eyes and turned to see the new lieutenant getting up from behind his desk.
“Looks like I’m about to get 86ed out of here,” Virgil said as Parker stared at them through his glass door. “You’ve still got my cell number, right?”
“Sure. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
Virgil watched Parker working his way between the steel desks, never taking his eyes off them.
“I’ve got to move my stuff out of the hotel and into one of the furnished apartments the city picked out for me. Can you come over after work and give me a hand?”
“Sure. I’ll call your cell at the end of shift,” Stan said in a low voice then turned to face their new boss.
“Virgil Quinn?” Parker asked, giving Virgil a quick scan head to foot.
“That’s me.” Virgil stuck out his hand. Parker shook it, reluctantly it seemed, then quickly let it go.
“Lieutenant Mel Par
ker. I’ll be running the squad until command appoints a permanent replacement for Captain Tanner. You’re out on medical leave until the doctors sign off on your paperwork.” Parker said it all in a tone that was more an order than a statement.
“It should only be a few days.” Virgil forced a tight smile. Parker didn’t smile back.
“It’ll be as long as the doctors say it has to be. Cops who aren’t functioning at one-hundred percent are a danger to themselves and to those around them. I don’t want anyone working this case who isn’t medically fit.” Coming from Parker it sounded like an accusation, as if it was some weakness on Quinn’s part that had gotten Janet Tanner killed.
“Understood,” Quinn said with an edge to his voice. Parker just stared at him. “I’ll let you know when those papers come through. Stan, good seeing you.” Virgil headed for the door. Parker stood there until Quinn was gone then turned back to face the squad detectives who had been watching the exchange.
“OK, everybody. Show’s over. Let’s get back to work,” he ordered then paced back to his glass-walled office.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“This is Denny Ivers,” Kudlacik said when Virgil opened the door. “He works out of Special Investigations Division.” Ivers gave Virgil a smile and a little salute and followed Kudlacik into Virgil’s hotel room. “Denny and me were partners in the Eastern Division before I moved over to Felony Fugitive.”
“We decided to divide things up,” Ivers said holding out his hand. “I’d figure out who did it and Stan would chase them down after they jumped bail.”
Virgil couldn’t help being struck by the contrast between the two men – Kudlacik, white, stocky and barrel-chested with puffy cheeks; Ivers black, whippet thin, high cheekbones in a narrow, pointed face. Even their clothing seemed designed to reflect opposite extremes. Kudlacik owned three rumpled sport coats that he rotated on a daily basis and two ties that he wore for a full week each no matter what the color of the shirt or coat might be that day. Ivers wore a freshly-pressed tan suit over a pale blue, long-sleeve, cotton shirt. His patterned gold and blue tie was silk and had probably cost as much as Kudlacik’s shoes.
“I figured that if you had a lot of stuff to move it might be a good idea to have another pair of hands,” Stan said, glancing around the room. “I’ve got to watch out for my back.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your back,” Ivers said.
“Which is because I never pick up anything heavy enough to screw it up.”
“I’ve only got one suitcase and a carry-on,” Virgil told them, pointing at the two bags by the window.
Ivers immediately slung the carry-on over his shoulder. Kudlacik stared sourly at the suitcase.
“I can handle it,” Virgil said, his voice thin and tight. “It’s got wheels.”
Stan hesitated half a second then shook his head. “Nah, you’re just out of the hospital. I’ll get it. You know where we’re going?”
“Janet . . . .” Virgil stuttered to a stop then began again. “She gave me the printouts from the department just before . . . that night. Two of them seemed like they ought to work. I called the managers and they said I could come by anytime before nine tonight. I figured I would take a quick look, pick one, and move in.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Denny said after a heartbeat’s silence. “I’ll drive.”
Virgil set a slow pace to the elevator and leaned against the wall once inside. The detectives gave him a sidelong glance then pretended not to notice his panting breaths.
Ivers gave one of the bellhops a ticket and a minute later the kid reappeared with Ivers’ blue-pearl Chrysler 300S, polished to a glossy sheen. Denny pressed a button and the trunk popped open. Kudlacik frowned then manhandled the suitcase inside. As compensation he claimed the passenger seat. Virgil smiled, handed Denny the page with the addresses and climbed into the back.
“Sorry about your friend,” Denny said once they were away from the hotel. “Stan said you two went back a long time.”
“We were partners in the Marshals.”
“Hard to lose a partner.” For a couple of minutes everybody studied the landscape rolling past the glass.
“Working on anything interesting, Denny?” Virgil asked finally, just to break the silence.
“I don’t think I’d call it ‘interesting.’ I got a whodunit three days ago.” Virgil understood the irritation in his voice. Murders usually fell into one of two basic categories: dead-bangs and whodunits. Wifey gets pissed-off at hubby, clubs him with a cast-iron frying pan, then sits there and waits for the cops to arrive – the classic dead-bang. Then there were the whodunits – John Q. Citizen’s body is found in the parking lot outside the Food Giant, a bullet in his gut, no shell casings, no prints, no witnesses.
“What’re the particulars?” Stan asked.
Denny sighed. “Dale Atherton, twenty-three-year-old black male, hit over the head with a piece of rebar, then stabbed eight times in the back while he was on the ground. Wallet, watch and phone missing. Employed, single, no known enemies, no record, no witnesses. The classic Limping Man case.”
“Limping man?” Virgil asked.
“Local legend,” Stan answered, half-turning around in his seat. “Six, seven years ago–”
“Eight,” Denny broke in.
“Fine. Eight years ago they had a murder up-state, Graying, Gaylord–”
“Graying.”
“You want to tell this?” Stan snapped.
“No, you’re doing a great job. You tell it.”
“Smart ass,” Kudlacik muttered, then started again. “Anyway, they find this guy in his car, stabbed to death, wallet missing, no prints, no enemies, but they did have a witness, sort of. A kid in the Seven-Eleven said that before he drove away the vic was talking to some guy with a limp. That’s it. A random, average white guy, twenty-five to fifty, five-feet six to five-feet-ten, brown or black hair, no scars, no tattoos, wearing slacks or jeans, some kind of a shirt with buttons on it, who limped, probably, on his left leg. That’s it. Anyway, a couple of months later there’s another body found, this time in . . . . You want to tell it?”
“Roscommon,” Ivers answered.
“Yeah, Rosecommon, which is maybe ten miles south of Graying.” Stan waited for Ivers to correct him but Denny kept his mouth shut. “White female,” Kudlacik continued, “nineteen, face bashed in with a rock then struck multiple times in the back of the head while she was on the ground. Valuables missing. Somebody said they’d seen a thin white guy with a limp leaving the burger joint where the vic had eaten lunch. Ever since then every time somebody gets stabbed, killed by blunt force trauma–”
“Or strangled,” Ivers cut in.
“Or strangled, the uniforms always ask, ‘Did you notice a limping man?’“
“Which means that half the time, somebody says, ‘Now that you mention it, I did see a guy who maybe had a limp’“ Virgil said.
“So, now you know the legend of The Limping Man.”
“My condolences.”
“I’d take a limping man case any day compared with the assholes we’ve been chasing,” Stan grumbled. “Even wild animals only kill to eat. These bastards are on a rampage, massacring everybody in sight even when they don’t have to. I don’t get it. It’s like they’re head cases who get off on it.”
“Maybe they do,” Denny said, pulling up in front of the first building on Virgil’s list. “Maybe they’re all about the killing and the robberies are just icing on the cake.”
Virgil shook his head though Denny couldn’t see the motion from the front seat.
“One psycho, that I can understand. Sometimes you get a pair of them working together – Bianchi and Buono, Lucas and Toole – but four, five or six serial killers operating as a gang? No way in hell,” Virgil said.
“So, it’s all about the money?” Denny asked. “How much are they getting from these jobs?”
This time Kudlacik answered. “Biggest take, about half a million in art a
nd rare coins. Smallest, skipping the Randazzos, maybe ninety thousand, mostly in jewelry and a stamp collection.”
“Wait a minute. That doesn’t make any sense,” Denny said, turning to look at Kudlacik. “Jewelry, stamps, coins – what are they going to get, ten cents on the dollar? So, adding it all together what did they get from all the robberies? Maybe two or three million which means maybe a quarter of a million in their pockets when they fence the stuff? So, what, fifty thousand each? Has any of it turned up?”
“Nada,” Stan said.
“You’re telling me five guys have pulled off five violent home invasions for like ten thousand each per job, even assuming they’ve actually sold the stuff? That makes no sense at all.”
Ivers parked in front of the first building on the list.
“Welcome to my world,” Stan replied.
“Does this make any sense to you, Virgil?”
“No,” Quinn answered. “It makes me wonder what we’re missing.”
For a few seconds no one spoke, then as if responding to some unspoken signal, all three got out of the car. Fifteen minutes later they headed back. This time they let Virgil lead and accommodated themselves to his reduced pace.
“What do you think?” Stan asked.
“It’s OK. It seems a little noisy,” Virgil said in a breathy voice.
“And it had a funny smell,” Denny added. “Did you notice the funky smell?”
“Definitely. You mind if we take a look at the second one?”
“Let’s go.” Denny hit the Chrysler’s remote.
The next apartment was noticeably quieter and free from any funky smells. On the downside it was on the eighth floor and the elevator seemed like it might die at any moment. Plus, the windows faced an alley bordered by the stained concrete wall of a companion building thirty feet away.
“What’s the verdict?” Stan asked once they had poked into the corners and tested the lights, stove and thermostat.
“No smell trumps a good view any day,” Virgil said after a moment’s thought. “Let’s get my stuff.”