By Any Means

by Chris Culver

  “Are you Amy?” asked Ash. She nodded. “And you’re Jonathan’s wife, right?”

  She nodded, but then caught herself and shook her head. “We’re getting a divorce. I served him papers this afternoon.”

  That both complicated and helped explain the situation. Ash nodded. “Does he own any firearms?”

  She nodded. “A couple. He has a pistol for home protection and a couple of hunting rifles.”

  “Okay,” said Ash. “We have a professional hostage negotiator coming in. I’m sure he’ll talk to you in a little bit. In the meantime—”

  “Who is that?” It was the first time Jonathan had spoken in several minutes. The thermal monitor showed him near the window. “Is that Amy?”

  Ash waved her down and then pointed toward the SWAT team’s armored transport. He waved over a patrol officer. “Get her somewhere safe.”

  The patrol officer put his arm around Amy’s shoulders and led her to the rear of the SWAT team’s truck. Ash stopped watching at that point and turned toward the house. “That is Amy. She’s worried about Madison and you. She doesn’t want anyone hurt.”

  Jonathan didn’t say anything for a moment, but Ash watched him cross the room to stand over his daughter again. He extended his arm and time seemed to slow. Ash stood up straighter. His heart thudded against his breastbone.

  Don’t do this.

  “Tell Amy this is on her.”

  “Don’t do—”

  The gunshot cut Ash’s scream short. The entire scene erupted. The SWAT members sprinted forward, tactical rifles bared in front of them.

  “Call it in. We need ambulances right now,” said Ash, shouting at the nearest patrol officer. She practically dove into her vehicle and grabbed the radio. Ash held his breath, powerless to do anything else. Jim Price, the SWAT team’s point man, reached the front door first. He blew the dead bolt with a breaching shotgun and took a step back. The next man in line kicked the door forward, his rifle held in front of him like a shield. Each team member then sprinted single file into the house after him, their heads swiveling left and right. Even from outside, Ash could hear their boots pound against doors as they cleared the rooms.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  Jonathan had only fired one shot. Over and over, Ash found himself praying that Jonathan had shot himself, but over and over, he found an image of a dead little girl clawing its way into his consciousness. He heard more thuds and more shouts as the officers moved through the house. Moments seemed to take days.

  “Gun. Gun.”

  “Drop it.”

  The cacophony of voices stopped only with the report of a firearm. Ash held his breath and found himself counting the seconds.

  “House is clear.”

  The announcement had taken a four count. Ash didn’t know what that meant, but he sprinted toward the house anyway. It was a center-hall Colonial with a staircase immediately in front of the door. Most of the action seemed to be happening on the second floor, so Ash ran up and followed a line of officers to a small, auxiliary bedroom near the center of the house. The room held a mattress and blanket, but no other furniture to hide behind. A middle-aged man lay sprawled out near the window, most of his face gone. A blond girl—she couldn’t have been more than twelve—lay on the ground near the door. Her blood had begun to puddle beneath her and froth formed around her lips. She cried even as she struggled to breathe.

  One of the SWAT team members knelt beside her and held his hand a few inches from her mouth.

  “She’s breathing, but it’s irregular. Get the kit and get me an ambulance right now.”

  Ash jumped back into the hallway to let them work.

  Please let her be okay, God.

  Eventually, Jim Price ran toward them, carrying a red and white box. He tossed it to one of the officers inside the room, while another tilted Madison on her side. Blood ran onto the carpet, probably draining from her lungs. Price tore pieces of duct tape off a spool and handed them to another officer who wrapped them around her chest, over her wound. Whether the compression was supposed to hold her blood in or whether the tape was supposed to help her gaping chest wound, Ash didn’t know. He ran back to his car and motioned for Eddie Alvarez.

  “Get in.”

  Ash waited for the ambulance to arrive. Two paramedics ran into the house and carried the girl out within a minute. As soon as that happened, Ash turned on the cruiser, as well as its lights and sirens. Being nearly three in the morning, the roads were mostly empty, but he cleared a path to the hospital anyway. Aside from prayer, it was the only constructive thing he could do.

  8

  Ash parked in the garage beside the children’s hospital and watched from across the street while paramedics wheeled Madison inside. Several more police cars followed, including one holding Amy Hartley, Madison’s mother. She cried hysterically. Neither Ash nor Alvarez had any real connection to the Hartley family, but they went in the emergency room’s waiting area anyway. Both men knew they had paperwork to fill out and statements to give, but at the moment, neither seemed to care. Ash didn’t, at least. His focus remained on Madison.

  About half an hour after they arrived, Mike Bowers walked into the waiting room and sat down beside them.

  “Any news on her father?” asked Alvarez.

  “Dead. Single self-inflicted gunshot wound,” said Bowers. He sighed. “Why the son of a bitch had to take his daughter with him, I don’t know.”

  They waited an hour and then another before a nurse came out. She had bloodstains on her smock and her face was white.

  “Are you the officers who brought Madison Hartley in?”

  Bowers nodded.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable.”

  “She’s going to make it?” asked Ash.

  “We think so. The occlusive dressing put on her before she arrived here prevented her lung from collapsing. It probably saved her life.”

  The tension Ash had been carrying in his gut rushed out of him and he slumped over in his chair. Bowers furrowed his brow, so Ash filled him in. “Somebody from the SWAT team covered her wound with duct tape.”

  “I’ll make sure the officer gets a letter of commendation for that,” said Bowers, nodding toward the nurse. “Thank you.” The nurse nodded before leaving the waiting room and Bowers looked at them. “It’s time for us to get out of here. We’ve still got work to do.”

  “You want us to give statements?” asked Ash.

  “You’ll need to eventually, but now I want you to go home and get changed. We’ve still got to find Rebecca.”

  The reminder put things back into prospective. Ash drove Alvarez back to the station for his car and then drove home with the sun threatening to rise on the horizon. Normally, his family would sleep in for another hour in the summer, but during Ramadan everybody woke up early. He met Megan, Kaden, and Hannah in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Bob.” Megan waved at him from their breakfast table while eating a piece of toast. Jam had dripped onto one of the fluffy cartoon cows printed on her pajamas, and her hair flew in every direction at once. She smiled at him, happy despite the early hour.

  He walked to the table and kissed her forehead. “It’s Baba, sweetheart. If you don’t want to call me Baba, you can call me Dad. You can’t call me Bob, though. It’s inappropriate.”

  “Kaden does.”

  Ash smiled. “Yes, but he can’t say Baba. You can.”

  Megan stuck out her bottom lip and dropped her toast in protest, but Hannah intervened before she could say anything else.

  “Finish your breakfast,” she said. “Baba and I need to talk.”

  Megan’s eyes opened wide as if she had suddenly realized something. She motioned Ash forward and lowered her voice. Her secret-telling ability had improved from the days when she shouted them at the top of her lungs.

  “Ummi’s mad at you for missing iftar last night. I forgot to tell you earlier.”

  Ash glanced at his wife; she didn’t glar
e at him, but his daughter’s assessment didn’t seem too far off.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  He kissed her forehead again and started to walk toward his wife, but Megan grabbed the arm of his sweatshirt before he could step away.

  “Is Kaden going to Hell?”

  “No, of course not. Why are you asking that?”

  “Because he doesn’t fast. I fasted half a day yesterday, so I’m not going to Hell. I’m worried about him, though.”

  Ash patted her back. “He’s a baby, so he’s excused. We can talk about this later if you want.”

  “Okay,” she said, stuffing a piece of toast in her mouth.

  Ash joined his wife at the stove. She stirred a small pot of oatmeal far more vigorously than required.

  “I saw the shooting on the news when I got up this morning,” she said. “Who was hurt?”

  Ash grimaced. “A young girl named Madison. Her dad took her hostage and shot her before killing himself. I meant to call you, but I got wrapped up in things.”

  Hannah inhaled through her nose. “Like what?”

  “Eddie Alvarez and I cleared traffic in front of the ambulance on the way to the hospital. We didn’t think Madison had a lot of time.”

  “Did she survive?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hannah put the spoon down. “I’m very glad she’s alive. I’m also very upset that you didn’t call me and tell me you were okay.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “I even tried to call you,” she said, interrupting him. “You didn’t pick up the phone.”

  “I had to turn it off in the hospital.”

  “The news didn’t say who was shot, but I recognized the people at the scene. I knew you were there, but I didn’t know if you were dead. I didn’t know if you had been hurt. I didn’t know if you were in the hospital.” She took a deep breath. “That was mean. Turning off your phone without calling me wasn’t just inconsiderate—it was mean. I want you to know that.”

  When she finally took her eyes off the oatmeal to look at him, Ash saw red streaks in the whites of her eyes. That didn’t happen when she lost her temper; that happened when he hurt her.

  “I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

  “You could have called me before you went into the hospital. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. A two-minute phone call to tell me that our kids still have a father. Or if you couldn’t call me, ask someone else to. I don’t care who it comes from. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

  No matter how hard they worked at it, many police officers had a hard time staying married. Ash knew at least three guys who had gone home after a day at work to find their spouses had cleared out their houses and left without leaving so much as a note. The hours sucked, the pay rarely kept up with inflation, and the stress followed everyone home. Ash loved his family more than anything in the world. They gave him purpose and a reason to get up in the morning, but he had a hard time balancing their needs against a job that continually demanded more and more of him.

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I should have called. I got wrapped up in the moment, and I didn’t even think.”

  “I know, and that hurts most of all. You don’t think about us.” Ash started to protest, but she put her hand on his chest. “Don’t say anything. I just need some time alone. Can you take care of the kids?”

  He nodded, and she pushed past him and hurried to their bedroom before he could respond. Ash stayed at the stove at first, but then he took the oatmeal off the heat and sat beside his daughter at the table.

  “Are you in trouble, Baba?”

  “Yeah, kiddo, I’m in big trouble.”

  * * *

  Hannah came out of the bedroom about half an hour later. By that time, Ash had fed the kids and done the dishes. Helping out around the house didn’t make up for being an ass, but hopefully it showed that he was trying. The two of them talked for a few minutes, but it would take a lot more than a conversation to resolve things. He had suhoor, the predawn meal during Ramadan, and then said dawn prayers right before the sun rose.

  Given Madison’s shooting the night before, Ash didn’t know how his day would go. He hadn’t fired a shot, but the department’s brass still could put him on leave until he saw a psychiatrist. Ash didn’t want that or think it necessary, but there wasn’t much he could do to fight it. On the other hand, a visit to a psychiatrist would do Eddie Alvarez some good. Ash left his house at a quarter to eight and drove into work. When he got there, he found the homicide squad’s conference room empty, so he took a seat at the head of the table and called Eddie Alvarez on his cell phone.

  “Hey, Eddie, it’s Ash Rashid. How you doing?”

  Alvarez yawned. “Fine, all considered. You?”

  “I’m good, thanks. I’m calling this morning because I need to talk to you about what you said last night.”

  “Yeah, I thought you might. It’s not going to happen again. You’re a superior officer, and you made the right call. I see that now. I won’t question your judgment again.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling,” said Ash. “Tell me again about Marisol, your girl when you were in the Peace Corps.”

  Alvarez grunted. “I’d rather not. I don’t even know why I told you about her last night.”

  “You told me about her because you were stressed out. How often do you think about her when you’re at work?”

  “Are you asking me as my superior officer or as a friend?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s any of your business either way.”

  Ash hadn’t wanted the conversation to go like this, but he had come in mentally prepared for it. “If she’s on your mind a lot, then your mind isn’t on work. That’s dangerous. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I get it. It won’t happen again. I already said that.”

  “Aside from me, who knows about her?”

  “Nobody, not even my wife.”

  Ash nodded. “I need you to tell your CO. I also think you need to talk to somebody. I can make you an appointment with the station psychiatrist if you want.”

  Alvarez chuckled. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if your mind is on her, you’re a liability to everyone around you. Last night, you wanted to charge into a home, not knowing who was there, if he was armed, or even who he was with. You could have gotten us and the hostage killed. It was reckless.”

  Alvarez chuckled again, but Ash couldn’t detect merriment in the sound. “You’re seriously lecturing me? Mr. One-Eighty-Seven is calling me reckless?”

  “I’m not lecturing you. I’m saying you need some help. That’s it.” Ash paused. “And who’s Mr. One-Eighty-Seven?”

  “You. One-Eighty-Seven, it’s the section in the California penal code about murder.”

  Ash didn’t respond for a moment, trying to understand the reference. “First of all, we live in Indiana, so whoever calls me that watches too much TV. Second, I haven’t worked homicide in several years.”

  “People don’t call you that because you worked homicide. They call you that because you’re involved in so many.”

  Ash blinked and shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “I told you something in confidence. I didn’t expect you to throw it back at me. Besides, I’m not the only man on this job with a past. I know what you did when your niece died. Don’t tell me that didn’t change you.”

  “I investigated drug traffickers when my niece died.”

  “When you investigate somebody, you put him in jail. You tracked down the people who sold your niece drugs and put every single one of them in the ground. You know how many people look up to you because of that?”

  “Hopefully nobody.”

  “A lot of people. If you do this to me, this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me. You think people will trust you after this?”

  �
�If this makes people distrust me, that’s their fault. This is my job. End of discussion,” said Ash. “You tell your CO today, or I will. Is that clear?”

  “Piss off.”

  Alvarez hung up, and Ash felt himself slump into his seat before he slipped his phone back into his pocket. As he did that, someone near the door cleared his throat, and Ash looked up to see Captain Bowers in the doorway, his arms crossed.

  “Something you want to tell me, Ash?”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “A bit. Was that Eddie Alvarez’s voice?”

  Ash nodded. “Minor personal issue. Can we drop it for now? I can talk to you about it later if needed.”

  Bowers smiled. “If it’s something I need to hear, I’d like you to tell me now.”

  “If you order me, I’ll talk. I’d like to give Alvarez some time to do the right thing first, though.”

  Bowers cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “All right. But Alvarez is off the case until one of you talks to me.”

  “I agree.”

  Bowers stood up straighter. “You wouldn’t have given in that easily unless there was a problem. What’d he do?”

  “If Alvarez hasn’t contacted you by the end of the day, I’ll sit down with you. Can we drop it until then?”

  “Until the end of the day,” said Bowers, crossing the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I asked Greg Doran to attend John and Kate Doe’s autopsies this morning and sent Smith home a couple of hours ago. If you’re not up for this investigation after last night, now’s the time to tell me. I can get a replacement.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I thought you would be. You need anything?”

  “I don’t know just yet. I’ll call Doran and Smith and see how they’re progressing. If we do need anything, I’ll let you know. You going to send me somebody to replace Alvarez?”

  “I’ll find someone if you need help. Anything else?”

  “Have you ever heard of Mr. One-Eighty-Seven?”