Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

  “All right,” Johnson said, thumping the side of a fist on the table. “So she was there. That don’t mean she had anything to do with it. I only lied because I knew you two boneheads would jump to the wrong conclusion.” He cast a brief glance at each of them. “By the time the shit hit the fan, she was already gone. It was after she left that his royal highness caught me drinkin’ again. He stood there lookin’ down his damn nose at me like I was nothin’—like I was less than nothin’.” His rheumy eyes misted over. “I begged him for one more chance. The bastard just turned on his heel and walked away. I wasn’t going to let him get away with treating me like that.

  “I followed him up to his office. I told him how it was with me—an old man, sick and hurtin’ every day—how hard it was for me to come by work at my age and condition—that I had no one to help me out—no family, no friends. You want to know what that stinkin’ bastard said?” Johnson bowed his head, concealing the emotion brimming in his eyes. “He said, ‘Understandable’, then he slammed the door in my face.”

  “What happened next?” Ray asked.

  “Uh…um...I left the… Wait,” he said. “I got my gun. Yeah, that’s when I got my gun.”

  “Tell us about that,” Waverly said.

  “Not much to tell. I took the elevator back downstairs, got the revolver and went back. By that time, Davis was in the boardroom.” Johnson’s eyes darted left and right. “I wanted to shoot the bastard with him lookin’ straight at me, knowin’ it was comin’. I wanted to see him squirm—wanted him to know how it felt bein’ the one beggin’ for mercy.”

  “But that’s not how it went down,” Waverly said. “What happened?”

  “When I looked in the door, he was sittin’ in there with his back to me. I got to thinkin’ there was a chance I could walk away free and clear if I could get it to look like a suicide.”

  “Give us the details,” Ray said.

  “Okay, that’s easy.” His eyes shifted to the table in front of him. “I snuck up behind him, aimed the gun, pulled the trigger, put the gun in his hand and left.”

  “Then what?”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “You came back.” Ray watched surprise register on Johnson’s face. “The ashtray stand,” he said, prompting him to continue.

  “Oh, yeah, that. The damn thing practically gave me a hernia. How’d you figure it out?”

  “There were two empty casings in the cylinder,” Ray said, “but only one bullet was recovered from the scene. Firing the second bullet into the ash stand left sand next to Davis’s foot. It was a matter of making the connection.” Ray took no pleasure in explaining; he realized Michael Johnson, for all his bravado, was just a frail, scared, old man.

  “Didn’t figure you two for being that smart,” Johnson said. “Anyway, after that is when I left that phony suicide note on the table and hauled the damn canister back to the lobby.”

  Aggravation crowded out Ray’s sympathy. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a suicide note. There was no note. What are you trying to pull?”

  “That’s bullshit. If anyone’s tryin’ to pull somethin’ it’s you. I left it there myself. Don’t go tellin’ me you didn’t find it.”

  “Look,” Ray said, “we’re not playing games. No one saw the note you allegedly left at the scene.”

  “Allegedly, my ass. If you didn’t find it, the whole bunch of ya should be walkin’ around with white canes.”

  “All right,” Ray said, “tell us about it. Was it something you wrote yourself? Did you forge Davis’s signature? What?”

  Wearing a self-satisfied smile, Johnson eased against the back of his chair. “Didn’t need to. That was the beauty of it; the note was already written for me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Waverly asked.

  Johnson sat up a little taller, apparently pleased to discuss his ingenuity. “When Davis let me off the hook for drinkin’ on the job—that other time, I mean—his lordship wrote me a goddamn letter. Had to make a big stinkin’ deal about how effin’ generous he was bein’. Went on about it for more than a page. After I shot the bastard, I got to thinkin’ about how the last part could come off as a pretty convincing suicide note. And right there at the bottom was Davis’s own goddamn signature. Couldn’t have been more perfect. I cut the part I needed off the rest, folded it in half and left it right there on the table.”

  “Uh-huh. Interesting,” Waverly said. “Where’d it come from?”

  “From Davis. Are ya deaf?”

  “No. That night. Where’d you get it from?”

  Johnson’s eyes widened for a second. “Uh…I…uh…” He took his time resituating himself in his chair. “Had it with me,” he said finally. “The day I got it, I stuck it in my uniform jacket. Forgot about it ’til then.”

  “This letter you were supposedly carrying around… Do you remember what it said?”

  “Sure do. It said, ‘There comes a time in every man’s life when he must face up to his shortcomings and deal with them. Now is that time.’ Hell, it was perfect.”

  Ray sat at his desk later, exhausted. It showed.

  Waverly slid Ray’s paperwork aside and parked on a corner of his desk. “Hey, buddy, don’t let it get to you. Johnson confessed. He’s in lockup, and that, as they say, is that.”

  “I’m not so sure. Something’s wrong.” Several aspirins preceded a coffee chaser. “What’s all that crap about a suicide note?”

  “Just that—crap. Forget it.”

  “What would Johnson have to gain by lying about it? Something’s out of whack.”

  “All I know is that he confessed. A guy like Johnson prob’ly walks around three sheets to the wind most of the time. Chances are the note is nothing but a product of his pickled imagination.”

  With a fierce kick, Ray sent his vacant chair careening into an overfilled wastebasket across the way. “Johnson’s too damn insistent about it.”

  “He’s prob’ly delusional.”

  “What about the content? What he quoted to us sounded like pure Paul Davis. Johnson couldn’t have come up with that line without a ghostwriter.” Ray felt his neck muscles tightening.

  “Okay, if there was a note, maybe he forgot to leave it.”

  “Not likely. If he was thinking clearly enough to avoid leaving his prints on those chambered bullets, and sharp enough to come up with that ash stand gambit, he must have damn well been sober enough to know whether or not he left a fake suicide note at the scene.”

  “Damn it, Ray. Couldn’t you let me enjoy Roth patting our backs instead of kicking our butts for just one night? He’s gonna go ape shit.” Waverly’s lips pressed together under his mustache. “If we tell Roth that Johnson left a note, he’s gonna want to know what happened to it. Got any idea what we’re gonna tell him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Crap, I can hear him now. He’s gonna be all over us.”

  “So, what else is new? Anyway, that’s not the only loose end we have to tie up.”

  “If I don’t ask,” Waverly said, “I suppose you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

  “Damn right. Look, forget the note for a minute. I’ve been thinking. If Johnson took his gun to ACC to show it off to Gaines and Chalmers like he said, that would’ve come before his second confrontation with Davis.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “If that was the case, why bring it in loaded?”

  Waverly grinned. “Him or the gun?”

  “The gun. Get serious for a minute, would you?”

  “Maybe Johnson loaded it after Davis caught him again.”

  “With what? He wouldn’t have had the ammunition with him, and the sidearm he carries at work is a different caliber.”

  “I don’t know, buddy, but he obviously managed it somehow.”

  “No, something’s not right. Every time I think about it, I’m less convinced Johnson’s our guy. He’s a scrapper. Until we pointed a finger at Jillian Wirth, he put up a hell of a fight. I still th
ink he’s protecting her.”

  Waverly’s chin dropped to his chest. “One good night’s sleep is all I wanted, and you have to go and throw a monkey wrench into the works.”

  Ray ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled about it either. But let’s face it, there’s no way Wirth hauled that ashtray stand back and forth to the boardroom; it probably weighs more than she does. That had to be Johnson’s doing. And if that’s the case, it stands to reason he’s the one who fired the bullet into the sand…unless they were working together.”

  “Yeah,” Waverly said. “And the way she feels about him, the chances of that are basically zilch.”

  Ray picked up a pen, spinning it between his fingers as he thought. “I suspect Johnson probably did everything he claims, except for killing Davis. I think Wirth got seriously bent out of shape by the way Davis dismissed her. She came across Johnson’s .38, shot Davis in a fit of anger, and Johnson tried to pick up the pieces.”

  “One problem. There’s a bug in your theory, buddy. If Johnson brought his .38 to ACC unloaded, like you say, then where would Wirth have gotten the ammo?”

  Ray slammed his chair back into the kneehole of his desk. “Damn it.”

  “Forget it for now. We still have to figure out how to save our hides when we take this up with Roth. Any notions about the suicide note yet?”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “Davis’s body was discovered by Mitchell Gaynor, right? If Johnson left a note on the conference table, it figures Gaynor would’ve seen it. I say we check it out with him.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  Kruse shouted from halfway across the room. “Schiller, you’ve got a call. They put it through to my desk by mistake. It’s urgent.”

  Ray wove his way between chairs, desks and moving bodies as he hurried to the phone. From across the room, Waverly watched Ray clutch the receiver in a death grip as his entire body stiffened. Moment’s later, Ray hung up and rushed past him toward the door.

  He followed. “What’s wrong?”

  “That was Gail,” he told Waverly. “There’s been an accident; Krista’s in ICU. I’ve got to get to Widmer.”

  Waverly kept pace. “I’ll let Roth know what’s going on. You have my number, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey,” Waverly hollered after him at the door, “see to it you get yourself there in one piece.”

  22

  Safety was the last thing on Ray’s mind as he sped toward Widmer. Thoughts of Krista lying hurt and helpless in an intensive care unit crowded everything else out. Paul Davis was forgotten. Ed Costales, Michael Johnson and Jillian Wirth were a million miles from his thoughts. Krista was only seven—his little girl.

  Searching for his cell phone, he drove on I-94, cutting off one car after another. He cursed, realizing he’d left the phone lying on his desk at the station. Near Monticello, he had no choice but to get off the interstate for gas. With each click of the gas pump readout, his dread increased. As precious seconds ticked by, he filled his tank with only enough fuel to guarantee he’d reach the hospital. Accelerating back up an on-ramp, he stomped the pedal to the floorboard. Maybe if he hadn’t left Widmer… Maybe if he’d been there today…

  God, don’t take my daughter. I’m begging you.

  After what seemed like an eternity and a hundred prayers later, he reached Widmer’s Community Memorial Hospital. Taking two stairs at a time, Ray bypassed the slow-moving elevators and raced to the hospital’s third-floor intensive care unit. He entered the waiting room, breathless, and found Gail alone. Dressed in sandals, khaki capris and a white tee shirt, her put-together look belied her body language. She sat with both arms wrapped around her, subtly rocking forward and back, her reddened eyes unfocused.

  “Gail…”

  At the sound of Ray’s voice, she stood and started toward him. Ten feet away, she stopped, clearly unsure what kind of reception she would receive. He closed the gap and wrapped her in his arms.

  She buried her tear-streaked face in his chest. “Thank God you’re here, Ray.”

  Ending the short-lived embrace, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “How’s Krista?” Ray felt his heart seize in his chest when she couldn’t find her voice. “Gail, is she okay?”

  “They say her condition’s critical, Ray.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  She tried to tell him, but the words caught in her throat.

  A fiftyish doctor stepped into the waiting room. Unimpressive in appearance, he exuded an unmistakable air of confidence. He reached out and shook Ray’s hand. “I’m Dr. Meier. Are you Krista’s father?”

  “Yes. How’s my daughter?”

  “I was just about to give your wife an update.” He directed them to a bank of chairs lining the wall. “Have a seat and I’ll bring both of you up to speed.”

  They sat down side by side while Meier lowered himself onto a stack of magazines on the coffee table in front of them and addressed Ray. “Your daughter was hit by a car—a slow-moving car, thankfully.” Meier continued before Ray had time to speak. “She’s sustained some significant bruising, and there’s a fracture of the left radius—the uppermost bone in the forearm,” he explained.

  As a cop, on occasion, Ray had been forced to deliver heartbreaking news to parents. As heart wrenching as that was, it didn’t compare to being on the receiving end. “That doesn’t explain why she’s in intensive care,” he said. “What haven’t you told me?”

  “I was getting to that.” Meier pulled the stethoscope from his neck. “The source of our concern is the secondary impact your daughter sustained. Her head hit the pavement after being struck by the car.”

  “Her head.” Ray could barely force the words out. “Are we talking about brain damage?”

  “Don’t go getting ahead of me now,” Meier told him. “Your daughter has sustained a traumatic brain injury, but there’s no reason to assume there’s been cognitive damage at this point.”

  “At this point,” Ray repeated.

  Meier ran a hand through his coffee-colored hair. His right temple was white as though someone had added a splash of cream. “When the brain is traumatized,” he said, “the tissue swells. Unfortunately, the skull provides very limited room for expansion. If the ICP—intracranial pressure,” he clarified, “is allowed to exceed a critical point, serious damage can occur. Right now our job is to stop and reverse the swelling that’s taking place.”

  “You’re saying her brain is still swelling?”

  “At the moment, yes, but we’re doing all we can to prevent it from reaching that critical stage. The treatment for this type of injury is very standardized. There are several procedures available to us. If one fails, we can implement another.”

  The lump in Ray’s throat doubled in size. “There’s been no improvement so far?”

  “There’s been some fluctuation in the ICP levels. We’ve administered intravenous medication to prevent severe pressure elevations.” Meier paused, seeming to consider how well they might deal with a more in-depth explanation. “We’re preparing to insert a ventricular catheter.”

  Gail’s grip on Ray’s arm tightened. Her voice trembled. “What is that exactly?”

  “Basically,” Meier said, “the procedure involves placing a tube in one of a series of connecting brain cavities. The catheter is put in place and opened to allow drainage of CSF. Sorry,” he said, catching himself. “Cerebrospinal fluid. That should reduce some of the pressure.”

  The overwhelming prospect caused Ray’s heart to hammer in his chest.

  Dr. Meier glanced at his watch. “They’re waiting for me. I’ll send a nurse out with the authorization forms for you. Once we’ve finished I’ll be back and we can talk some more.”

  Hands shaking, Ray signed the paperwork less than a minute later and turned to Gail. Her eyes were red, her face devoid of color. “How did the accident happen?”

  Before she had a chance to an
swer, Woody Newell, Widmer’s young police chief, stepped into the waiting room. “Hello, Ray.” Woody reached out and shook his hand. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your daughter.” He turned his attention to Gail. “I wish I could’ve stayed longer before. How’s Krista doing? Any change?”

  Her eyes looked vacant. “They’re putting a catheter in her brain—some kind of shunt to relieve the pressure.”

  Woody patted her shoulder. “They know what they’re doing. Hang in there.”

  “You were here before?” Ray asked.

  “I knew Gail would need some support until you got here. I’d have stayed until you showed up, but I got called away.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said. “I appreciate your doing that.”

  “I wish I could’ve stuck around. After we got Krista transported here—”

  “Wait. I’m still in the dark. I’m trying to get the details.”

  Woody set a chair down opposite a Naugahyde couch so the three of them could face one another. “Cooper responded to the call,” he said, situating himself. “Eyewitnesses all gave the same account, Ray. Krista was on the two-hundred block of Main Street. She darted into the street from between a couple of parked cars. The driver tried to stop, but Krista was too close. There wasn’t enough time or distance to avoid hitting her.”

  Ray stood and began pacing, his voice ragged with rage. “Who was the driver?”

  “Take it easy. It was an accident.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Edith Hartwig.” Ray showed no sign of recognition. Woody’s voice took on a gentle tone, one meant to instill calm. “You must know who she is. Nice, elderly woman—lives with her husband Curtis on River Road near Jeff Parker’s place.”

  “Oh,” Ray said. “Yeah, I remember her.” He had rushed to the woman’s residence in the fall of the previous year in response to a call about a possible intruder. She’d gifted him with an apple pie made from fruit picked fresh off one of their trees after he’d evicted the squirrel determined to nest in their attic. He’d never tasted better. “Well, unavoidable or not, she ought to have the decency to put in an appearance. Why isn’t she here?”