by Sam Christer
Nic lets the body slump and steps out of the cubicle feeling sick to the pit of his stomach. Édouard’s murderer is gone.
The only question is – how far has he got?
173
Ephrem stands at the front of the line.
The whole area is in lockdown and he’s only a step from getting away with murder. He looks at the empty space beckoning to him from beyond the booths. Freedom. He knows his false passport will survive extra scrutiny. Knows he can tough out any questions the border police throw at him. But Karakandez is different. A wild card. He looks for him. There are two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty people, still standing in the roped lines. More coming from the arrival gates. And it’s hot. The aircon must be out. He watches the cops and guards slowly working the lines, inspecting passports, visas and asking questions.
Way over at the back, he sees paramedics pushing a blanket-covered emergency trolley out of the restrooms.
The scientist.
Now he sees Karakandez. He’s walking away from the rest, moving quickly, scanning every face. Running on instinct not logic. Ephrem turns away. A border guard is at the front of his line, asking questions. ‘Can I see your documents, sir?’
He hands over the passport without speaking.
‘Where you from, Mr Blake?’
‘New York.’
The official’s eyes flick from the photo to Alvin Corri Blake. ‘Which part?’
‘Brooklyn. Out near the Navy Yard.’ He looks the official straight in the eyes. The jerk is trying to guess his ethnicity – struggling to pigeonhole him as Hispanic, African-American – maybe Arabic and therefore by default a Muslim terrorist. ‘Case you’re wondering, I get my perma-tan from my Christian Lebanese mom and my youthful good looks from my Catholic longshoreman dad.’
‘Is that so?’ The guard shakes his head and hands the passport back. There’s always a smart-ass in the lines. ‘Enjoy your stay in LA.’
‘Thanks.’ Ephrem returns the passport to his jacket and the guard moves on. He notices Karakandez with another cop. He’s close now, just a few yards away. For a split second their eyes catch. He looks away. The face of a fat woman to his right is beaded with sweat and she looks ready to faint. He pretends to help her. So does a female cop.
Nic peels away and discreetly shows his shield to the guard who checked Ephrem’s credentials. ‘Where was that last guy from?’
‘New York, out Brooklyn. Caught me eyeballing his skin colour, says his old man is American but mom is Lebanese or something.’
‘Lebanese, that’s what I thought he said.’
The fat lady falls like a big round pine tree and brings gasps from the passenger lines. She goes down face first. A lady cop stoops to see if she’s all right.
Ephrem goes to help too. Help himself to the gun on the officer’s belt.
174
CENTURY HOSPITAL, INGLEWOOD
Just before midnight Robert Weinstock emerges from the secure side ward and Mitzi tries unsuccessfully to read his face as he steps toward her and di Matteo. Sister Dawson predictably flutters from her station to his side.
‘Hello, Lieutenant. Again my apologies for keeping you waiting.’ He turns to the sister. ‘Do you have somewhere more private that I may talk to the officers?’
‘My office. Please follow me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll stay here.’ Di Matteo gestures at the Creeper’s room.
The three of them make the brief trek from the open area around the corner into a small ten by ten office.
‘Thank you, Sister. That will be all.’ Weinstock shuts the door after her. ‘Okay, please sit down.’
Mitzi looks depressed. ‘Am I going to need to?’
‘I think you are.’
Mitzi takes another bum-numbing plastic chair and he pulls up one opposite her.
‘You know what the M’Naghten Rules are?’
Her heart sinks. ‘Not guilty by reason of insanity, right? Gift from the good old British to our wonderful mess of a judicial system.’
‘You’re right. And according to those rules, the man I just saw is mentally ill. There is no question about that. He is lucid enough to know his own name, address, age and job, but his spontaneous lapses into Latin, his intermittent dialogue with God and his profound and persistent self-mutilation are clear signs of extreme mental instability. I have little option but to begin the process that will admit him into institutionalised medical care.’
Mitzi covers her face with her hands. Carter is going to be suicidal when he hears this.
‘I have only done a preliminary examination tonight, but it’s already sufficient to determine that he is delusional and would easily meet the M’Naghten criteria of temporary mental impairment. Put simply, at moments when he kills, Mr James doesn’t believe it is wrong to do it. He is a danger to both society and himself.’
‘What about the “Policeman at the Elbow” test? This guy crept into women’s houses and killed them in their sleep. Would he have taken their lives if there’d been a police officer in the room?’
Weinstock forces out a thin sympathetic smile. ‘Maybe. But Mr James’s case isn’t as simple as I’ve made out.’
Mitzi flinches. ‘Nothing I’ve heard sounds simple. So something in his brain, in his genes, in his upbringing drove him to do it – anything except the fact that he just wanted to.’
‘Lieutenant, please. I understand your frustration, but this won’t help.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Mr James is completely aware of what he has done. He understands why you are here and that I intend to have him admitted into psychiatric care. Nevertheless, he has asked to see you.’
175
LAX
Nic isn’t distracted by the woman’s fall. His eyes never leave the lithe-looking guy at her side, bundling into the cop and going for her gun.
Ephrem turns and lets off a shot into the roof of the hall before anyone closes on him.
Screams break out and people hit the ground. He scoops up a young girl in a yellow dress, wraps his left arm tight around her. The kid’s no more than four and for now she’s going to be his shield.
‘Stay away!’ His shout is aimed at two guards with drawn weapons ten metres away. ‘Drop the guns and stay back or I’ll shoot her.’
Pistols clatter to the ground and Ephrem edges back between the glass booths. They’ll come after him, he knows that. He has to slow them down. He snakes the gun around the terrified girl and fires two shots into the huddle of petrified passengers. The first hits a teenager in the back. The second spurts blood from the head of an old man in a wheelchair.
The monk bolts into the luggage area, still carrying the kid.
Nic is first after him; most of the cops and guards are sorting out the wounded and the mayhem. Someone will be on a radio calling for back-up but it might be too late. Up ahead are unsuspecting customs guys. They’re lazily waiting to do final card checks before passengers wriggle free of all the border bureaucracy and disappear into the main terminal.
‘He’s got a gun!’ shouts Nic. ‘The guy’s got a gun and a hostage!’
Too late. Shots bark. The guard to Nic’s left goes down. Then his buddy on the right.
More screams erupt from passengers. Nic grabs a Smith and Wesson from an injured guard and unclips the safety. He clears the automatic doors. The arrivals hall is packed.
A wave of people crashes into him. The shooter is gone. Nic can’t see beyond the flotsam of white name cards held aloft by waiting drivers. He spots a flash of black jacket slipping through one of the exits. It has to be the guy.
He pushes his way to the exit. Outside he turns right. The shooter is facing him.
In a blink Nic checks for the little girl. She’s not there. He sights his gun.
Too late.
A bullet tears into his left shoulder. Rocks him. Sends his senses racing.
Years of training kick in. He keeps focus. Breathes slow. Squeezes
the trigger. Blood spurts in the distance. There’s a bang. Like a clap of applause. He sees a hazy figure stagger. A second bullet rips into Nic. He never saw it coming. Never expected this.
His legs buckle. No pain. Not yet – it’s still being trucked in, lorry loads of the stuff. He can’t breathe. Shock freezes his lungs. He can’t get a whisper of air into his body. A wave of cold trauma drowns his nerves and brain. Nic sees his hands but he can’t move them. Can’t feel them. Blood puddles through his fingers.
He’s hit in the stomach. It’s a bad one. That much he knows. He’s caught a real bleeder.
176
CENTURY HOSPITAL, INGLEWOOD
Mitzi can’t believe how peaceful James looks. Despite the mass of crusting red crucifixes on his face and chest, there even seems to be a smile lying smugly on the soft hammock of his lips as he rests against a pile of pillows.
Anyone who’s done what he’s done should never be allowed to rest. Goddamn animal should be kept awake until his dying day and Mitzi hopes that’s sooner rather than later.
Weinstock closes the door behind them and the Creeper’s lids shutter.
Mitzi swallows hard. She doesn’t want her rage to show. Not yet. Not until the evil-crazy-psycho-nutjob has said whatever it is he wants to say.
John James looks sleepily from the lieutenant to the psychiatrist as he fights the effect of the sedatives.
Mitzi pulls up a chair alongside the bed. ‘Mr Weinstock here says you want to talk to me.’
He nods slowly. ‘I do.’
She tries to take the hate out of her eyes, tries not to think of all the crime scene pictures she’s seen of women covered in sheets, of holes left in people’s lives.
‘I know what I did, Detective.’ His voice is weak. He reaches for a glass of water on a bedside cabinet. ‘I took the lives of other human beings. I need you to understand that they wanted to be taken.’
‘Sure they did.’
‘They did. All but Bass and Emma – my Emma.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He takes a sip of water. ‘I killed Bass because she and Harrison made Emma’s life hell. God didn’t tell me to. I just wanted to. I would have killed Harrison too had she been there when I broke into her home.’
Seems to Mitzi that she was right about Jenny’s phone. ‘To be clear,’ she glances at Weinstock, making it understood that he’s a witness to what’s being said, ‘you admit to the premeditated murder of Kim Bass and attempted murder of Jennifer Harrison?’
‘And the murder of Em – Emma Varley.’ He looks away.
He’s crying. Unbelievably, the man who slaughtered a dozen or more women is actually weeping.
He uses the edge of the pillow to wipe away tears. ‘I thought that God had chosen her, had wanted me to help her go to him. But I was mistaken.’
‘Mistaken?’
‘My feelings for her confused me. I’ve never felt like that before.’
‘You loved her.’
‘Still do. That’s why I know it’s wrong. It felt wrong when I did it. But I still did it.’
‘And you’re telling me this now, why? Presumably, only because you know you’re safe from prosecution, and the death penalty.’ She looks toward Weinstock. ‘You’re rock-solid certain that the good doctor here is going to insist on you being hospitalised so there’s no risk of you ever going to trial.’
‘No – you’re wrong! I’m telling you, because God wants me to stand trial.’ He takes a slow breath and calms himself. ‘The Lord wants me to face up to what I’ve done. He’s not ashamed of how He guided me, nor I of how I was guided. The world must know the errors made were mortal not divine.’
Weinstock bends close to his patient and whispers, ‘May I explain a little more to the officer?’
The Creeper nods.
‘With respect, Lieutenant, I don’t think you understand the enormity of what is being said to you. A landmark case some years back ruled that an insanity defence cannot be imposed upon an intelligent defendant who wishes to forgo such a defence. Mr James is just such a person.’
‘That’s right.’ His face is filled with contentment. ‘I wish to forgo such a defence. I confess to the murders of Kim Bass and Emma Varley and I demand I be punished for them.’
177
Sirens blare. Voices fade in and out. Lights flash.
Nic Karakandez knows from the chaos around him that he’s in an ambulance and is dying. The pain comes now. Comes with a fanfare. A big brass band of agony booms out the message that his body can’t survive this level of trauma.
Strangers mop blood from his gut. They press pads with desperate hands and shout about hydrostatic shock, haem-orrhaging, BP levels and Christ knows what else.
Their tones give away that they’re in a race to save his life – and they’re losing.
A cop’s face swims into view.
‘Hang on, buddy.’ A forced smile. ‘We’re nearly there. Keep looking at me, you hear.’
Nic tries his best but his eyelids are heavy. He can’t hold out any more.
Blackness.
‘He’s going. Quick. Come on, do something.’
‘Keep him awake. For God’s sake just keep him awake.’
Distant voices. The world bumping. Sirens. Incredible heat and then waves of cold.
‘Come on, buddy, you’re going to be all right.’
Nic opens his eyes and sees the cop again.
‘Good, that’s good. Keep staring at me.’
He recognises the look. The one he’s worn often enough. Pulled it out on street corners when gangbangers, kids too young to even drink, are bleeding out. He’s knelt beside them, given them that look and lied away their last minutes.
He closes his eyes again.
‘No. No. Come on buddy!’
The darkness is restful. This is where the peace is. This is where the pain can be locked out.
He thinks of Carolina and Max. The three of them flying off for the holiday they never took. Running in the sand and sea together, holding hands, splashing and laughing as they jump waves.
‘We’re losing him.’
The brass band stops now.
The pain rages no more.
PART FIVE
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.
178
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
Mitzi walks in at 8 a.m. to an office already close to full.
She scans the desks suspiciously as she slips off her coat. ‘So what happened, guys? You all get tossed out by your wives as part of some class action?’
A stone-faced sergeant by the photocopier catches her eye. ‘Go see the captain. Said he wanted to know when you came in.’
She spins her coat around the top of a chair. ‘Matthews, at eight on a Monday?’
‘Your phone’s off. He’s been calling you.’
‘Shit.’ She hasn’t paid the last bill. They finally disconnected her. She digs in her purse for her cell. It’s dead. Has been since she called Carter going home last night. She’d been too tired to remember to put it on charge.
Mitzi heads to the boss’s office. If she’s in trouble, it’s probably to do with the legal mumbo jumbo at the hospital. What the hell. She did the best she could. They can’t ask more than that.
Matthews’ secretary isn’t at her guard post. Through the door she can see him talking to Tyler Carter. Doesn’t look too friendly.
She knocks and walks in. ‘You wanted me, sir.’ Her heart skips a beat.
‘Come in, shut the door.’ He waves her over.
She doesn’t like the look on their faces. ‘What is it?’
‘Nic Karakandez was shot last night at LAX, a gunfight with a man fleeing border guards.’
She takes a deep breath.
‘He died on the way to County. A bullet through the gut and another in the shoulder—’
‘Oh Jesus.’ Her legs go shaky.
Carter touches her shoulder. ‘Broussard, the scientist you said he was bringing back, he’s dead too. Plus a disabled guy who caught a headshot. A teenage boy is going to be paralysed for life.’
Mitzi is speechless.
‘Broussard was found murdered in a LAX restroom – airside of the border line. It’s what sparked the shoot-out.’
‘I thought they were home and dry,’ she finally says. ‘Nic rang from JFK and said everything was fine.’
‘Well, it wasn’t.’ Matthews tries to be practical. ‘Tyler’s got a couple of his men processing the scene and the two bodies are down at the morgue.’
‘I’d like to go to the hospital.’ She looks to Carter. ‘If that’s okay? I’ll try to wrap up my stuff on the Creeper when I come back.’
‘Sure. Watch yourself down there. The press have got wind of the shootings and they’re crawling over the local ER rooms.’
The office door is opened by Amy Chang, her face full of sympathy. ‘I came straight over when I heard.’
Mitzi’s glad to see her. ‘Thanks.’
Matthews can’t let her leave without spelling things out, bracing her for the worst. ‘Things don’t look good with Nic. The docs last night said it was sixty-forty against him pulling through.’
‘Screw the docs.’ Mitzi pulls the door open. ‘He’s got a boat to sail and I’m gonna damn well make sure he does.’
179
COUNTY HOSPITAL, LOS ANGELES
The trip out to County almost breaks the lieutenant’s job-hardened heart.
She’d hoped that turning up at his bedside would have some magical effect – like it does in films. But it hasn’t. Nic Karakandez is as pale as a ghost.