Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Get your ass out of the truck!” Tim shouted.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Harrington parked on the west side of the park and ride’s lot, opposite, and far away, from the main entrance. While his vehicle was unmarked, it still could easily be identified as law enforcement by the license plates and small antennas on the trunk lid—we wanted it out of view. Beth and I parked at the front of the lot, near the handicap parking spots, which were mostly vacant. If there was to be gunfire, I wanted the emptiest area possible.

  “There he is,” Beth said.

  We stood outside our car with eyes on the park and ride’s entrance.

  “Can you see Wendell?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I brought the phone back to my mouth. “Peterson, is Wendell behind you?”

  “I don’t see him,” Peterson said.

  “Wait at the light to turn in. We need to make sure he sees where you’re going.”

  “Got it,” Peterson said. “Actually, I think I see him at the bottom of the off-ramp back there. Small blue car, you said?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s him, I’m thinking. That looks like a Ford.”

  “Okay. Turn in when you get the chance. Park next to us in the front. We’re in a dark rental sedan. You’ll see us. We’re out of the car.”

  “All right. What are we doing when he pulls in?”

  “Leave him to us. As soon as you see him get out of his vehicle, get out of here.”

  “Got it. I’m pulling in.”

  “Yup.” I hung up. We waved Peterson toward us, and he headed in our direction. I pointed to where I wanted him to park, and Beth and I jogged across the parking lot. We sat down in the glass waiting area. I scooped up a newspaper left on the bench by someone else, pulled my service weapon, and used the paper to conceal it. Beth took her phone from her pocket and tapped at its blank screen.

  “Do you see Wendell yet?” Beth asked.

  I lifted my head and had a quick look. “Yeah, he’s rounding the corner toward us right now.”

  “Okay, I have him,” Beth said.

  Wendell stopped before us, directly in line between us and Peterson. I heard his gearshift click into park. He stepped from the vehicle, leaving the driver’s door open at his back. Beth and I both raised our heads.

  Wendell advanced on Peterson’s truck.

  I dropped the paper and lifted my weapon. Beth stuffed her phone into her pocket, stood, and pulled her gun from her holster.

  Wendell lifted a pistol and pointed it toward Peterson.

  “Get your ass out of the truck!” Wendell shouted.

  Peterson’s instructions had been to leave the second he saw Wendell leave his vehicle—except he wasn’t leaving. The driver’s door of the truck opened.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Beth asked.

  “We’re not finding out. Wendell! FBI!” I shouted. “On the ground, now!”

  Wendell spun toward us, and the gun aimed at Beth and me.

  “Drop the gun!” Beth shouted.

  “No one is stopping me from what I need to do,” he said.

  Wendell walked in our direction, back toward his vehicle.

  “Drop the gun. Get your ass on the ground!” I said.

  He didn’t obey but returned to the doorway of his vehicle.

  “Tim. Tim Wendell!” Peterson shouted.

  Wendell turned his head back toward Peterson.

  Peterson walked to the front of his truck, out of any kind of cover. He didn’t hold a weapon. Peterson held both hands, empty and open, out to his sides. “Let’s talk about this,” he said. “I tried helping you.”

  “I gave you the name of the man who killed my sister, and you did nothing,” Wendell said. He held his gun, pointed at Peterson.

  “I looked into him. Hell, I looked into every name that you gave me. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t him.”

  “It was him. Did you check his alibi? No. He left where he said he was two hours prior to when he told you. You would have known that if you looked into it. You let him skate on killing Carrie.”

  “His wife corroborated his story,” Peterson said.

  “His wife was with him! Of course she did!” Tim shouted. “After you washed your hands of it, I did some follow-up work. I met with the babysitter. She told me the exact time that they got home. Said the wife was shaken up when they arrived. I met with some of the people that were at the fundraiser. They also gave me the same time that the Ridleys left.”

  “I, uh…” Peterson stammered.

  “You, uh, what? Would have known that if you actually did your job? It took me two days of follow-up to prove their alibi worth shit. If you would have taken just one of my damn calls, you would have known that. I came to the station how many times, and you wouldn’t see me. They’d escort me out of the building.”

  “I’m sorry,” Peterson said.

  “You’re what? Sorry?” Wendell paced back and forth along the driver’s side of the Ford, never taking his aim off Peterson, who had his complete attention. He shook his head.

  I motioned to Beth that I was rounding the car. She nodded.

  I kept my sights on Wendell and started toward the Ford’s trunk.

  “Wendell, drop the weapon,” I said.

  His head snapped toward me. “No.”

  Beth moved around the front of the vehicle.

  Wendell focused on me. “I apologize,” he said.

  He raised his left arm just a bit, and I saw a gun barrel under it. I couldn’t fire for fear of hitting Beth. I dove to the ground to the sound of two gunshots. I immediately heard another two and then another two. I glanced down at myself, not seeing any blood or feeling any pain. I heard the chirp of tires, and the Ford, just five feet from me, shot forward through the parking lot. I pulled my feet underneath me and looked to my left. Peterson lay on the ground at the front of his truck. I stood and looked for Beth. She lay on the ground twenty feet ahead of me and off to my right.

  “Prick tried running me over.” Beth grimaced as she stood up.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Past her, Wendell was making a left at the end of the parking lot. I tried to get a look between the cars and saw Harrington’s gray Crown Victoria ripping through the lot at high speed. A quick metallic crack caught my ear, the sound of two cars coming together. A horn wailed.

  I looked back over at Peterson—still on the ground and not moving. “Check on Peterson,” I said.

  Beth headed for him at the front of his truck.

  I felt a slowly building pain in my right arm. I pulled at my suit jacket and tried to give the area a look. A tuft of my suit-jacket lining was red with blood and protruding from my jacket just below my shoulder. Wendell had hit me with a shot. I lifted my arm up and down and pushed it forward—it functioned, but the pain built.

  I dismissed the pain and ran toward where I’d last seen Harrington’s car and heard the impact. The noise from the car horn stopped. I dipped through the row of parked cars and caught a visual of the back of Wendell’s stolen Ford. I heard two gunshots in succession and continued running another fifty feet to the two cars.

  They came into full view, the setting sun reflecting in my eyes off the roof of the Ford. Harrington’s car was lodged into the driver’s side of Wendell’s—the driver’s door of the Crown Victoria hung open. The blue Focus’s trunk faced me, and I couldn’t see Wendell in the car. Harrington’s car had a bullet hole in the windshield and a deployed airbag behind it—I couldn’t see Harrington either.

  “Harrington!” I shouted.

  “He’s still in the car!” his voice shouted back. “I got sights on it.”

  My eyes went back to the Focus just as the passenger door opened.

  I pointed my gun at the open passenger doorway. “Wendell! Out of the car!” I yelled.

  He didn’t come out or respond verbally.

  A moment later, a pistol flew from the doorway
and skidded across the pavement of the parking lot. I advanced on the passenger side of the vehicle and kicked the weapon farther across the lot. It bounced off the curb at the lot’s edge and came to rest twenty feet from me. I took aim on Wendell inside of the vehicle. He lay across the seats, his head nearest me.

  Wendell’s neck craned, and he looked out the open doorway at me.

  “I need an ambulance,” he said. “I’m shot.”

  “Out of the car. Face down on the ground,” I said.

  “I can’t. My legs are stuck between the door and center console.”

  “Shut the vehicle off. Throw the keys out. No sudden movements.”

  Wendell did as instructed. The keys clanked as they landed a few feet from my shoes.

  “Harrington, are you injured?” I called.

  I glanced over at his vehicle to see him pop up from behind the driver-side door. Blood ran from his dark hairline and down into the stubble of his beard.

  “I’ll be fine. Just hit my head a little. I’ve been keeping aim on the car from the cover of the door.”

  “Call for an ambulance,” I said. “I have him covered.”

  Harrington ducked back into his vehicle to make the call over his car’s radio.

  I stared at Wendell. “Do you have another weapon?”

  “Nothing. I give up,” he said. “Is Peterson dead?”

  I didn’t respond.

  Harrington left his car, keeping aim on the Focus, and rounded the hood toward me. “I called for paramedics and called it into the locals. We should have some people on scene here in a couple minutes.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Harrington stared at me. “You’re hit?” He motioned to my arm.

  “I’ll make it.” I glanced down at the area. There was significantly more blood than the last time I’d looked.

  “Are you guys going to get me out of here?” Wendell asked.

  I spoke to Harrington across my shoulder. “I’ll keep a gun on him. Can you pull your car back?”

  Harrington nodded and went to his driver’s seat. He fired the motor and clicked the car into reverse. The Focus bucked as Harrington pulled the nose of his Crown Victoria free from the driver’s side of the vehicle. Harrington shut his car down, stepped out, and brought his weapon back onto Wendell.

  “I got him,” I said. “Try the door.”

  Harrington went to it. While I couldn’t see what he was doing, I could see the vehicle shaking. I kept my focus on Wendell, who winced each time the car moved.

  “This thing is pretty sunken in,” Harrington said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get it open. This half of a door handle I’m pulling against isn’t giving me too much leverage.”

  “We’ll wait,” I said.

  I caught the sound of feet slapping against pavement. I turned my head to see Beth jogging up. She stopped at my side. “I hit him twice before he got back into the car. He should have dropped.”

  “He’s alive. Says he’s trapped in the car,” I said. “We’re going to wait on the EMTs and local law enforcement.”

  Beth got a look into the vehicle at Wendell.

  “Peterson?” I asked.

  “He’s still at the front of his truck. He took two rounds in the back.”

  Wendell’s face showed a glimpse of what looked like satisfaction through his pain.

  Beth continued, “He had on a vest. He should be fine.”

  “What the hell was his dumb ass doing?” I asked. “All he had to do was drive away.”

  “I already got into it with him. He said that he thought he’d be able to reason with him.”

  “Yeah, guess not,” I said. “Dumb ass is lucky he’s breathing.”

  Wendell’s face had been turning from pain to anger as Beth and I discussed the lieutenant. “He’s not dead?” he asked.

  “Be quiet,” I said.

  “He needs to die.”

  “I’d be worried about yourself not dying if I were you.”

  He put both hands out before him, toward Beth and me on the passenger side, and dug his fingertips down into the passenger seat, clawing at it. He grabbed the far edge and yanked, screaming as he did, and pulled himself a few inches out of his trapped position. I kept my gun on him.

  “Stop moving,” I said.

  Beth brought the sights of her firearm up on him.

  “This isn’t over until he’s dead.” Grabbing the seat, Wendell let out another wail and lurched forward again. He’d moved himself a good foot closer to the passenger door. A bit of his left leg had come free from between the crushed door and dash. Something was protruding from the side of his pant leg—a bloody bone. He wailed, grabbed the seat edge, and pulled himself again. Wendell hung half out of the passenger door void. “He failed her. He has to die,” he said.

  Wendell’s side was bloody. I attributed that to Beth’s gunfire and his reference to having been shot. I looked him over as he scratched away at the cement outside the car, trying to pull himself out. Both hands were empty—I didn’t see another weapon anywhere.

  I kept aim on Wendell and walked over. His body was almost entirely out of the doorway. I balled the back of his shirt in my hand and pulled him to the ground outside the car, facedown. I took hold of his left hand, mounted his back, and reached for my cuffs. Wendell’s right hand pawed off the cement, trying to pull himself back toward where the lieutenant was. I linked his left wrist, held it down against the small of his back and reached out for his flailing right arm. Wendell’s fingernails scratched across the cement leaving white marks. I took his wrist in my grasp, and he fought me with everything he had left. Some slight adjustment of my weight on his back made him comply, and I linked his right wrist.

  “Timothy Wendell, you’re under arrest,” I said.

  I lifted myself from his back. The sounds of sirens in the distance caught my ear.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The next morning, Friday, we sat in Couch’s office, waiting on Isaac Sellers to arrive. I took a look at my watch—a couple minutes before ten.

  I looked over at Beth, seated beside me. “What time is your flight?”

  “One thirty,” she said.

  “Okay, that should work fine. I can drop off the rental at the airport, grab a personal one, and get up to Tampa in time to pick up Karen. Her flight doesn’t land until seven.”

  “She’s just coming for the weekend?” Beth asked.

  “Yeah. We’ll get some dinner and a hotel tonight and then head to Kane’s tomorrow. Back at work Monday morning for both of us.”

  “Ball would probably give you a day or two. Just tell him you got shot. Hell, that would probably at least get you a week or two of paid vacation.”

  I flicked at the top of my bicep. “I don’t think a few stitches from a bullet graze qualifies for that much time off.”

  “You’d be surprised. They’d probably give you a medal if you played it up well.”

  I waved her comment away. “Not my style. Just trying to do my job.” I looked at my watch again. “Where the hell is Couch? He said meet him here at nine thirty. We’ve been sitting in here for like twenty minutes.”

  “I don’t know. Sellers should be here any minute if he’s not already,” Beth said.

  We continued our small talk for another few minutes until we heard Couch’s voice outside his office door.

  The door handle clicked, and Couch walked in. “Sorry, guys,” he said. “I was just upstairs. We were trying to figure out just what the hell to do with Ridley’s wife.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I forgot to call Officer Cabral back this morning and see what happened. I missed a couple of calls last night from him. By the time that we were wrapped up with everything, I figured it was too late to try him back. The last I heard from him, he was going to stop her at the airport.”

  “He did,” Couch said. “When he couldn’t get a hold of you, he called the office here, and word got through to me. I made contact with him. He took her back to his stati
on where she, I don’t know, confessed I guess, to covering for her husband. She laid the entire story out. They both had been drinking. Ridley drove, and he veered into Carrie Baker’s lane, causing her to go off the right side of the freeway to avoid a collision, and she hit the pole. The wife even said she saw it while watching out the back window.”

  “And they just drove away?” Beth asked.

  “Yup. So now we’re trying to figure out just exactly what to do with her.”

  “The local PD there still has her?” I asked.

  “She’s in custody as we speak.”

  “And she knows about her husband—or husband that she separated from?” I asked.

  “She knows. I guess she knew prior to going to the airport.”

  “And the reason for going to the airport?” I asked. “Was that trying to make sure she wasn’t next on the list or trying to get out of town before anyone found out that she was in fact guilty of something?”

  “I don’t know. I guess she gave the story and then asked for her attorney. That’s about where we are at with it right now,” Couch said.

  I rubbed at my eye, thinking that her and her husband’s actions more than likely spurred every event that had taken place. My mind then went to Lieutenant Peterson. I couldn’t help but think that he could have done a bit more, and none of what had transpired would have. I tried to push both thoughts away.

  “Any update on Wendell?” I asked.

  “In the hospital, under guard, the last I heard. As soon as he’s medically cleared to be moved, he will be.”

  “Did we get into his confession letter yet?” Beth asked.

  “After finding it in the vehicle, it was logged as evidence and brought back here. I put Rivera and Pottsulo on checking off each person’s name that he’d written down. They just got started on it after our meeting this morning. He had thirty-three names written down. I’m thinking that between what we found at the house and his letter, we should be able to positively attribute each to him.”