The door was locked.
He checked his pockets. What came out in his hand was not the key to the room, but the key and remote to Stella’s car. He turned around and looked again at the little blue Hyundai. Had she found him and in the few minutes before he woke up decided to run out for breakfast, first shoving the key into his pocket? He looked up and down the road passing in front of the motel. There were no eating establishments within view, thus within reasonable walking distance. Why did she not take the car? Why would she have left him on the floor? Why did he have her keys?
He searched again in his pockets but found no room key. Noting the room number, 114, he approached the office at the end of the building. The office door was locked; a key drop-box to the side. A sign on the door indicated it opened at 6:30. He looked at his watch. It was 6:07. He walked back to Stella’s car, trying to decide what to do.
Get to a phone, was the only thing that came to mind. He had to find out about Trish. He unlocked the car and got in. He’d drive along this road until he found a phone. In the meantime he’d hopefully figure out where he was.
His shoulder injury made it difficult to get the key in the ignition. Once he did so and got the car started, he twisted a little further in his seat in order to reach across to put the gear selector in reverse, only to wrench his shoulder. He dropped the seat back, closed his eyes and waited for the searing pain to settle. Just as he started to bring himself upright the inside of the car started spinning, and he became nauseous, something acidy rising in his throat, the taste of bile in his mouth. He tried to suck up saliva and wished again that he had water, that he’d at least drawn some from the bathroom tap when he was in there.
He remained in the semi-prone position until the nausea faded away and the inside of the car appeared normal again. Suddenly there came the sound of a roaring engine followed by a car skidding to a stop, and then another. He pulled himself up far enough to look out the driver’s side window. Legs spread, service revolver pointed directly at CJ, stood a sheriff’s deputy.
“Turn off your vehicle and put your hands on the dash,” the deputy ordered.
CJ complied as best he could and then pressed his head against the steering wheel. In a way it was a relief because he could get all his questions answered, though he had no idea why he was being arrested again. Over the next few minutes, as he was extracted from Stella’s car and subjected to more mind-numbing pain as they handcuffed him and pushed him into the patrol car, CJ was able to conclude that he was once again setup by the perp. There was likely another body. Whose body was it? Another hooker? How did the perp get Stella’s car? Where was Stella? What about Trish?
The deputies, tight-mouthed against his questions, only read him his rights and reported their prize catch on their shoulder mikes.
Chapter 44
“The key to the motel in front of which you were parked was found at the most recent crime scene, next to the body of a young U of A coed. Again, not a hooker, Mister Washburn. You’ve apparently scared them all off the street so you had to grab the first young female you saw. Didn’t even take the time to put her in the dumpster this time, just dumped her in the weeds next to it. You were in such a hurry you dropped your motel key, thus the reason the deputies found you asleep in the car instead of in the motel room. You’re getting sloppy.”
CJ wanted to reach across and punch Agent Crane in the nose and then stomp up and down on the smirk on Detective Bunko’s face. The relief he felt, however, with knowing that Stella was not the victim was enough to settle him. Ignoring the agent’s opening statement, CJ asked, “Where’s my daughter, Patricia? What’s happened to her?”
“Your daughter is in intensive care. She’s being taken care of. If you’re lucky, she’ll live and you won’t be charged with manslaughter on top of all the first degree murders.”
“Man slaughter!” CJ was incredulous. “You think I had something to do with….” He couldn’t believe his ears. “We were both kidnapped, zapped with a stun gun, handcuffed. She jumped from the van trying to escape while I distracted the perp. There were people around, witnesses.”
“What the witnesses saw, Mister Washburn, was your daughter jumping or being thrown out of a black van and then the van speeding away.”
“She wasn’t thrown out!” CJ realized he was yelling, tried to relax, remain calm. “We talked about what to do. At the first red light where he had to stop, I’d distract him while she escaped.” He sat back and his chin dropped to his chest. “It didn’t work. She got hit by a car and I got zapped a couple more times and thrown around inside the van.”
“So you say.”
“I’m not talking any more until my attorney gets here.”
“I’d say that’s the only smart thing you’ve said all morning. She’s on her way.”
“And I want to see my daughter.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
Five minutes after Gianna Onassis arrived she was in Agent Stratton’s face and pointing at CJ. “You need to get him to an ER. His shoulder is either dislocated or broken, he has a black eye and it looks like he's been struck in the face with a baseball bat. I'd be willing to bet that he has a concussion."
“You a doctor, Ms Onassis?”
“Do you want the heat if I’m correct and you never did anything about it? My client has the right to medical care, Agent Stratton, and you know that.”
Stratton scowled. “I’ll get it arranged.”
When the agent had left, Gianna sat down next to CJ. “I checked on Patricia for you. She’s pretty much out of danger but she’s still in a medically induced coma until the swelling goes down. She’s lucky. The car that hit her had almost made it to a stop.”
“How bad were her injuries?”
“A broken ankle. The issue is the swelling on her brain, I’m told. She hit the pavement rather hard.”
CJ gulped back another bit of bile that now seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat and looked up at the ceiling.
“Tell me what happened,” Gianna said. “They believe you were driving.”
CJ shook his head. “We were abducted, subdued with a stun gun, or several stun guns. The way they kept coming he may have had two. Look at my cheek, my neck. I’ve got at least a half dozen burn marks all over my body. So does Trish. It’s lucky neither of us are dead with all the shocks he hit us with. When she jumped out I was trying to distract the perp. He had my hands cuffed behind my back so when he took off I was thrown around like a rag doll.” He held up his right arm even though the pain was excruciating. “See the contusions around my wrist. That’s from the handcuffs.”
Gianna took his hand and carefully turned it this way and that. “Start from the beginning. Walk me though the entire series of events until the deputies found you this morning.”
CJ sat back. “I could use some aspirin.”
“Not until we get you checked out. Tell me what happened.”
He adjusted the position of his arm to gain a little less discomfort and then started with the two of them heading out for a walk the previous afternoon.
Not long after Gianna had departed, giving CJ the order not to talk to anyone, two uniformed officers showed up to escort him to Northwest Medical Center where he was taken in through a side entrance. He didn’t want publicity any more than did they so he’d agreed to wearing a floppy hat, though it hurt his head and he doubted anyone would have recognized him if he looked as bad as he felt. After the shoulder X-rays he was sitting on an exam room table while a nurse cut away hair and washed the two areas on his head where he’d been bleeding. She hadn’t quite finished when a doctor walked in. She stepped aside and he took a close look at the contusions.
“Have you vomited?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” CJ said, noticing the name, Gordon Blask, on his name badge. “I have had some feelings of nausea this morning, some dizziness. Before I woke up, though, I think I was unconscious for fourteen or fifteen hours.”
“Yes.”
The exam room door opened and closed, but because CJ’s back was to the door he didn’t see who had entered. He assumed it was another nurse. One officer was already inside. Maybe the other one came in.
“Have you taken any drugs, pain killers?”
“No, but I could sure use something for my shoulder.”
“I’ll write a prescription for that. Meanwhile I suggest you take nothing more than acetaminophen. You can get it over-the-counter. No aspirin or ibuprofen or any other anti-inflammatory drugs.”
CJ glanced over at the officer who was keeping an eye on the procedure, maybe making sure the doctor didn’t slip him a file. “I doubt a stop at Walgreens is in the orders.”
“That will be taken care of.” The voice came from the individual behind CJ who had just entered. The voice, so familiar, though he hadn’t heard it in years, paused CJ’s breathing and sent his heart rate up a few beats, followed by a wave of nausea. He clenched his jaw and tried to will it down.
The voice belonged to…. CJ wanted to turn to look, but didn’t want to be disappointed, didn’t want to face him like this if it was. What would he be doing right here, right now anyway? Anyone could have a similar voice pattern, so it was obviously someone else. He looked at the police officer standing guard and saw no concern on his face, thus total acceptance to the individual who’d walked in. Another cop or FBI agent most likely, CJ surmised. He certainly had to be mistaken as to who he initially thought the voice belonged.
His stomach suddenly felt like someone had stuck it with a cork screw and was twisting it. He gritted his teeth, took a breath and held it; grunted.
“What’s the matter?” Dr. Blask said.
CJ forced away the bile rising up his throat, suddenly feeling a chill. “Urts... Naus-us,” he said. “Co….” Then he broke out in a sweat. He knew his words were slurred, but he couldn’t get them to come out correct. “Eel afy.”
The doctor took CJ’s wrist and looked at his wristwatch. “Pulse is 120,” he said then shined his light in CJ’s eyes again. “Look at me.”
CJ tried to look at him but the room was swimming.
“Squeeze my hand.”
CJ didn’t understand what the doctor was asking. He raised his hand and tried to push him away, push the light out of his eyes, out of his face. “Moof,” he said. “Urts. Wha…?”
And then suddenly, it all stopped; his focus snapped back, the nausea and the pain ceased, his heart rate settled. He looked at the nurse, over to the officer who appeared to be ready to jump in if CJ had gotten violent, and then at the doctor. “What just happened?”
The doctor shined the light again and started moving it back and forth. “Follow the light.”
CJ did so.
“Squeeze my hand.”
Again CJ followed the command.
The doctor took CJ’s left arm and appeared to study it for a short time. He let it go. “It appears Mister Washburn that you just suffered a seizure.”
“A seizure?” CJ was flabbergasted. “From my head injuries?”
Doctor Blask stood. “That was my initial thought, but I see you’ve had a recent injection in your arm. Does that mean anything to you?”
CJ looked down at his arm, saw the tiny red area to which the doctor was referring. “No. I haven’t had anything since a flu shot last year.”
“It’s possible the seizure was from the injuries, however, if I were a betting man, which I am not so I’ll wait on the tox-screens to confirm, I’d say you’ve been drugged.”
“Drugged? With what?”
“My best guess—again the tox-screen will confirm—is flunitrazepam, the most common brand being Rohypnol.”
“Rohypnol. I’ve never heard of it.”
“I’m sure you have,” said the voice behind him. “It goes by several street names. You’d be more familiar with roofie.”
“The date-rape drug?”
Dr. Blask nodded. “That is quite correct. Haven’t seen too much of it around here, however.”
“It’s prevalent in Texas and Florida,” said the voice. “Doesn’t usually get this far west.”
“Have you been unusually irritable or restless?” Dr. Blask asked.
CJ looked at the doctor. “I’d have to say both, but then I do have a situation going on here that’s a tad on the stressful side.”
The doctor held out his hand. “Squeeze my hand again.”
CJ did so.
“Do you sense any loss of strength?”
“No.”
He looked at CJ’s eyes again. “How long did you say you were unconscious?”
CJ thought about what time they’d gone for the walk. “Roughly fourteen hours.”
“Are you sure you didn’t take anything to knock you out, something to help you sleep?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I hate drugs. I put off taking aspirin until I have to and right now I’d be grateful for something extra strong.”
“Hmm,” the doctor said.
“Do you know anything about my daughter, Patricia? Is she at this hospital? What is her condition?”
The doctor looked over CJ’s shoulder as though getting an okay from the mystery individual. When his eyes returned to CJ he said, “She’s still in intensive care, Mister Washburn, but only because she needs to be watched closely while in an induced coma. I expect a day or two before she’ll be awakened. After that, barring any unforeseen complications, a full recovery, though she may have a slight limp for the remainder of her life, or maybe not.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to order up an X-ray of your cranium and a CT scan just to make sure the bases are covered.” He looked at the nurse. “You can go ahead and finish up.” With that, Dr. Blask left.
There was complete silence while she did her work. When she was finished she said, “Someone will be by to get you for your X-ray and CT scan,” and then was gone, followed by the police officer.
But CJ wasn’t alone. He could still sense the individual behind him, the one who had entered and said he’d take care of the prescription, the one whose voice sent a shock through CJ’s system. He slid off the table as carefully as he could without jarring his shoulder and then turned around.
Standing before him was a physical attitude in a government prescribed suit that stood out like the shiny badge on a rookie cop, and it screamed FBI agent. Also standing before him was the man CJ hadn’t seen in over six years, but whose voice he’d have known if it had been sixty. The emotions that rose up in him seemed to rip out his vocal cords and he was immediately tossed between having to sit down and wanting to step across the room and give the man a hug. All he managed to do was remain rooted in place and force out the name he and his mother had given him nearly twenty-five years before.
“Josh.”
Chapter 45
“It’s been a long time, Dad.”
Suddenly CJ felt dizzy and had to reach out for the edge of the exam table. Before he could think much beyond that, Josh had a chair pulled over and was guiding his father into it.
When he was settled and his thoughts had cleared, CJ said, “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself. How long have you been an agent?”
Josh sat back against the exam table and crossed his arms. “About a year.”
“Where?”
“Denver.”
CJ nodded, but didn’t know what else to say. After a time he said, “You must have gone to school.”
“Boston University, criminal justice.”
“How did you manage that without my finding out about it?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
There was another stretch of silence.
“Have you checked on your sister?”
“Of course. She’s the reason I’m here.”
“B
ut you thought you ought to stop in and say hi to your old man, the accused serial killer.”
“Something like that.”
“How long you staying?”
“Until Trish is awake and out of intensive care, maybe even out of the hospital. I’m here on personal time so it all depends.”
CJ bowed his head. “I’m sorry she got involved in this.”
Josh pushed to his feet. “Me, too.” He stepped to the door then turned back to his father. “Like I said, I’ll make sure your prescriptions are filled.” And then he was gone.
The officer came back in and CJ remained seated, staring at his feet.
By the time CJ had gotten his X-ray and CT scan, the word had apparently gotten out that he was there. As they stepped out the side-door through which they had entered, CJ’s hands again handcuffed in front of him despite his shoulder being bound, the floppy hat covering his face, they were met by two teams of reporters with tiny little recording devices pointed at his nose.
“Mister Washburn, is it true that you kidnapped your own daughter with the intent to murder her and throw her into a dumpster just like the rest of your victims?”
CJ lunged toward the woman, but was snapped back by the two officers. The resultant pain surge dropped him to his knees. One officer drew him up by his good arm then guided him, or more like pushed him, through the reporters to the waiting van. Inside, CJ settled and closed his eyes for the twenty minute trip back to his holding cell, the bile in his mouth a constant presence.
On his bunk, he laid, staring up at the ceiling, wishing for sleep, knowing it wasn’t going to come easy. He also wondered if Josh was actually going to fill the prescription, or would he just leave his old man hanging, in pain? He probably deserved it if he did.
Chapter 46
On Wednesday, about noon, CJ was taken to an interview room by two of Tucson’s finest, handcuffed to a table and then left alone. Except for his shoulder, he was feeling much better. The prescribed pain killer, which magically showed up early Tuesday evening, deadened the pain to a tolerable level and helped him sleep. As far as why he was summoned from his cell, he wasn’t told and he didn’t ask. At this point he didn’t much care unless it was to give him good news about Trish. He doubted that was the case because it seemed as though no one gave a damn about him, or about how he felt. Out of sight, out of mind. He hadn’t even heard from Stella. She was probably pissed at him because now her car had been impounded. Apparently, according to Stratton, it had been used in the commission of the last murder. Trace evidence of the victim, one Jasmine Stone, had been found in the trunk. CJ was certain that the samples they took from his clothes, his hair, and under his fingernails would also, thanks to the ingenuity of the perp, reveal little bits of Ms Stone. Add to it that they arrested him while sitting in the car and they might as well just put the needle in him now and save the tax payers a lot of money.
Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1) Page 20