For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  “Wait for me,” called the young doctor. He squeezed through the elevator doors just as they were about to close. He looked from one face to the next then turned his attention to the row of buttons. Seeing that none had been illuminated, he asked, “We going down?”

  “Yeah,” Marianna replied, stepping forwards to hit the ground floor button.

  Something above their heads whined quietly for a second and then the elevator began to descend. The journey was brief; the elevator slid to a stop and the doors opened with a metallic ping.

  Marianna grabbed Jake’s arm and pulled him quickly out of the booth. The guard hesitated for a moment and then followed them as they made their way towards the main lobby. At this time of night, the main entrance bustled with droves of leaving visitors, and the nightshift workers were arriving in groups of two or three, some tired looking, even though their twelve-hour shift hadn’t yet started.

  Marianna and Jake stepped out into a chilly February evening. The honk of a car horn drew their attention across to the fire lane.

  “Over there,” Marianna said, pointing towards Eugene’s battered Chevy. She turned to find the guard looming behind them. He appeared to be looking over at the Chevy with interest.

  “That your ride?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Marianna answered.

  “Okay, guess you guys can take it from here,” he said, eyes focused on the Chevy.

  “Thanks,” Marianna said, before leading Jake to the car. They crossed the short distance together and climbed inside the old vehicle. Marianna leaned into the backseat to make sure Jake was secure. As she did, she caught sight of the guard standing just inside the main foyer. And even though at least twenty yards of darkness separated them, she could have sworn she could still make out the flash of a smile filled with white teeth.

  Then, in the next instant, the car pulled away and the hospital front became just a blur, dark and distant, but one that was etched deeply into Marianna’s mind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Presley froze. The angry look on Timothy’s face intensified. His weapon continued to climb, and all Presley could do was watch in horror. The weapon levelled out and then came to rest, aimed at his midriff.

  “Hey, boss – we got us a real mess here,” Timothy said, his head lowering to the floor, jerkily, like an automaton’s.

  Presley was rooted to the floor. What the fuck was happening?

  Timothy’s head came back up to eye level, but it took what seemed like a great amount of will to do so. “Yeah, a real mess.” The heavy took a step through the doorwell, barely able to pick his feet up high enough to step over the dead kid, who lay halfway inside. He entered the room rigidly, both arms fixed tightly around the assault rifle. His legs looked incapable of bending at the knees correctly. He stopped in the centre of the bloodbath, covered in a layer of powdered chalk and plaster and looking like a Stormtrooper from one of the Star Wars movies.

  Presley just stared back, unable to understand what was going on. Then, as Timothy turned to take a look at the body behind him, he caught a glimpse of an open wound at the side of the other man’s head. A neat hole, just above the temple, appeared. Blood was already crusting around its edges. Presley stared open-mouthed at the ghastly wound.

  Unbelievably, the last bullet fired from the Derringer had found its mark. It took only a moment for Presley to understand that the bullet had lobotomised Timothy. A wave of nausea crashed over him. At every turn he seemed to face death and destruction.

  “Mosssesss…”

  Perkins stepped to his right, Timothy’s looming presence stood, oblivious. Another few steps brought Presley back into the hallway. He paused for just a second, to make sure that Timothy wasn’t following, then turned his back and quickly made his way towards the ground floor.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he got out of there as fast as he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Carter rubbed his tired eyes. The room went out of focus. He squinted heavily a couple of times and when the world again stabilised, he turned his attention back to the computer screen. He’d been trawling the VICAP database for an hour now, in the hope of finding something that would aid in his investigation, but so far nothing. No similar killings and nothing on this side of the coast or out West. Nor had he been able to find anything that vaguely resembled this recent grisly killing.

  His trip to the city morgue had proved just as fruitless. The instrument that had been used to sever Henry Jones’ tongue could have been done by anything from a sharpened knife to a razor-sharp scalpel. No trace had been found within the wound either. No oils, no fibres, no chemicals, nothing. As for the tongue itself, that, too was still a mystery. Understanding that some killers liked to take trophies, Carter hadn’t been surprised to find the lump of flesh in question missing. The pathologist had even checked the guy’s stomach and anus for it.

  Blood samples were now being processed by toxicology, and the rest of Jones’ autopsy would be completed later that evening. With clear signs of haemorrhaging to the eyes and specific bruising around the jaw area, the pathologist had stated quite confidently that the old man had likely been suffocated. He’d also concluded that the severing of the victim’s tongue had happened posthumously; based upon the sheer lack of blood that had leaked from the wound site.

  Carter looked down at the pad before him. The top line had the old man’s name written on it, underlined three times with a large question mark after it. So far, nothing about the old man’s past had jumped out and screamed for attention. No immediate relatives had visited him in hospital. Therefore, as of yet, nothing other than the basics had been added to Carter’s short list. He had the old man’s social security number, taken from hospital records, but nothing amazing or enlightening had come up yet.

  Henry Jones had been born June 17th 1920, putting him at eighty-six years at the time of death. He’d never been in trouble with the law, had made his tax payments on time, served his country briefly at the end of the Second World War, as a logistics officer, never seeing any real combat, and had married almost as soon as he returned home from overseas. His wife, Margaret, had died eight years ago. They’d registered two sons at City Hall, Jonathon and Edward, both of whom were also deceased: Jonathon died an infant due to meningitis, and Edward, more recently, in a car accident; perhaps explaining why no relatives had visited the old man during his time in hospital.

  Henry Jones’ health insurance had covered his treatment at St Mary’s; therefore, no other third party could be found at this moment in time. Carter had already submitted paperwork to the courts to subpoena Jones’ life insurance policies. Only then would they know who was likely to benefit financially by the old man’s passing.

  Worry gnawed at the pit of Carter’s stomach. Maybe they were looking at the beginnings of a serial killer? There didn’t appear to be any motive for Jones’ murder, nothing obvious anyway. And the taking of the tongue was a clear indication of the workings of a sick individual. It wouldn’t be the first time in history that a killer had trawled the bleached corridors of a medical institute in search of prey.

  Carter checked the time. The small clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor screen showed 7:33PM Tyler should be heading back anytime now.

  As if the young detective had sprung from his very thoughts, Tyler appeared on the other side of the department. She crossed the office, occasionally drawing attention from some of her male counterparts, before seating herself at Carter’s side. She dropped a thin folder onto his desk.

  “Anything?” she asked, looking at the list of information scrolled across the screen.

  “Nothing interesting. You?”

  She huffed a sigh, giving Carter his answer.

  Carter nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah – got ourselves a real mystery here.”

  Tyler pulled her notebook from her breast pocket. She flipped it open. “Lots of names, hospital staff, coming and going, some agency staff – which I’m having checked ou
t as we speak, but nothing that stands out as untrustworthy.”

  “Nobody acting suspiciously?” he asked.

  “Too early to say. Place was under loads of stress, what with the R.T.A. Greenwood referred to, lots of unfamiliar faces in unfamiliar places.”

  “Ideal situation for a killer to slip in unnoticed and do his ghastly deed.”

  “His?”

  “Sorry,” Carter said. “To do his or her ghastly deed.”

  Tyler smiled, but the gesture lacked humour. “That’s okay. I know we’re most likely dealing with a male unknown subject.”

  Carter nodded; history dictated that most serial killers were of male gender, and only occasionally did the female sex act out such heinous crimes.

  “Okay what about Audio Visual, they come up with anything?” Carter asked.

  Tyler reached out to open the folder out on his desk. “Got some stills to start with. They ain’t great, but it’s the best they could do at short notice.” She spread seven grainy black and whites out across the table.

  “What are we looking for?” Carter asked.

  “These are the security personnel.”

  Carter took the first photo, raised it to eyelevel, held it there momentarily, and then placed it back with the rest. “Okay what am I looking at?”

  All the photographs held a single figure in each, captured in a downwards angle, and of sufficient distance for the subjects’ faces to remain mostly unclear and almost unidentifiable. The one thing apparent, though, was the fact that all seven wore a distinctive dark blue uniform. NYPD. New York’s finest.

  “Okay,” Tyler started, “it’s a simple case of elimination.”

  Carter stood back, arms folded across his chest and watched as the younger detective took lead.

  “First photo,” she said, placing her finger against the still to the left. “Guy looks to be about 200 pounds, slightly taller than average. Maybe six-three. White.”

  Carter tilted his head to get a better view. “Agreed,” he stated.

  Tyler flipped over the photo to reveal a hand-scrawled list of details. “Lieutenant Greg Grillo.”

  “Go on,” Carter prompted.

  She began to read each item off. “Greg Grillo, twenty-eight, approx 200 pounds, Caucasian. Studied at NY City Academy. Works the night tour, and has done since his induction two years ago.”

  Reaching out, Carter re-took the photo. He studied the picture for a long moment. “Okay, assuming I don’t know Officer Grillo, how can I be sure this is actually the guy?”

  “Had his Chief study these photos long and hard, until he’d made a confident ID on them all. All six of his night officers. Took him awhile, but you’d be surprised how much information can be gleamed by size, posture and stance alone.”

  Carter nodded a slight concurrence. He’d had a few cases broke by a witness’s ability to identify a suspect with little more that a blurred image to work with. Although the photo would rarely hold up in court, it was sometimes the one thing that would blow open a case, leading them to the perpetrator and a whole catalogue of admissible evidence.

  He offered the photo back to Tyler. Then counted the photos on the desk. Six remained.

  “You said ‘all six of his officers’?” he questioned. “There are seven in total.”

  Tyler placed the image at the end of the spread of photos. She reached over and took the one at the opposite end of the row. “This guy doesn’t seem to fit any of the Chief’s officers.” She turned the photo around to give Carter a look. There wasn’t much on offer. The guy’s cap was pulled down tight. Shadows filled in where the cap finished. The face was unidentifiable. Still, the uniform was relatively clear in comparison.

  Nothing unusual sprang out at Carter.

  “Could have been a municipal cop, off the streets, maybe having arrived in attendance to the R.T.A.” he said.

  Tyler shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at his hip.”

  “What?”

  “His hip,” Tyler pressed.

  Carter took the photo. He brought it up close and squinted. Something about the weapon’s shape got the detective’s interest.

  “What model is hospital security issued with?” he asked.

  “Glock 17 or Glock 19,” Tyler responded. Her hand moved to her side. She undid the clip to her holster and slid out her service revolver. A Glock 19. She placed it on the table.

  Carter looked harder at the photo. The weapon against the guy’s hip was no Glock. The clip looked too long – possibly long enough to hold 20 rounds, 8 more than a Glock – and the muzzle pushed out beyond its holster by at least an inch.

  Tyler watched as Carter’s face took on understanding. She retook her weapon and slid it back into her holster. Clipping it shut, she turned for her partner to inspect. The Glock was a secure fit. Just a hint of its grip was visible. The muzzle concealed within its holster.

  Carter’s attention returned to the photo. This weapon had either been modified or was some sort of foreign make that neither of them recognised. The one thing that was clear was that no New York City cop would be walking around with an illegal firearm strapped to his hip.

  “We need to find this guy,” Carter said. “And real quick.”

  “I’ve got the Audio Visual Unit working on it now. They should be able to pull some details off the photo in a few hours.”

  “How long exactly?” Carter asked, eager to find out who this individual was.

  “I’ll chase it up,” Tyler responded.

  The older detective reached out to open a drawer. He snatched up his car keys, deciding that he had time to pay St Mary’s another visit. Knowing that time alone in his apartment would tick by with agonising slowness. Understanding that time was the one thing he had a plentiful amount left to suffer, he hoped that his time as a grieving parent would mercifully come to an end – and soon. No matter how brutal that ending may be.

  Time.

  A luxury for some.

  A death sentence for others.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An unnerving silence filled the hospital corridors. Now that visiting hours were over and the usual daytime chaos had drawn to an end, the white passageways fell bleak and sombre. Only the occasional nurse or doctor walked the corridors, alone, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking as they passed.

  Officer Gore stretched in his seat, positioned outside the door to Joseph Ruebins’ room. Only Doctor Greenwood and the nurse were allowed to enter. The nurse had administered a shot of medicine – a cup of dark blue liquid – that Gore had prayed wasn’t hiding some sort of poison. Now that Gore appreciated whom he was protecting, he felt concerned about Ruebins’ well-being and was committed to overseeing the ex-champ’s protection. The blue liquid turned out to be nothing more menacing that a simple anti-inflammatory, to help with his facial swelling.

  Doctor Greenwood had arrived shortly afterwards. Sitting beside Joseph, he delivered a long monologue. Gore had caught little of the conversation and even less of its understanding. Something about a transient ischaemic attack – or mini-stroke, as the doctor had kept referring to it. Still, the Doctor’s tone had sounded somewhat optimistic and once he’d left, Ruebins appeared a lot brighter.

  Gore checked his watch. At eight o’clock another uniformed officer would take over for the night shift. Only fifteen minutes remained.

  The elevator arrived on their floor and the doors opened with the sharp-sounding ping. Gore instinctively turned towards the noise. The doors clacked open, but the elevator was empty. Nobody exited, no one entered, and in time, the doors slid shut and the elevator resumed its journey to a different floor. Gore turned his attention back to the old magazine and began to read an article about a young white middleweight sensation, now retired for over half a decade.

  ***

  Inside the hospital room, Joseph fidgeted. His worries had now been countered with some degree of hope. Doctor Greenwood had stated that the first
set of tests had returned with good news: Joseph was not suffering from any sort of heart disease, albeit he did have a somewhat high cholesterol count, nor was he a victim of diabetes. So far, apart from the slight worry of his cholesterol level, Greenwood could only speculate on what had caused the blackouts. He was still optimistic that the MRI scan would show any abnormalities, even of the slightest kind, which would then give them a much clearer picture of Joseph’s condition. Perhaps, Doctor Greenwood had suggested, Joseph’s illness had been a result of a couple of tiny clots, which had now been dealt with by the combination of antiplatelet and anticoagulant drugs. If the results came back positive, Greenwood had told Joseph that he would consider discharging him as early as next week, providing he continued to make steady progress.

  Now, all Joseph could think about was going home. Although he didn’t think Marianna and Jake were in any real danger, he still wanted to be with them, sure in the knowledge that no harm could come to them if he was there.

  The TV in the corner of the room flickered silently. Joseph reached over to the nightstand and picked up the remote. He turned the sound higher and then flipped between channels until he found something interesting enough to distract him from his thoughts. HBO was showing a documentary about the talented yet hot-headed football star, Michael Tucker. Joseph turned the volume higher. Tucker was acting out his signature move on the screen. With both fists tight and thumbs pointed upward, Tucker chanted, “Show Time!” The mantra was normally a precursor to Tucker dishing out his own favourite brand of pleasure: Pain.

  ***

  Officer Gore heard the sound of voices coming from Joseph’s room. He jumped to his feet, the magazine falling to the floor in a flutter of pages. Gore stepped over it and rapped gently against the door. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed open the door and stuck his head in.