He could feel his smile getting bigger as he held the knife to her forehead and pressed the tip into her skull. He heard the distant sound of thunder and almost laughed as he was knocked backwards. The knife had fallen. He knew he had been shot. He could feel the warmth of his blood spilling out of his arm. There was no pain though, so he stood up.
The whore had rolled over and was trying to crawl away. He grabbed her leg with one hand while the other patted around in the snow in search of the knife. He tugged on her leg, and twisted it. She spun around, almost willingly. From the angle of the headlight, he could see her face clearly. Blood dripped from the cut on her forehead, running down her face like a fast-flowing stream. She was snarling and when he saw her right arm arcing toward him, he knew why.
She had the knife and before he could turn away, the tip of the blade sliced a painful path through his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. He let go of the tramp’s leg and tried in vain to protect his face from the blow he had already received. His palms were pressed hard against his eyes.
The intensity of the wound amazed him. He wanted to pass out, but his screaming kept him from doing so. He fell onto his back and rolled around in the snow.
The snow under his head turned from white to red in seconds.
He knew he could not stay on the ground. The police would be coming and he needed to get away. The police would never understand everything he had been through. They would not take the time to listen to him. He had done nothing wrong, but felt sure the police would turn everything around and make him out to be the bad guy—like some kind of monster.
He managed to get to his feet.
“Don’t move,” The man who had shot him called out.
Martin ignored the sound of the man’s voice. He could hear the sound of an approaching car. The snowflakes kept landing on his eyelashes. The coldness felt wonderful on the slashing wounds, but he could not see where he was going.
“Everything all right?” Martin heard someone call out. It had to be that the driver of the approaching car had stopped. Martin ran toward the front of the van, since the sound of the driver’s voice came from somewhere behind him.
“If you could call the police and for an ambulance,” Martin presumably heard the man from the sedan with the gun say.
“I’ll go right now! Hang tight,” someone said. “I’ll go to a phone and call the police!”
Martin ran out into the road. The driver would stop. He would hop in, and the driver could get him to a hospital—and then off to Canada.
He heard the horn as he felt the grill of the vehicle crash into his thighs. This hurt, but was nothing compared to the feeling of falling backwards and slamming his head onto the pavement. He felt like a bowling ball dropped onto a lane. His head felt as if it were rolling down the lane and simultaneously smashing into all ten pins at once.
His eyes shut immediately. One fleeting prayer whisked its way through his mind. “Please God, please let me be dead.”
Chapter 59
Michael sat on a gurney at Park Ridge Hospital. He’d spent over an hour in the waiting room before being sent to sit and wait in the ER. Not one doctor had been by to check in on him. He thought about calling Jeff Marks, the intern, to talk about the way he felt he had been forced to wait with a broken nose and arm, but thought better of it, knowing Marks had more important issues on his plate.
The admitting nurse had given him a towel to press against his nose. For the most part the ambulance drivers had gotten the bleeding to stop. The place buzzed with hyper activity. The bad weather was responsible for several major car accidents, despite the time of night. Many people out at this hour were drunk. Drunk driving is a challenge all in itself. Throw a Rochester snowstorm into the equation and the drunk driver has not got a prayer.
The time left alone felt good. Michael’s mind had been a whirlwind. He could not think straight when they brought him in. Though he had some time to reflect, he still was not sure about everything, it had all happened so fast. All he knew for sure was that he was worried to death wondering how Felicia was doing.
Nearly an hour ago doctors rushed by Michael with Johnny the Blade on a matching gurney looking frantic and panicked. Michael wondered if the doctors were even aware of who they were rushing off to the operating room. Should it make a difference to them anyway?
“Mr. Buzzelli?” It was Detectives Cocuzzi and Cage. Cage had both hands in his pocket and was looking around the ER as if distracted. Cocuzzi had been the one speaking. He stared at Michael, a look of genuine concern in his expression. The use of Michael’s name had an unasked question attached to its tone, “Are you all right?”
“Hey guys,” Michael said, shaking his head. “I’m all right.”
“You did an amazingly commendable and stupid thing tonight,” Cocuzzi said. “We ran the van’s plates, checked with his ex-wife and we’re pretty sure this Martin Wringer is now our prime suspect. We found a knife that’s been bagged for evidence, we also found a gun. Did you fire that gun?”
“I did.”
“Who’s gun is it? Is it yours?”
Michael had no idea what kind of history might be attached to that weapon. He did not want to incriminate Marcus. Marcus would want to kill him by now anyway. He worried about anything else the police might find in Marcus’ car.
“It’s not mine. I know that, but I can’t remember where the gun came from.” The answer was lame and immediately attracted Cage’s attention.
“You used a gun to shoot Martin Wringer, but you don’t know where you got the gun from?” Detective Cage asked. He was standing there with one hand on his hip pointing a finger at Michael.
“That’s right,” Michael said, lifting the hair off his forehead. “See that bump? Amnesia, I think.”
“Bullshit!” Cage spat.
Cocuzzi put a silencing hand over Cage’s arm. “We’ll worry about the gun later. What about the car you were driving?”
“What about it?” Michael treaded water carefully.
“Where did you get it?”
“What do you mean?”
“He means the car was reported stolen earlier in the day. Except for your prints, we got nothing. Did you steal this car?” Cage asked.
Michael knew one thing immediately. The gun could not be traced to Marcus, because the car could not. If he had to he would bet the cell phone in the glove compartment would turn out to be stolen, too.
“The keys were in it,” Michael said. “So I guess you could say I stole it.”
Cocuzzi did not look concerned about the theft, since the car had been reported stolen well before Michael stole it again.
“How did you know the keys would be in it?” Cage asked.
Again, Cocuzzi quieted the detective with a touch. “How’s the nose?”
“Throbbing, but I’m okay.”
“The head?”
“I’ll live.”
“Still plan on doing the story if I give you an exclusive?” Cocuzzi said without a smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the nose bandaged, get some rest and call me in the morning. I won’t be going home anytime soon.” They shook hands. Cage shrugged and gave in. He shook hands with Michael, too. “And Buzzelli?”
“Yeah?”
“You did a nice job. Thanks.”
Chapter 60
Thursday, January 31
Homicide Detective Jason Cocuzzi felt like crap. He had been stuck in meetings all week long. The FBI agents showed up on Monday anyway. That day and most of Tuesday had been spent briefing them. Pete Cage had made a funny comment, “Two days we've been going over this crap. What’s brief about it?”
On Wednesday Cage went back across the river. It did not seem to matter much to his captain that a journalist cracked the case and a prostitute caught the serial killer. Cage would be treated like a hero in Irondequoit. It did not matter. What did matter to Cocuzzi, like him or not, was the fact that he did not want to have to work with that arr
ogant, cocky son of a bitch ever again.
Though the case was solved and now in the hands of the media, Cocuzzi planned on taking some time off. Aside from feeling like crap, he also felt tired. He was sick of the weather, the slate gray skies and unpredictable storms. Most of him loved the city. He could not imagine himself moving to another. A small, nagging part of him wanted out. Not just out of Rochester, but out of the police business. If he left before landing twenty years on the force, his pension would be a laughable joke. Early retirement was out of the question. He did not want a paper-pushing job, he realized as he leaned back in his chair behind his desk. The top was covered with papers and he did not have the energy or drive to work on the reports.
So a vacation made the most sense. He had accumulated the maximum weeks of vacation and carried them over from year to year. A month off—spent in a tropical paradise—sounded so good. He laced his fingers and put his hands behind his head while closing his eyes and picturing Nassau in the Bahamas? The Florida Keys? He had never been to either location and always dreamed of going.
Then he felt it, the odd sensation of someone watching him. Slowly he opened his eyes. He removed his hands from behind his head when he saw Christine Wrzos standing alongside his desk. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking,” Jason Cocuzzi said, almost defensively, as if his mother had caught him flipping through the pages of a dirty magazine.
“Happy thoughts, I could tell,” the young female officer said.
“Can I help you?” It sounded curt and rude. He felt uncomfortable around her now. He did not know how he should behave. What did she expect of him, if anything, after that kiss. Should he expect anything of her? Calling her a few nights back had been one of the only things on his mind. Actually doing so was another story completely. His stubborn head told him just to forget anything happened and ignore everything else. But with her standing next to him, that stubborn advice seemed futile and useless.
“So formal,” she said. “Well, if you want to put it that way, then yes. You can help me. I’m hungry and would like to be taken to dinner tonight.”
“Wzros, it’s ten a.m.”
“So. After lunch, I know I’ll be hungry again around super time. Is it a date, or no?” Some of her self-confidence was wearing. It had to be extremely difficult for a cop to ask out a superior.
“Sounds like a date.”
She smiled and simply walked away from his desk. Scratching his head he wondered where she lived. Should he plan to pick her up? What time would be good for her? What the hell would he wear? My God—where in the hell could he take her?
Chapter 61
Saturday, February 2
Michael was home sitting at the computer. He worked mostly from home all week long. A few times he ventured down to see Detective Cocuzzi, but mostly he could do what needed to be done by phone. He sent his feature articles by e-mail and the editors were thrilled to receive them. Conducting business this way, Michael could not help but compare himself to Sinopoli, giving the reporter more credit than he had in the past. Since Martin Wringer did not die, and this crazy mess would soon come to trial, Michael had been given the luxurious assignment to cover the course of events.
Yesterday he mailed a letter to Jack Murphy at Jack’s Joint. This piece had been the most difficult thing he has had to write to date. He saved a copy and sat now reading it to himself.
To Everyone at Jack's Joint,
Many of you are mad at me. I can’t blame you. I was deceitful and dishonest. I don’t expect any of you to forgive me, though it is forgiveness I am seeking.
The things you read—that I wrote about you—will never be published. The files have been trashed. I was wrong to think I could further my career at the sake of my friends. I consider you—all of you—as friends.
Sincerely,
Michael Buzzelli
Michael switched off the computer just as someone rang his bell. As he went to the door, he half expected to see his old girlfriend, Ellen. She had been calling him lately, having read about his adventures in the paper. She was also impressed with his stories covering Johnny Blade.
Maybe something still existed between them. She was a promising attorney while he was a recently famed journalist. Their lifestyles complemented one another. She was attractive and had a nice family. Though he felt nothing for her any longer.
When he looked through the peephole he smiled. Ellen was not on the other side of the door. Felicia stood there, grinning, holding an armful of books. “Open up!” she said, her muffled voice making its way through the door.
He let her in.
She stood near the kitchen table and set the bag books down.
“Hate me?” Michael asked.
“Yes. Heard about your letter.”
“And you forgive me?”
“No. I signed up for my high school exam. It’s late next month.” Felicia looked at the ground. “I haven’t been back to Jack's. Sandy called me at my mother’s. I moved back home. I plan to finish high school and enroll in junior college in the fall. I’m thinking I might want to go into law enforcement or something.”
Michael closed his door. “You, a cop? I can see that.”
“Can you?”
“Most definitely.” Michael went to the fridge and removed two cans of soda.
“Will you … what I wanted to ask is if you’d still consider helping me study?”
Michael set the cans on the table. He touched Felicia’s arm. “I’d be honored, officer.”
She laughed and playfully slapped at his chest. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry? What are you talking about? I’m sorry. I’m the one that’s sorry. That entire night would never have happened if I had been straight from the beginning.”
She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him softly on the lips. “Who knows. If you had been honest from the beginning, maybe none of this would have happened.”
Johnny Blade Page 27