***
By some divine intervention, he was taken to the Emergency Room of Hennepin County Medical Center rather than to his eternal resting place.
Hours later he sat in Franco’s office. He watched the detective open the bottom drawer of his desk and extract a bottle of bourbon and a not-too-clean looking lowball glass. The detective poured a generous amount of the amber liquid before handing it to him.
“Here drink this. Think of it as medicine. It’ll do you good.”
He gingerly took a sip and felt the heat slide down his throat, closed his eyes and took another. “Holy crap, that’s the second time I’ve been shot at in the past year. At least this time, I only got a couple of nicks.” The ER doctor had extracted a few shards of glass, doused the cuts with antiseptic and applied butterfly bandages. Then she had sent him off with prescriptions for an antibiotic and a pain killer, telling him he might experience some discomfort in the next few days.
“If you wouldn’t have ducked, your brains would have been splattered all over the inside of your car. What made you sense danger?”
The thought made his stomach lurch, and he felt faint. Franco’s face wavered in front of him, and he was forced to put his head between his knees. Jeez, I can’t believe what a wimp I am.
“Honest to God, I don’t really know.” His voice was muffled by his pants. “There was just something ominous about that SUV idling in the empty parking ramp. It made my skin crawl.”
“Can you describe the driver or the vehicle?”
Chip raised his head slowly. “It was an Escalade, big and black with tinted windows. I couldn’t see the driver at all. I do recall a rental sticker on the bumper, green and white. National, I think.”
“We’ll run a trace on it. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. The bigger question is why would someone be shooting at you?”
Chip finished the bourbon and was indeed feeling better. He tried to conjure up potential enemies, but came up empty. “I haven’t got a clue.”
“Could be a random drive-by shooting. They’re a pretty common gang initiation around here lately, although not usually in upscale hotel ramps,” said Franco as he opened the bourbon again and took a swig, replaced the cap and returned the bottle and glass to his bottom drawer.
Franco opened a file on his desk and scanned it. “You know a writer named Margaret Murphy?”
“I never met her or read her stuff. Isn’t she that true crime writer who committed suicide about two weeks ago, self-infected gun shot?”
“Yup, she’s the one. The newspapers said it was a suicide; Forensics wasn’t sure. Homicide is still considering it an open case.”
“Are you suggesting it wasn’t a suicide, that she was murdered?”
“What I’m saying is I’ve got two dead crime writers and another one who’s damn lucky he’s not dead. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”
He continued. “Finnegan wrote three books and was apparently researching a fourth. I figure he pissed off someone in one of his books, maybe uncovered someone’s shady past. As I said before, that book on his chest was selected for a reason.”
“Well, the book on his chest was Shanghaied; he wrote about Asian gangs in that one. In addition to Asian gangs, he wrote about crooked politicians, police brutality, corporate embezzlers, just to name a few. Many of Finnegan’s characters were thinly disguised local newsmakers. There was a crooked businessman like Tom Petters, that guy now serving a fifty-year sentence for a Ponzi scheme. The hockey-playing governor in one of his books is a dead give-away. And, he had a story about a murdered young woman, kidnapped from a mall parking lot, wasn’t there a local case like that?”
Franco answered. “Yes, sounds like the Dru Sjodin case, but we put that perp away. Real creepy little guy.”
“I don’t know who the crooked police officer in his last book might be, but I bet you have an idea.” Chip waited for a response but did not receive one.
The detective hesitated as if he was weighing his words. “Could be Finnegan and that Murphy gal might have pissed off the same people. Any connection between you, Finnegan and Murphy?”
“No, only in that Finnegan and I read each other’s work. To my knowledge we weren’t writing about the same topics, and I have no idea what Margaret Murphy may have been digging up.”
Franco took off his rumpled suit jacket and loosened his tie. “Then again, I could be wrong. Maybe he was cheating on his wife and she popped him or he owed a bookie a wad of cash, or was mixed up with drugs, but I doubt it. My gut tells me he was offed because of something he wrote, and I’ve got a pretty good record by following my gut.”
Chip felt another wave of nausea and he broke out in a sweat. “Okay, now you’re scaring the crap out of me, Detective.”
“In this case, scared is probably good. I advise you to be vigilant until we know what’s going down here. You packing, Collingsworth?”
Chip gulped. “You mean a gun?”
Franco didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“No, I don’t own a gun, never shot one in my life, unless you count squirt guns and arcade ray guns.” His attempt at humor fell flat.
“You may want to consider it. For your safety, I suggest you go home to Iowa and lay low. Unfortunately, forensics won’t be done with your vehicle until later today. They have to retrieve that bullet. Once it’s released, you can take it to a body shop for repair.”
Franco picked up a pencil. “You got a decent police chief in Turners Bend?”
“Yes, Chief Fredrickson is a pretty good law enforcement guy, why?”
Franco wrote down the name. “I’ll be transferring your protection to him soon and sending you on your way tomorrow. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate in the Finnegan case, but we’re going to have to get you out of Dodge as soon as possible. I don’t want another dead author on my hands.”
***
Unable to drive home until the police were finished with his vehicle and the window was repaired, Chip re-registered at the Hyatt. He called Jane and told her about his day.
“It was just a big city, drive-by crime. I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just a few scratches and a broken window.”
“First poor Patrick and now this. I was teasing earlier when I asked if someone was gunning for authors, but now…”
Chip interrupted her. “Really Jane, this had nothing to do with Finnegan’s murder. I’m fine and I’ll be home as soon as my car is ready to drive.
He didn’t want her to worry, but she didn’t sound convinced and neither was he. The whole thing was starting to freak him out, and Franco’s words about coincidences kept replaying in his head. He read recently that coincidences lead to messages. Is someone sending me a message?
He took two pain relievers and a dose of antibiotics, and to divert his attention from the events of the day he called his brother. The call wasn’t to share the shooting or his fears; he didn’t have that kind of relationship with Parker. He wanted to consult with him about his character’s brain injury. Parker, like their father and grandfather before him, was a neurosurgeon in Baltimore. It was late but he placed the call anyway.
Parker answered in a wide-awake voice. “Hey, bro, I was up and just about to send you a copy of the article about me in this month’s Lancet Neurology. They named me the world’s leader in deep brain stimulation for Parkinson’s. Just carrying on the family tradition in neurosurgery.”
Parker never missed an opportunity to remind Chip he was the black sheep of the family, the only male who was not a neurosurgeon. The remark pushed Chip’s button, but he swallowed it and played the bigger man by congratulating his brother and moving on to his questions about head injuries.
After he hung up, Chip made a conscious decision to cast Dr. John Goodman as a compassionate surgeon and a man with a tender side,
not a prick like his brother.
Chapter Six
Untitl
ed
St. Paul, MN
Late October
DR. JOHN GOODMAN TILTED his head one way, and then the other, attempting to stretch out the stiff muscles in his neck. The surgery to save Rick Wilson and repair the damage to his brain from the bullet had taken long hours of close, careful work and John felt the tension up and down his back. He was pleased with the results of the surgery, but it had been a long night and he longed to climb back in bed with Jo.
However, that would have to wait until after he spoke to his patient’s family members. He strode through the swinging doors and his tired eyes swept the room.
A woman with short, spiky gray hair stood as he entered. John took in her reddened eyes and walked toward her. Just as he reached her, he was startled to see Detective Mike Frisco stand up next to the woman.
John said, “Detective…this is a surprise. I assume you are working Rick Wilson’s case?”
Frisco indicated the woman by his side. “Yes, I had some questions for his mother. Dr. Goodman, this is Caroline Wilson.”
Before John had a chance to say anything, Caroline blurted out, “Doctor, is my son going to make it? How bad is it?”
John reached out and gripped her hand in both of his. “Ms. Wilson. Your son did very well during the surgery and we are cautiously optimistic at this point. We were able to relieve some of the pressure inside his head. He is in intensive care now, but you will be able to see him in a few moments. I want to assure you we are doing everything possible for your son.”
She pulled her hand away from his and took a deep breath, leveling her brown eyes at him. “Don’t take this as a sign of disrespect, but let me be blunt. I lost my husband to cancer last year. I found knowing the details of his case gave me a sense of control; when God knows, I obviously had none. The minutiae gave me something to focus on, rather than just sit and watch my husband of thirty years waste away in front of my eyes. Something to hate, rather than to hate him for leaving me behind. So, while I appreciate your sensitivity, please just tell me exactly what’s happening to my son.”
John was taken aback, but found himself respecting the woman’s strength. He looked at Frisco. The detective shrugged slightly. “She’s handled all my tough questions. Tell her; she can take it.”
Taking a deep breath, John said, “Very well. Your son sustained a bullet wound to the occipital lobe, at the back of the head. From there, the bullet traveled the left side of the brain, exiting out the frontal lobe.” John pulled out a sheet of paper and pen from his pocket. Quickly, he sketched a rudimentary diagram to show her the path of the bullet.
“I know it doesn’t sound good, but the path the bullet took actually gave us a fighting chance. Because the bullet exited the head and didn’t cross over to the other side of the brain, the damage was minimized.”
John saw the woman’s shoulders relax a fraction, and then he continued. “That’s not to say your son is out of the woods yet. As the bullet passed through the brain, it sheared off small blood vessels. The bleeding caused increased pressure within the skull. If left unchecked, it will damage the brainstem and quickly lead to death. Therefore, our number one priority was relieving the pressure on the brain.”
John watched Caroline Wilson carefully, ensuring she understood his explanation. Even though her eyes had widened at the extent of the damage, she nodded her understanding. Satisfied, John continued, “First, we removed a section of Rick’s skull to relieve the swelling and to save the brainstem. Next, we put him into a medically induced coma, so that his body has time to repair itself.”
Caroline paled a bit. “So, he’s in a coma…that’s bad, isn’t it?”
“No, not at all. As I’ve said, we induced the coma to give his body a chance to recover from the trauma. It’s a necessary part of his recovery. We’ll continue to monitor the pressure on the brain and control it through steroids. We’ll also use a concentrated sugar solution called mannitol to draw out the excess fluids.”
“What…what do you think his chances are?” Caroline Wilson’s voice was thick with emotion.
“Your son is a fighter and he did very well throughout the surgery. If he makes it through the day, he has a chance, perhaps a good one. Only time will tell, of course. Rick has a long journey in front of him, but he’s young and strong. We’ll know more tonight.” John laid his hand on her shoulder. “I know this is hard, but try to get some rest. You look like you could use a break.”
Tears flowed freely down the woman’s cheeks. “Thank you for your honesty and for all you’ve done to help Rick.”
Frisco spoke up. “Rick’s in good hands, Ms. Wilson. Doc Goodman’s the best at what he does.”
John felt his face flush at the compliment. “We’ve got a great team here, all doing their best for your son. We’ll keep you informed of any new developments. Call me personally if you have any questions.” He recited his cell phone number and she scribbled it down on an envelope she had fished out of her purse.
As a nurse directed Caroline Wilson to her son’s room, John turned to Frisco. The detective frowned slightly as he watched her leave the room. John said, “Quite a strong woman isn’t she?”
“Yeah. You should have seen her answering my questions. Wish all the families I dealt with were as helpful.”
Frisco reached his hand out, and John gripped it tightly. “Good to see you, Mike. It’s been awhile.”
“Not since I saw you and Jo in the hospital up in Grand Marais, I think. Great to see you looking a little healthier.”
“That’s an understatement.” John chuckled at the memory. He had been the patient then, suffering from a concussion and a bullet wound to the leg, the result of a madman who had been obsessed with Jo.
John’s thoughts turned back to his patient. “Any progress on finding out who shot Rick Wilson and why?”
The detective shook his head. “Not yet. Wilson’s roommate and his girlfriend were home as well, but they didn’t make it. They were both DOA by the time help arrived. The killer tried to cover his tracks by starting a fire. At that point, the neighbors called 911. Looks like the killer trashed the place, looking for something. Sure would love to know what that something was.”
“A burglary gone wrong?”
Frisco shrugged his shoulders. “The thought crossed my mind, but we have some evidence that suggests Wilson was the intended target. Could have something to do with a fracking documentary his mother said he was working on.”
John raised his eyebrow. “You really think that could be at the root of all of this?”
The detective shrugged. “Trust me; people have been killed for a lot less.”
Frisco looked down at his watch. “Say, doc. I’d better get going while the trail is still relatively warm. Give my best to Jo, will you?”
John smiled. He was bursting to share his news with the detective – and everyone else, for that matter – but he knew Jo would want to tell Frisco of their engagement herself. So, instead of what he wanted to say, he replied, “I certainly will. And let’s get together when all this settles down. It’s been too long.”
“It’s a plan.”
***
Jo was awakened the next morning by a light kiss on her lips. She grinned and opened her eyes to see John leaning over her as she lay in bed. He looked tired, but his smile was warm.
Propping herself up on one elbow, she felt the room tilt slightly. Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, Jo saw it was nearly 9:00 a.m. She lay back on the bed, surprised at how tired she felt. Painting John’s office had kept her up until two in the morning, but this felt like a different kind of tired. Damn! Feels like I’m coming down with the flu again….second time this fall.
Not wanting John to fuss over her, she managed a small smile. “Wow. I was really out. Glad to have you home.”
He bent down and gave her another kiss, this one lingering a bit longer than the one that woke her. He sat down on the bed next to her. “The surgery went better than I expected.”
&n
bsp; “What type of head trauma was it?”
“A gun shot. Some college kid, asleep in his apartment.”
Jo’s inquisitive nature kicked in, and she ignored a sour taste in her mouth. “Wow. Wrong place, wrong time?”
“Not really sure.”
“Amazing he survived. Did they catch the shooter?”
John shook his head. “No suspects yet, from what I gather. By the way, guess who was assigned to the case? Frisco. I ran into him after the surgery. He was just wrapping up an interview with the kid’s mother.”
“Well, I’m sure Frisco will figure it out.” Jo rubbed her chin and stared off into space. Her discomfort temporarily forgotten, her investigative brain whirled around a case that wasn’t hers. “Wonder what the motive was?”
John grinned, “Now you sound like the FBI agent I first fell in love with. Frisco thought it might be related to some documentary the kid was making on fracking, although I don’t know why someone would have killed him over that.”
“I keep forgetting you haven’t lived in the Midwest for long. Fracking has become a real hot-button topic, especially in North Dakota where the oil fields are located.”
John stretched his long arms upward and then smothered a yawn. “What exactly is fracking, anyway? I know it’s a process of removing oil from the ground, and it’s been all over the news lately, but can’t say I’ve paid much attention.”
“From what I understand, it involves creating fractures in rocks formations by forcing fluid into smaller cracks to make them bigger, making it easier to extract the oil.”
John frowned. “Seems like that would make people happy, bringing more jobs into the region and making the U.S. less dependent on foreign oil.”
Jo shifted slightly to make more room for him on the bed. “There is a lot of support for it, especially because these fields could be the largest source of oil discovered in the U.S. But there are a lot of ‘fractivists’, who worry about the environmental impact of the process itself. Several countries have already banned it, as a matter of fact.”
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