Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  “Then I think we should do a little investigating of our own,” Mark said.

  “What are you talking about? You want to try crashing a murder scene?” Shannon said. “I’m not sure how that would help. Besides, I watch enough TV shows to know we’ll never get past that yellow crime scene tape they put up.”

  “That’s not it at all.” Mark turned to Megan. “If you’ve tried geocaching, do you have one of those apps on your smartphone that shows the location of coordinates?”

  Megan gave a tentative nod.

  Mark held out his hand to Shannon. “Let me see that card.” He showed it to Megan. “So, where do these coordinates point us?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Megan, we really need your help. Please. For once in your life, do something for somebody else,” Mark said.

  Megan sighed. She punched in some numbers on the phone, studied the display, then said, “Near downtown Dallas. Greenwood Cemetery.”

  Mark looked at Shannon. “I say we go there. The detectives can only be in one place at a time, and I’m guessing they’ll be tied up at that murder scene for an hour or longer—plenty of time for us to do our own reconnaissance.”

  Shannon stared at him as though he’d gone mad. “Why would we do that? Why not let the police do their job? And what if we run into Crosley there?”

  “Remember, the coordinates you gave him were wrong. I’m not sure where they lead, but for all we know they’re in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So he’s not going to be where we’re going.”

  Both women looked unconvinced.

  “Let’s head there while we can,” Mark said. He pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive.”

  Shannon sighed. “Okay, I’ll go along with you.” She turned to her sister. “Megan, you sit in front and direct Mark. I’ll be in the back, regretting our decision.”

  STEVE ALSTON STOOD IN THE DEPTHS OF THE ALLEY AND LOOKED down at the body huddled next to the Dumpster. He rocked back and forth on his heels, both hands in his pockets, a posture he’d learned years ago. Don’t risk contaminating a crime scene. Look it all over, take a mental picture, file it away so you can pull it out later and use it. That’s what he was doing. “What have you got, Sergeant?”

  The policeman took off his hat and rubbed his balding head. “Two shots behind the ear. ME will tell us the caliber of the gun, but I’m betting a .22. No exit wound, so the slugs are still in there.”

  “Sort of a surprise,” Jesse Callaway said. “Most of the bad guys use Glocks now. Pretty soon the crooks will have mortars and flamethrowers.”

  “Except the ones who take pride in their work. They still like .22 target pistols,” Steve said. “This looks like an execution.” The posture of the body, the bullet wounds in the back of the head—all the signs pointed to it. He could picture the scene. The victim forced to kneel, probably begging for his life until two shots ended it.

  “I’m betting it’s drug related,” Callaway said. “Most likely Frankie was dealing and cut the merchandise too much or did it one time too many. Someone down the chain didn’t like the quality of the stuff he delivered and decided to express their displeasure in a tangible way—like two in the back of the head.”

  The sergeant looked expectantly at the detectives. “So this isn’t tied to your cases?”

  “It could be,” Steve said. “There’s another homicide we’re working, and I’m pretty sure that guy was dealing. But that’s not the case we’re chasing right now.” He turned on his heel and started away.

  Jesse stayed put long enough to say, “You know the drill, Sergeant. Canvass the area, see if anyone heard or saw anything, write a report and file it. We may catch the killer. We may not. Personally, I think whoever did this performed a favor for society.”

  MARK STEERED HIS CHEVY MALIBU THROUGH THE STREETS OF downtown Dallas, responding to occasional directions from Megan. Shannon, in the backseat, had been silent since they left her house.

  Mark wondered if Shannon was having second thoughts about going on this—whatever it was—quest, expedition, a way of being something other than a passive bystander. Maybe he’d been foolish to make this suggestion.

  “Turn onto Oak Grove. The entrance is on your right,” Megan said.

  Greenwood Cemetery. The name suggested to Mark that this was a logical hiding place to choose. Freshly turned ground wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Radick could have found a recently closed grave and buried the loot a few feet beneath the surface. He wondered how big a bundle that much cash would make. Did the bank robbers take only large bills? Mark had a vague recollection of something called bearer bonds. One of those might be worth ten thousand, even fifty thousand dollars.

  As he entered the cemetery, Mark revised his thinking. This wasn’t an active cemetery. Greenwood Cemetery was located in downtown Dallas right under the flight path for Love Field, but once through the iron gates, everything changed. Under a myriad of shade trees were monuments and gravestones for individuals buried here well over a hundred years ago.

  The car moved slowly down the main road, which a street sign designated as Peace. From the passenger seat, Megan said, “Turn left on Glory. Turn right on Friendship.” Finally, she pointed ahead and said, “Pull over there. That’s the spot.”

  Mark pulled his car to the side of the road and everyone exited. He looked around. The headstones showed dates long past. “I’d thought we could look for fresh graves, but I don’t think there will be any here.”

  Shannon stood at the side of the narrow paved road and said, “Do we even know what we’re looking for?”

  “Anything that could point to where the bank loot is hidden,” Mark said.

  For the next fifteen minutes, they wandered in everwidening circles. Mark marveled at the old tombstones and monuments. He was especially taken with the granite statue of a Confederate soldier, raised on a plinth, standing with his rifle resting butt-first on the ground, the other hand shading his eyes as he gazed into the distance. Maybe this was the pointer. Perhaps the money was hidden somewhere in the statue’s field of view. Mark stood beside the monument and looked in that direction—nothing caught his eye.

  “This looks sort of out of place here, but I like it,” Shannon called. Mark and Megan wandered over to where she stood, pointing at a series of bell-shaped chimes hanging one above the other from the curved end of a metal rod stuck in the ground near one of the tombstones. She ran her hand over the bells, setting them chiming. “I think it would be nice to have this next to a grave.”

  “Maybe we can get one for Mom’s and Dad’s graves,” Megan said, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Because ever since we found out about Dad’s illness, it’s been in the back of our minds,” Shannon said. “But I hope we won’t be worrying about something like tombstones and cemetery decorations for a long time.”

  At last, the group gathered around Mark’s car. “I didn’t find a thing that suggested a hiding place,” Shannon said.

  “Me either,” Megan echoed.

  Mark held his hands out at his sides, palms up. “I’m stumped. I’m not sure where we go from here,” he said.

  “Where do you go? You go home!” Detective Callaway emerged from his car and walked toward them, one hand on his gun as though ready to draw it at any moment. “That is, right after you explain why you’re here.”

  SIXTEEN

  SHANNON HAD A SINKING FEELING IN THE PIT OF HER STOMACH, akin to the sensation she experienced when riding the glass elevators of a high-rise. In the space of a few seconds, she found herself wondering why she’d let herself be talked into this expedition, scrambling for an excuse that might satisfy Detective Callaway, and looking around for a handy escape route.

  Before Shannon could say anything, though, Mark spoke up. “We decided to have a look at the scene that’s caused Dr. Frasier so much trouble. So far we don’t see the attraction of this place, but if there’s anything to
be found, I’m sure you folks will find it.”

  “Do you know the penalty for impeding a police investigation?” Callaway said, stepping nose-to-nose with Mark.

  “So far as I can see, we’re not impeding anything,” Mark said.

  Shannon edged over next to Mark and put her hand on his arm. She hoped he wouldn’t end up making the detective angry. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of her Saturday getting Mark out of jail on bond for whatever charge Callaway might decide to throw at him.

  The detectives’ car was parked perhaps fifty feet away on the nearest cross street, and now Steve Alston exited the passenger door and ambled over. “My partner’s being his usual, hard-nosed self. I presume you folks didn’t disturb anything.”

  “Nothing to disturb,” Mark said. “It’s an old cemetery. We didn’t find any evidence of fresh digging, no hiding places, nothing.”

  Shannon increased her pressure on Mark’s arm. “I think it’s time we left.”

  Before Callaway could say anything more, she steered Mark away, motioning for Megan to follow. As the car moved away, Shannon turned to look out the back window to see Callaway and Alston with their heads close together in earnest conversation.

  STEVE ALSTON MOPPED HIS FOREHEAD AND LOOSENED HIS TIE. “IF those numbers really were directing us here, I wish they’d give us a clue about where to look.”

  “I’m not so sure about this GPS, geocache thing,” Jesse said. “Maybe Megan was trying to throw us off the scent.”

  “Why would she do that?” Steve asked.

  Jesse shook his head. “I know she’s a nice-looking woman, and everyone seems to feel sorry for her because her boyfriend was murdered, but I think something smells fishy about the whole thing. My instinct tells me that Megan Frasier is part of this whole deal.”

  “You’re just being contrary, Jesse.”

  “Think about it. Do you believe in coincidence? She and Radick were in drug rehab at the same time. Crosley comes to visit. I think the three of them put their heads together to plan a nice little bank job for when Radick got out. We don’t know how many were involved, but there were at least two in the bank—Radick and Crosley—and one driving the getaway car. Why couldn’t that be Megan Frasier? I mean, driving is an equal opportunity occupation.”

  “What about her boyfriend? Where did Tony Lester fit into this?”

  “We know he was dealing drugs. Why couldn’t he have found where she stashed her share of the bank money? That would really help him increase his inventory, let him move up to the next level.”

  “And if she found out . . .”

  “She killed him to get the money back. Then she got rid of the gun, talked her sister into hiring a good lawyer for the two of them, and sat back while we all felt sorry for her,” Jesse said.

  Steve shook his head. “Nice little fantasy you’ve constructed, partner, but unfortunately we don’t have any evidence to support it.” He inclined his head toward their car. “Those numbers may or may not be GPS coordinates, but we’ve got to follow up. Let’s get some police academy cadets out here to comb this place. Dollars to donuts, they’re not going to find anything.”

  Jesse climbed behind the wheel. “Speaking of donuts, I didn’t get breakfast yet this morning. I think some coffee and a couple of chocolate-coated ones are next on the agenda.”

  AS SOON AS SHE WAS INSIDE HER FRONT DOOR, SHANNON LEANED INTO Mark’s arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “I was afraid you were going to go too far with Detective Callaway. I had visions of him arresting you for interfering with a policeman in his duties, or some such, and my having to get you out of jail.”

  “I’m going to make some fresh coffee,” Megan said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Mark nuzzled Shannon’s hair. “I shouldn’t have mouthed off. But I’m tired of all the information flowing one way in this thing. I know they’re the detectives and we’re not, but you’re the one getting phone calls from a man who, by all accounts, is a stone-cold killer. You’re the one who had to stare down the barrel of his gun. I’d like to be more confident they have your best interests at heart.”

  Shannon motioned him into the living room where they settled onto the sofa. From the kitchen, the aroma of brewing coffee tickled her nostrils. “I think they’re doing their job, Mark.”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “But there’s something that bothers me about the way they’re going about it. I’m not sure Steve Alston’s interest in you is purely professional.”

  Shannon realized she should have seen this coming. “Okay, I’ll admit I’ve had the same impression. But there’s no need for you to be jealous. I love you. You’re the only one I care for.”

  Mark had his arm around her shoulders, and now he pulled her closer. “And I love you. So don’t you think it’s time . . .”

  Shannon felt her throat tighten. “When this is settled. I promise. But not right now. I have too much on my mind.” When would she get over this aversion to a commitment? She thought she knew where it was coming from, and she could probably work through it. But not right now.

  Shannon was pressed against Mark’s chest, but she didn’t have to see his expression to know his reaction. His sigh said it all. He was silent for almost a full minute before he said, “Okay, back to our problem. Assuming Crosley figures out or already knows the numbers represent GPS coordinates, it’s not going to take him long to discover you gave him the wrong ones. And he won’t be a happy camper when that happens.”

  “I know. But I’m not going to run away. I have too many reasons to stay.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” Mark said. “I think you should have a gun to protect yourself.”

  Shannon felt a trip-hammer start in her chest. A trickle of sweat coursed down between her shoulder blades. She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. The thought of a gun in her hands, much less of aiming it and pulling the trigger, was beyond her. “Mark, you know I hate . . . I hate guns. Please. Let’s don’t talk about them right now.”

  “I realize you have this aversion to guns, and with good reason,” Mark said. “But we’re not playing games here. There’s a killer who’s threatened you. I’d feel better if you had a way to protect yourself.”

  Shannon shook her head. “If I change my mind I’ll call on you for help. But I don’t see that happening.”

  “Ready for coffee?” Megan stood in the doorway bearing a tray with three mugs, sweetener, and milk.

  Shannon was relieved to change the subject. As she stirred Sweet ’N Low into her coffee, she tried to imagine what Walt Crosley would do next . . . and how it might impact her life. She was already second-guessing her decision to turn down Mark’s suggestion that she get a gun. Would it make her feel safer? Or stir up the past even more?

  MEGAN WAS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF HER BED, FILING HER NAILS, when the ring of her cell phone startled her. She picked it up from the bedside table and checked the display—her parents’ number. Had something happened to Dad?

  She tried to keep her voice steady. “Hello?”

  “Megan?” Her mom’s voice was calm. “I was hoping you and Shannon could come to dinner tonight.”

  “Um, I sort of figured we’d be coming over for lunch after church tomorrow, but I guess tonight would be okay. Why don’t I check with Shannon and call you back?”

  “Oh, is Shannon there at the house? I’m glad you two are getting to spend some time together.”

  Yes, she and Shannon were spending time together—time at the lawyer’s office, time at the police station, time chasing down clues that didn’t make sense while trying to avoid a killer. Oh yeah. Quality time. Megan decided to let her mother’s remark pass.

  “How’s Dad?” she asked.

  “I think he’s all right. But we can talk more about that tonight. Call me back after you’ve spoken with your sister.”

  SHANNON WOULD NEVER ADMIT IT, BUT IT HURT HER FEELINGS when her mom phoned the dinner invitation to her younger sister. T
ruly, the story of the prodigal son (or in this case, daughter) was playing out here. For longer than she cared to admit, Shannon had been the good daughter—checking on her parents, shielding them from some of Megan’s scrapes, doing all the “right” things. She’d even gone to church regularly, although she didn’t particularly feel like it much of the time.

  But tonight the menu featured Megan’s favorite dishes. Even the invitation had come through Megan. Shannon fought hard to suppress the resentment within her, and so far she wasn’t sure she was winning the fight.

  As the family took their places around the dining table, her mother brought in the last dish from the kitchen. “I called Mark to invite him, but he couldn’t make it,” she said as she placed a ham in the middle of the table.

  When Shannon was living at home, Saturday night dinner at the Frasiers often consisted of hurriedly consumed sandwiches. Shannon, with one eye on the door, was usually anxious to leave on a date. Her dad had his mind on putting the finishing touches on his sermon. And Megan . . . well, Megan was probably already gone for the evening. Not tonight, though. This was a full-fledged, civilized, cloth napkins on the table, use the good silverware, sit-down meal with ham, sweet potatoes, creamed corn, green beans, salad, and a pan of corn bread.

  Shannon’s dad took his place at the head of the table, the four of them joined hands, and he said grace. She had to admit that in the past she’d been guilty of letting her mind wander as her dad prayed. But that wasn’t the case tonight. She wanted to know the reason for this family get-together, and she suspected there’d be a clue in the prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” her dad said in his soft yet authoritative voice, “we’re grateful for the chance to sit down as a family. We thank You for the food, for all Your blessings, including the gift of health. As changes take place that send us looking for answers, we pray for wisdom in our decisions. We ask these things in Your name. Amen.”