by Sean Lynch
CHAPTER 27
Bob Farrell brought his Oldsmobile to a halt in the Alameda hospital parking lot farther from the EMERGENCY entrance than he preferred. The lot was already packed with marked and unmarked police cars. He tossed his cigarette to the pavement and made his way into the facility.
Farrell had dropped off Kearns at a car rental agency after leaving Judge Callen’s house with instructions to rent a vehicle. They agreed to meet for dinner later to discuss their next move. Kearns wanted to get a haircut and go to the Davis Street shooting range in San Leandro to test-fire the .45 pistol Farrell had acquired for him. Shortly after leaving Kearns, Farrell heard Judge Callen’s address broadcast over the police scanner in his car as the location of a possible homicide.
Farrell raced to the Callen home on Dayton Avenue. An ambulance was pulling out, lights flashing and sirens blaring. He parked a block away and approached on foot. There were neighbors milling in the vicinity, and several uniformed cops scurried busily about. He noticed a red Porsche in the driveway. A cop was putting up crime scene tape around the property. One of the officers in the yard was McCord.
“The fuck are you doing here, asshole?” McCord demanded when he saw Farrell.
“Is the Judge all right?”
“This is a police matter, Mister Private Investigator. You ain’t a cop. This is also a crime scene. So get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m Judge Callen’s friend. And I’m not in your crime scene, Officer McCord,” Farrell said, gesturing to the yellow tape and his location outside of it. “I only want to know if the Judge is all right.”
“Fuck you,” McCord said.
Several neighbors overheard the exchange between Farrell and McCord. A very elderly woman approached Farrell, giving the uniformed cop a disapproving glare.
“The ambulance took Gene away,” she said. “He looked bad, but he was alive.”
“Thank you,” Farrell said to her. She stuck her tongue out at McCord and returned to her own yard. Farrell turned to walk back toward his car.
“We ain’t finished,” McCord called after him.
“Speak for yourself,” Farrell said over his shoulder. Halfway to his car, he stopped. He returned to the woman who had informed him of the Judge’s condition. McCord watched this in disdain.
“My name’s Bob Farrell,” he introduced himself. “As you heard, I’m a friend of Judge Callen’s. I was wondering if I could go into your side yard and get a glimpse into Judge Callen’s property from your fence?”
The woman smiled. “Won’t that piss off that rude policeman with the foul mouth?”
“I’m certain it will,” he said.
“Then help yourself.” Farrell nodded his thanks and headed for her side yard gate.
“Where do you think you’re going?” McCord called out. Farrell ignored him. He navigated the expansive side yard and went directly to the fence adjoining the Callen property. He peered over the fence into Judge Callen’s rear yard.
He saw a plainclothes detective and two uniformed cops standing over the body of a man which lay half in the open back door. The corpse was Caucasian, fat, and wearing a suit. One of the shoes was off, revealing a bare foot. It was also wearing an exit wound in the back of the head.
Farrell saw McCord storming into Callen’s backyard from the front, scanning the fence line for him. When he saw Farrell, McCord came straight toward him.
“I told you to get the fuck out of here,” McCord said.
“We were in the Callen’s front yard when you told me that,” Farrell smiled pleasantly. “I did what you asked. Do I look like I’m in your crime scene now?”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“If I decide to fuck with you, Officer McCord, you’ll be the first to know.”
Farrell abruptly turned his back on McCord and walked toward the front of the property.
When he emerged from the side yard, the elderly woman who had invited him onto her property greeted him. She was talking to two other elderly neighbors in hushed whispers.
“Is it true there’s a dead guy in Gene’s backyard?” she asked eagerly.
“Yep,” Farrell told her. “Deader than Caesar.”
McCord suddenly emerged from the Callens’ backyard, brushing off the arm of a fellow officer who tried to hold him back. He stomped straight for Farrell.
“Would you mind sticking around a moment?” Farrell asked the trio of neighbors. “I may need witnesses.” The elderly woman nodded.
McCord walked up, fuming, and wordlessly reached out to grab Farrell’s collar. His face was a mask of fury. Farrell ducked under the much larger man’s arm, and McCord lunged past him. Off balance, McCord stumbled, pivoted, and turned to go after Farrell again.
“That’s enough,” Farrell said. He swept his always-unbuttoned suit coat aside, putting his hand over, but not touching, the Smith & Wesson .38 on his hip. As an honorably retired peace officer, Farrell was legally allowed to carry a concealed firearm. And like most retired cops with his tenure, he would have sooner left his apartment without his trousers than his revolver.
“You’re way out of line, Officer. That badge and uniform aren’t a license to assault me. Try to put your hands on me again and you’ll need your gun,” he said.
McCord stood seething, his large belly and chest rising from the exertion of racing twice through the Callen’s substantial yard. His pallor was beet red.
The same cop who tried to contain McCord before approached and took his arm again.
“Jesus Christ, Joe,” he said to McCord. “What the hell are you doing? People are watching. You want to get fired?”
Farrell didn’t flinch. Finally, McCord let his partner pull him away.
“This ain’t over,” he told Farrell, pointing a finger. Farrell said nothing in reply, allowing his hand to fall to his side and his jacket to once again drape over his weapon.
“That police officer has anger issues,” the elderly woman said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have a gun.”
“I’d have to agree with you there,” Farrell said, lighting a cigarette. He thanked the woman and returned to his car. Moments later, he arrived at the hospital, only five blocks away.
When Farrell entered the emergency room, he found Sergeant Randy Wendt talking with a physician. There was a uniformed cop busily scrawling on his clipboard. When Wendt saw Farrell, he nodded an acknowledgement.
“Hello again, Randy,” Farrell greeted him as the physician broke off his conversation with the sergeant and returned to his duties. “Long time, no see.”
“It’s been what, a couple of hours?”
“This guy works fast,” Farrell said. “He must have been watching the house and saw us leave.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Wendt said. “The son of a bitch is relentless. He doesn’t let up.”
“How’s the Judge?” Farrell asked.
“Lucky as hell to be alive,” Wendt told him. “Looks like our stalking suspect got into the house and attacked him. We found Iron Gene on the floor of his study with a cracked noggin and a wire around his throat.”
“Not to be ungrateful, but why isn’t he dead?”
“Looks like the suspect was interrupted in the act.”
“By the stiff on the rear patio?”
Wendt’s eyebrows lifted. “How’d you know about that?”
“I’m a detective, remember? Who is he? Or should I say, who was he?”
“Deputy District Attorney Charles Timothy Potter,” Wendt said. “If you can believe it.”
“Paige’s office partner? The schmuck who’s pressing charges against her?”
“The one and only,” Wendt said. “Can’t say I’m heartbroken over his demise.”
“At least that lets Paige off the hook for the assault,” Farrell said. “That’s some good news. But the bad news is that our stalker has graduated to murder.”
“He certainly has,” Wendt said. “Even before he clipped Potter.”
“
What do you mean?”
“On a hunch, I sent a detective to Oakland this morning to check on Mrs Reyes, the Callen’s part-time housekeeper. She didn’t show up for work, and Paige was worried.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about what you’re going to tell me,” Farrell grimaced.
“Go with it. Oakland PD now has a double homicide to add to their already-overflowing murder caseload. Mrs Reyes and her husband were found garroted in their home. Been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
“Wire garrote? Like Judge Callen?”
“You guessed it,” Wendt confirmed.
“How did our suspect even know where Judge Callen’s housekeeper lives?”
“Don’t know,” Wendt said. “We know this guy does his homework, and he’s very thorough; he could have followed the housekeeper home some evening after she left the Judge’s house for all we know. Paige is pretty broken up about it. Feels responsible.”
“Poor kid. Where was she when all this went down today?”
“With me. I drove her into Oakland to consult with an attorney on the assault charges against her. I didn’t want to leave her alone, in case this nut tried again. We were just leaving when I got the radio call. She’s in with her dad.”
“What’s his condition?”
“They’re admitting him to intensive care as we speak. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign. I was going there now.”
“I’ll join you,” Farrell said. The two men headed for the elevators. The intensive care unit was located on the third floor.
“I don’t suppose there were any witnesses today?” Farrell asked, as the elevator doors swooshed shut.
“Surprisingly, yes, for all the good they’ll do us. A couple of the Judge’s neighbors are retired busybodies,” Wendt said. “Spend a lot of time sticking their noses into other people’s business.”
“I met a few of them,” Farrell said. “We should all have such neighbors.”
“Apparently, the suspect was dressed like a gas meter reader. One of the neighbors saw him enter the block, thought nothing of it until she saw him a few minutes later running away with a gun in his hand. Nobody got a good-enough look to identify him if they saw him again; old eyes and too far away.”
“A vehicle?”
“Found abandoned at the beach a little while ago. Stolen out of Oakland last night. It’ll probably be as devoid of prints and evidence as the last stolen car he dumped.”
Wendt and Farrell exited the elevator. A uniformed officer stood outside a door to one of the rooms. Wendt nodded to him and they entered. Paige was seated by her father’s bed, her eyes puffy from crying. She looked up at them briefly, then back to her father. There were a nurse and a man in surgical scrubs in the room as well.
Judge Callen was conscious. His head was bandaged and he was wearing a neck brace. He had an oxygen tube inserted into his nose and an intravenous line in his right arm. It was his face, however, that was the most unsettling.
The right side of the Judge’s face was slack, as if made of putty. His right eyelid drooped almost shut, and the corner of his mouth on that side curled downward in a rubbery frown, saliva pooling in the corner. His eyes, however, were as bright as ever, and they flashed in recognition when he saw Farrell and Wendt come in.
The physician was speaking with Paige but doing so loudly enough for the Judge to hear also.
“The blow to your father’s head induced what amounts to a mild stroke, Ms Callen,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the right side of his body is paralyzed. We have him on steroids to reduce brain swelling, and his vitals are strong, which is a good sign. Barring unforeseen consequences, he should make it. As far as permanent damage, it’s too early to determine. It’s entirely possible the partial paralysis is a temporary condition, and he may make a full recovery. We’ll know within the next twenty-four hours. But he needs rest now, and as much as you want to be with him, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” The physician looked around the room at all of them. “That goes for everybody.”
“Ferl,” the Judge said, his face straining with effort.
“What, Dad?” Paige put her ear over her father’s mouth to hear him better.
“Ferl,” he repeated, his face reddening.
“He wants to talk with you, Bob,” Wendt said.
“I’m right here, Your Honor,” Farrell said, stepping closer.
“I can’t allow this,” the physician said. “He’s becoming worked up. I don’t want him to compromise his recovery.”
“Lone,” Judge Callen forced out. “Ferl… lone.”
The Judge’s meaning was clear. He wanted to speak with Farrell privately.
“I’m going to have to insist this conversation be postponed until another time,” the doctor announced. “He’s becoming agitated–”
“No,” the Judge said again, cutting the doctor off. “Ferl… lone.”
“Let the Judge speak,” Wendt said. He faced the doctor. “Three people are dead, there’s been an attempt on the Judge’s life, and two attempts on his daughter, who is still in the killer’s crosshairs. We need to hear what he has to say, and he wants to say it to Farrell.”
“All right,” the physician conceded. “Five minutes, no more.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Wendt said. “Everybody out but Farrell,” he announced to the room.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Paige said firmly. “Anything my father has to say I can hear too.”
The Judge’s face reddened further. “Lone,” he said again. “Out.” His body trembled from the effort to speak.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Paige repeated defiantly.
Wendt took her by the shoulders. “I’m not going to stand here and watch your father kill himself trying to prove he’s more stubborn than his daughter. If he wants to speak with Farrell alone, that’s his right. You’re going to leave this room with me, this instant, or I’m going to drag you out.”
Paige shrugged herself out of Wendt’s grip, glared at Farrell, and stormed out. The doctor, nurse, and then Wendt followed her. “Five minutes,” the doctor reiterated as he closed the door behind him. “No more.” Farrell nodded.
Once they were alone, the Judge forced a twisted smile. Farrell spoke first.
“I’ve seen you look better,” Farrell smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
The Judge took a deep breath, preparing for the exertion of speaking. “Rotect… Aige,” he finally got out. He blurted his daughter’s name with such force, Farrell thought he would pass out. “On’t… let… him… get… her,” he gasped.
Farrell put his hand on the Judge’s shoulder. “Count on it,” he said.
“Apa,” Callen continued, veins distending on his forehead. “Ranch.” He paused for another breath. “Napa… safe there.”
“OK,” Farrell told him. “You want Paige at the ranch, wherever that is, that’s where she’ll go, whether she wants to or not. Kevin’s on the way as we speak. I’ll have him escort her there. From here on out, he won’t let your daughter out of his sight.” The Judge seemed comforted upon hearing this, but his eyes posed a question.
“Don’t worry,” Farrell told the Judge. “Kevin’s young, but he’s tough. He was a grunt in the army and a deputy sheriff back in Iowa; he’s seen action. And I can personally attest to his fortitude. The hardheaded redneck doesn’t have the word ‘quit’ in his vocabulary. He won’t let anything happen to Paige. You can be sure of that.”
“On’t… care… what… it… costs,” Judge Callen said.
“I sure as hell do,” Farrell joked. “But we can talk about money when you’re feeling better. Right now, you’ve got to rest and I’ve got to earn my pay.”
The Judge’s eyes burned at Farrell. “Get… him,” he said. “Fore… he… gets… Aige.”
“You can count on that, too.”
CHAPTER 28
Paige sat in the passenger seat of the rented Jeep Cherokee
and stared out the window with her arms folded across her chest. In the driver’s seat was Kevin Kearns. He kept his eyes on the road, occasionally glancing over to verify if Paige was still deliberately indifferent to his presence. It was after sundown and they were driving on Highway 12 toward Napa Valley.
Kearns arrived at the hospital and met Farrell and Paige in the hallway outside Judge Callen’s room in the intensive care unit. Paige did not appear particularly pleased to see Farrell. He was discussing the Judge’s wishes with Paige when Wendt returned from consulting with the uniformed police officer posted as Callen’s guard.
“I said I’d go, didn’t I?” Paige said.
“Where are you going?” Wendt asked her, having overheard only a fragment of their conversation as he approached.
“Apparently, I’m going to visit the wine country,” Paige said, rolling her eyes and jerking a thumb towards Kearns, “with Galahad here.”
“So that’s what the Judge wanted from you,” Wendt said to Farrell. “For you to take his daughter out of harm’s way.” The sergeant tuned to Paige. “That’s a good idea; I’m glad you’re finally listening to reason. You should have bugged out two days ago.”
“That’s what Dad wanted; I guess he’s getting his way. Again. As usual.”
“He’s only thinking of your safety,” Farrell offered.
“All right,” she growled. “It’s bad enough I have to leave with my father quite possibly on his deathbed, but you two can spare me the sermon.”
“When are you leaving?” Wendt asked, not wanting to arouse Paige further.
“Right now,” Farrell answered for her. “You need to get anything?”
“What’s to get?” Paige asked sarcastically. “Everything I own is either burned or wrecked. Even if I wanted anything from my father’s house, it’s a crime scene; the police won’t let me in.”
“I’m afraid not,” Wendt agreed. “Our evidence technicians are going to be there for some time.”
“You got everything you need?” Farrell asked Kearns.