Cop Town: A Novel

by Karin Slaughter

  “Jesus.” Jimmy winced as he sat up. His good hand kept the sheet firmly around his waist. “You call Mom?”

  Maggie shook her head. She’d forgotten about everybody until this moment.

  He said, “I’ll get Uncle Terry to call her.”

  “What happened?” Maggie wanted confirmation. There had been too many lies lately. “Tell me the truth.”

  He stared at her, his face unreadable. Jimmy’s waters didn’t run deep. He was strong, and on a good day he was silent, but Maggie had always been able to tell what was on his mind. Jimmy made sure of it—whether he was angry or annoyed or all right, which was basically the extent of his emotions—everybody had to know.

  But now, she had no idea how her brother felt.

  She repeated, “What happened?”

  Jimmy finally relented. “I got a snitch runs guns over on Ashby. I figured whoever killed Don wouldn’t throw away the gun. Money is money, right? If we’re lucky, we find the gun, maybe it’s got prints, and if it’s got prints—” He shrugged. His face contorted in pain as the muscles in his arm twitched. “Christ, that hurts.”

  “What happened?”

  “You gonna keep asking me the same question over and over again?”

  She figured the answer was obvious.

  He absently scratched his jaw. “I might’ve gotten a little aggressive with the snitch. His mother, she’s old, blind as a bat. I knew she was in the next room. I didn’t know she had a howitzer stuck down her girdle.”

  “She pulled a .375 and all it did was nick you?”

  “A .44,” he told her. “And who told you I was nicked? Near about ripped my arm off.”

  Maggie didn’t know why she was surprised Rick had lied to her. “You should’ve taken backup.”

  Jimmy scratched the top of his head. Then the side of his face. Pain medications always made him itch. Whatever drug they had given him was clearly taking effect. He had a sleepy look on his face. His eyelids were half-closed.

  She said, “I’ll go call Mom. Terry won’t tell her the truth about anything.”

  “Don’t go.”

  Maggie waited. And waited. “What is it, Jim? I need to call Mom.”

  Jimmy took his time collecting his thoughts. He absently scratched his neck, then his head again. She was about to leave, but he stopped her with a question. “Remember when you were little and Mom used to make me take you to the pool?”

  Maggie felt sucker-punched by the memory. She’d loved going to the pool with Jimmy. Lilly wasn’t born yet. Maggie was still his baby sister. She had glowed under his watchful eye.

  He said, “You used to like bugs. Do you remember that?”

  She nodded. Jimmy liked them, so Maggie did, too.

  “Remember how I used to tell you I’d caught a bug, only when you came over to see it, I’d squirt water in your face?”

  She laughed before he could. “Yeah, I was pretty retarded. Not much has changed, right?”

  Jimmy wasn’t laughing. “I shouldn’t’ve scared you like that. I’m sorry.”

  Maggie stared at him. She wondered if they had given him too many pills. This wasn’t her brother. “You feeling all right, Jimmy?”

  “I should’ve protected you, Maggie.”

  She shrugged it off. “It was just water.”

  “Not then.”

  She didn’t have to ask him when. Maggie looked down at the sheets on the bed. They were wrinkled. She smoothed them out, tucking in the side.

  He said, “Seven years.”

  “Eight,” she told him. “It was eight years ago.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Maggie pulled the sheet tighter, tucking the corner under the thin mattress. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Maggie—”

  She was already heading for the door. “Get some rest, Jimmy. You’re not yourself.”

  14

  Kate watched Maggie Lawson leave her brother’s room. Instead of heading toward the exit, Maggie crossed the hall. Kate was surprised to see her go into the women’s restroom. She had assumed Maggie had a bag strapped to her leg so she never had to leave her car. Kate could have advised her to hold it a bit longer. The bathroom was as filthy as a gas station’s.

  Maybe she needed a minute. Kate had only known Jimmy for a few hours and she’d been almost as panicked as Maggie when the call came in. Kate’s reasons were slightly different. It was too close to Patrick. They were roughly the same age. They both had that same stoic sense of duty. And until someone had told her otherwise, Kate had been convinced that they had both gotten killed for it.

  She checked her watch, then remembered she’d lost it somewhere between the squad car and the hotel behind the Colonnade. Kate put her hand to her back. The muscles had officially turned into a solid block of concrete. She tried to catalogue her injuries but quickly gave up. There was no number high enough. She had guessed right this morning about the metal hooks digging into her sides—the blisters on her feet certainly took her mind off the pain. And the bruises on her hips. And the goose egg on her forehead. Of course, all of that paled in comparison to the constant sensation of knives stabbing into her spinal cord. She finally grasped why they all stood with their feet spread apart. The equipment belt might as well be carrying dumbbells. If Kate didn’t open her stance, she would either fall down or double over.

  That was, if the smell didn’t knock her out first. The stench in the Grady Hospital emergency room reminded her of the housing projects she’d visited this morning. Kate didn’t know how people lived this way. She guessed you could get used to anything if you didn’t have a choice. Like most Atlantans, she never thought about Grady other than in terms of gratitude—she was equally as glad the hospital was there for the poor as she was secure in the knowledge that she would never have to be treated there herself.

  The publicly funded facility could probably benefit from more paying customers. Almost a century of dirt was ground into the cracked tiles on the floor. The ceiling was stained dark brown or missing altogether in places. Doors were sealed with hazard tape. Broken equipment was piled into every corner. The lighting was deplorable. The flickering fluorescent bulbs gave her a headache.

  Or maybe her head hurt because she’d smacked into a cinder-block wall.

  “Kaitlin?”

  She turned instinctively, not considering how improbable it was that someone from her old life would be in Grady Hospital. The doctor who’d called her name was tall with jet-black hair that grazed his collar, piercing green eyes, and the most delicate eyelashes she’d ever seen on a grown man.

  He said, “Fancy meeting you here, Second Base.”

  His voice was deep and sonorous, in no way familiar. And then she read the name stitched onto his white lab coat. “Tip?”

  They both smiled at the nickname, though the last time Philip Van Zandt had begged Kate for just the tiniest bit of sex, he’d been a foot shorter and absent any facial hair. Now, he looked more like Burt Reynolds.

  And Kate looked like Soupy Sales.

  She’d seen as much in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was a mess. Her skin was splotchy. She’d borrowed a pair of scissors from a nurse and chopped off the dragging leg of her pants. God only knew what her breath smelled like.

  Philip had obviously taken all this in, but still, he told her, “You look fantastic.”

  Kate laughed so loudly that she had to cover her mouth with her hand.

  “I’m serious,” he insisted. “That uniform … the bruise on your forehead … the vomit in your hair …”

  Now she really laughed.

  “May I?” Philip picked a twig off her sleeve. And then a speck of concrete. “I heard you were a cop. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Kate tried to smooth down her hair. “I’m not sure how long I’ll last.”

  “I’ve never seen you give up on anything.”

  “A lot’s changed in ten years.”

  “Nine,” he said, and th
e light banter fell away. Philip stared at her thoughtfully. She watched his eyes scan her face. He clearly liked what he saw.

  Still, Kate asked, “What?”

  He shook his head. “How is it that you’re even more beautiful now than before?”

  Kate was saved a response by the sudden eruption of laughter from a group of policemen at the end of the hall. She startled, but the men were too far away to hear what Philip had said. At least she hoped they were. Their faces looked familiar.

  Philip seemed to sense her discomfort. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.” He gently cradled his hand under her elbow as he led her behind the nurses’ station. Kate felt a swell of emotion. After half a day on the job, she had forgotten what it felt like for a man to treat her like a woman.

  And Philip Van Zandt was certainly a man now. There was none of the tentative fifteen-year-old boy who’d thought he’d hit the jackpot during a game of spin-the-bottle in Janice Saddler’s rec room. He was tall, grounded, self-assured. There was something about his broad shoulders that made her want to wrap her hands around them.

  Not that Kate would ever be so forward with a married man.

  She knew about Philip’s life since he left Atlanta the same way she knew all the gossip about everyone from her parents’ social circle. Through no effort of her own, Kate had picked up stray bits and pieces during dinners and cocktail parties. Philip had been sent to boarding school at sixteen. He’d graduated from college with honors. He’d gone to medical school up north. He was doing his residency as an orthopedic surgeon. He’d moved back to Atlanta six months ago and was living in his parents’ guesthouse. He was married, but his wife lived abroad while she finished her master’s degree. They were both hoping to start a family soon. Philip would eventually join his father’s medical practice.

  Still, polite society dictated that Kate go through the motions. “When did you get back?”

  “Six months ago.” Philip stopped in the doorway of a supply room. “How are your parents?”

  “They’re well. You’re married?”

  “Marta. She’s spending a year abroad to work on her master’s.”

  “Kids?”

  He smiled, likely because he’d been to his share of dinners and cocktail parties, too. “I heard about your husband.”

  A lump rose in her throat. Kate had been flirting. Patrick was dead, and Kate was flirting.

  Philip said, “He was a lucky man to have you, even if it was for a short time.”

  His hand was still on her arm. Kate gently pulled away. She said, “I should probably—” just as Philip said, “Are you here for—”

  They both stopped. Kate had been talked over by Jimmy all morning, but she indicated that Philip should go first.

  “I was wondering if you were here because of that cop who was shot? James Lawson?”

  “Jimmy,” she supplied. “I worked with him this morning.”

  Philip’s eyebrows went up. “How was that?”

  For some inexplicable reason, Kate felt herself circling around the Lawson clan. “Not so bad. I’m still learning.”

  Philip looked dubious, but the truth was that once Kate had stood up to Jimmy Lawson, he’d turned almost bearable.

  “Well.” Philip had a sly smile on his face. “I guess he’s not so different from people you’ve met.”

  Kate shook her head. She didn’t understand the smile.

  “Your mother still has her art gallery, right?”

  She felt he was speaking in a code she couldn’t quite decipher. “Your hints are too subtle for me.”

  Philip pulled her deeper into the supply room. He kept his voice low. “I’ve been here for eighteen hours.” He didn’t make her fill in the blanks. “I treated Jimmy Lawson when he brought in his partner this morning.”

  Kate gathered from the air of intrigue that there was more to the story. “And?”

  Philip seemed to lose his nerve. She caught a glimpse of the unsure boy she’d met all those years ago. “It’s nothing. Just that I treated him.”

  “That’s not all.” Kate playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Come on, Tip. Spill.”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Just a little bit?” She pitched her voice to a breathy whisper, imitating the same begging tone Philip had used when they were alone in Janice Saddler’s bathroom. “Just a tiny little bit? Please?”

  Philip laughed good-naturedly. “I dunno, Second Base. I wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

  If there was one thing Kate was certain of, it was that she was beyond traumatizing. “A pimp masturbated in front of me this morning and I chased a nude prostitute this afternoon.”

  “Completely nude?”

  She gave him a look.

  “All right.” Philip stood up straighter. He was a real doctor again. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded.

  “Wesley was clearly past saving by the time we got him on the table.” Philip paused. All traces of his earlier lightness were gone. “But he was a cop, and he was young. They worked on him for half an hour before giving up. The entire staff was there. Lawson was in the next bed. He was wounded, but he wouldn’t let us treat him. He wanted Wesley taken care of first. And then when Wesley was pronounced—” Philip stopped again. “Lawson was so bereft that I had to sedate him.”

  Kate chewed her lip. Jimmy was so tightly coiled it was hard to imagine him unraveling like that.

  Philip said, “I’m ortho, so Lawson was my case.”

  Kate remembered Jimmy’s limp. “What was wrong with him?”

  “Let’s start with Wesley’s head wound. The killer was standing roughly ten feet away. The bullets entered here in a fairly tight formation.” Philip put his finger just above his ear. “The trajectory—that’s the path the bullets take—went this way.” He traced a line across his face to the opposite cheek. “So, the path of the bullets went downward, which means we can assume the muzzle of the gun was pointing downward, which means that—”

  “The person who shot him was taller.”

  “Exactly,” Philip agreed.

  Kate felt a lightness in her chest. She’d been so consistently wrong all day that it felt wonderful to finally be right about something.

  Philip continued, “Wesley was about my height. So, one explanation could be that the shooter was taller.”

  Philip was at least six-two. “That’s pretty tall. Did you tell that to the police? Nothing was said during roll call this morning.”

  “They don’t exactly trust medical science,” Philip admitted. “The point is, either a seven-foot-tall guy shot your Mr. Wesley twice in the head, or there’s another, more plausible explanation.”

  Kate was all out of brilliant deductions. “Which is?”

  “Wesley was on the ground, on his hands and knees, when he was shot.”

  Kate felt her stomach twist at the thought. The image was something out of The Godfather. But then she recalled, “That’s not what Jimmy’s telling people.” She hadn’t taken notes during the briefing, but she knew the pertinent details. “Jimmy was at the front of the building. He walked around to the back. Don was there. Jimmy didn’t say anything about him being on his knees. The shooter came around the corner and fired. He was ten feet away, which is the same as what you just told me. Don was hit. Jimmy dove for cover. He fired back three times. The bad guy’s gun jammed, so he ran away. Then Jimmy carried Don all the way here.”

  “That’s what Lawson said?”

  “To the best of my recollection.”

  Philip nodded her out of the room. “Follow me.”

  He led her through a door behind the nurses’ station. Jimmy had been sequestered away from the regular patients. Kate had thought the other side was run-down, but the main emergency room was a sty. Homeless people were lying on the floor. Garbage cans overflowed. Gurneys were filled with blacks whose faces were so ashen they almost looked white.

  Philip noticed her dismay. “You wouldn’t believe
how many residents apply to this place every year. Stabbings. Shootings. Suicides. Murders. It’s the greatest show on earth.”

  Kate held her tongue, thinking she’d again missed one of his peculiar jokes.

  “Here we go.” Philip stopped in front of a light box. He flipped through some files on the table below and pulled out an X-ray. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  He snapped the film onto the light box. She saw the name James Henry Lawson etched into the black. His birthday was underneath, then the words Left Femur. The bone looked like something out of an Operation board game.

  “See these?” Philip asked.

  Kate followed his finger as he pointed out black spots peppering the bone. There were dozens of them, some merely specks, a few as large as a dime.

  Philip explained, “Most of these were superficial, but some went deeper. I’ve got him on antibiotics in case there’s an infection. I couldn’t get all of the pieces.”

  “Pieces of what?”

  “Bone, mostly. Some teeth. Hair.”

  Kate still didn’t get it. “Hair on his leg?”

  “Not Lawson’s hair.” Philip made his voice low again. “Wesley’s. Some slivers of his skull were embedded in Jimmy’s stomach and chest, too.”

  Kate stared at the X-ray, trying to process the information. She couldn’t understand how pieces of Don Wesley had ended up in Jimmy’s leg and abdomen. “What am I missing?”

  “Wesley’s head was in Lawson’s lap when the gun went off.”

  “He was ducking down?”

  Philip’s puzzled expression matched her own. “Didn’t you see Deep Throat?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” He’d finally managed to shock her. “Are you crazy?”

  He did something funny with his mouth. “But you know what it’s about?”

  Kate struggled to hold his gaze. Her cheeks were on fire, which she guessed was as good an answer to his question as any.

  Philip said, “So that’s why his head was in his lap.”

  “But that’s a movie. Real people don’t do that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Especially two men.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Philip visibly struggled against the urge to laugh. “What do you think men do?”