by Rick Reed
“I need to take a statement from you, George. Okay?” Jack took a recorder from his pocket.
“I know the routine,” George said. “Talked to police a few times before.”
Jack turned on the recorder and spoke the opening remarks that were required for a taped statement: name, address, age, telephone number, if the statement was given voluntarily, or if he had been coerced or made promises in exchange for what he said. The usual legalese.
“Tell us what you saw.”
George clasped his big hands together. “I was visiting my mama’s grave. That was eight-thirty or nine. I was right over there,” he said, pointing to a knoll twenty yards north of shot-up car.
“I heard a couple of loud gunshots. Bam! Bam! Bam! That fast. I saw someone in black clothes, a black hoodie like this one, tall like me, thinner though, and he was moving in on that muscle car and shooting it up with a stainless-steel .50 caliber Desert Eagle. He was holding it in both hands, pushed out in front. Now that I think about it, he had gloves on. I’m pretty sure of that. I saw him shoot two, maybe three more times when he wasn’t more than five feet from the driver’s door.
“The shooting stopped and the guy yanked the door open and leaned inside. I didn’t see who was in the car, but he was whaling away on someone. Pounding the hell out of them. I could see his arm coming up and slamming down inside.”
Jack waited for him to continue.
“It all happened quick-like and I was caught off guard. I unfroze and yelled at him: ‘Hey, you quit doing that! I’m calling the police.’ He had to have heard me, but he didn’t turn my direction. I saw him grab something and he took off running. Over that way.” He pointed to the north.
They were standing on a slight rise and a couple hundred yards to the north could be seen the top of a flat roof building. Jack thought it might be the old work release building that was across Buena Vista Road.
“You didn’t see a car besides the Camaro?” Jack asked.
“No. I guess he might have had a car somewhere else. I didn’t see one on the grounds here.”
“Where were you parked, George?”
“I walked from over there. I live on Hobart.”
That was approximately three city blocks away. A short walk.
“So, your car wasn’t here?” Jack asked.
“I left it at home.” He dug his wallet out and showed Jack his driver’s license. It showed an address on Hobart.
“I had to ask, George. What else do you remember?”
George motioned with his head in the direction he saw the suspect run. “There’s no fence over there. Just a short rock wall. I didn’t see where he went after that. There’s that drop down to Buena Vista on the other side. It’s pretty steep, but he was motivated.”
Jack motioned for one of the crime scene techs. It was Joanie Ryan.
“Listen, Joanie. This guy saw the suspect run off over there and disappear down that drop to Buena Vista.” Jack pointed the direction out. “You might be able to get some shoe impressions.”
Joanie said, “Grounds still soft from that rain yesterday. I’ll do it myself.”
George told her, “I’ve been here since eight. There hasn’t been anybody in the cemetery. At least not that I saw this morning. Except me and that poor woman and the bastard that beat her up.”
Joanie went back to the scene.
“What did you do then, George?” Jack asked.
“I called the police and told them someone might have been shot and I ran over to see if I could help. I found that lady. She was knocked down on the floorboard. She was bloody as hell and wasn’t moving. I thought she was shot dead, but I felt a pulse. I called dispatch again and told them to get an ambulance going. That’s when the woman started coming to. I helped her set up and waited for the ambulance. Her head and face were all bloody and I was afraid to move her. Then Mattingly got here. What else you want to know?”
“You did good, George,” Jack assured him. “You said he. Was it a man? Did you see a face?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see the face, but it was a man for sure. Could have been twenty or fifty. White guy or a really light-skinned black guy. I know one thing for damn sure. The gun was a .50 caliber Desert Eagle. He was holding it, legs spread in a shooter’s stance. And he was firing one shot after another into that car. It’s a miracle that woman’s alive.”
“You’re sure it was a Desert Eagle?” Jack figured George was more than twenty yards away.
“Detective Murphy, I did two tours in Vietnam. I know the difference between a little pissant pistol, a .45 and a .50 caliber. Dirty Harry gun. Muzzle blast would fry an egg. I don’t know how many shots he fired exactly, but it was a lot. Sorry I can’t help more.”
“One of the crime scene detectives will want to talk to you, George. Can you sit in the car a little longer?” Jack asked.
“I’ll wait. Hey, I know a couple guys from my old unit that carry one—I mean, that own a Desert Eagle. For target practice, you understand. Perfectly legal. They don’t hunt deer or anything like that.”
“What your friends do isn’t my concern, George. Unless one of them shot up this car.”
“They wouldn’t do something like that. If you want, I’ll talk to them and see if they know anyone else with a gun like that.”
“That’d be a big help, George,” Jack said and gave him a business card with his personal cell phone number written on the back.
Crime Scene Corporal Tim Morris came over holding out a gloved palm with several shiny steel casings. “These are .50 caliber pistol rounds, Jack.”
“Told ya,” George said.
Morris went back to work.
“Thanks for your help, George. We’ll be in touch. Do you need a ride home?”
George said, “I’ll walk. If you need me for anything, I gave Steinburg my number and address.” He started to walk away and turned. “Detective Murphy.”
“Yes.”
“She’s going to be okay?”
“She will be fine, George. We’ll go see her in a bit.”
“Would you let me know something. I mean, I know you’re busy, but I can’t help thinking if I’d just been a little quicker I might have caught that guy.”
“You did good, George. Don’t think that way. That’s our job,” Jack said, and George walked toward Kratzville Road.
“Let’s go see the car,” Jack said.
Jack and Liddell ducked under the crime-scene tape and stood by Corporal Morris. The car’s doors and trunk were open. The front and backseat and floorboards were littered with glass. There wasn’t much left of the back windshield and the front was a series of spider cracks. More of the glass fragments were spread across the hood.
Corporal Morris said, “We found five shell casings so far. He started shooting ten feet from the car, moving to the driver’s side. One of the bullets is buried in the dashboard after it went through the trunk, the back-passenger seat, and the front passenger seat. If someone had been sitting there they would have gotten hit. We might be able to retrieve some slugs.”
A crime scene tech called out, “Found another one, Corporal.”
“Six,” Morris corrected. “The victim took one hell of a beating. I’ll send someone to the hospital to get pictures. Sergeant Mattingly followed the ambulance with the victim to the hospital. There’s blood on the front seat and floorboard and dash. I don’t know if she was hit by any of the shots, but the ambulance crew didn’t seem to think she’d been shot.”
“Is Sergeant Walker coming out?” Jack asked.
Sergeant Tony Walker was in charge of the crime scene unit. Jack and Walker were partnered when Jack first transferred to the detectives’ office from motor patrol. They made a good team, almost reading each other’s thoughts. Then Walker had gone and gotten promoted to sergeant and transferred to crime scene. Jack hate
d to break up the team, but it was a win-win situation. Walker brought his detective skills to crime scene.
“Walker took some vacation days, Jack. His wife put her foot down. He’s worked every holiday for the last three years. She wants him home. Guess you’re stuck with me.”
“Works for me,” Jack said and meant it. He’d worked many a crime scene with Morris and knew the man was thorough.
“Did you find a purse?” Jack asked.
“No purse. No wallet,” Morris said. “Her hospital ID was clipped to her pocket. Not your typical robbery, is it?”
Jack agreed. He didn’t think robbery for money was the motive.
“Holy cow! A .50 caliber?” Liddell said.
“Yeah. It’s like using a bazooka on a fly,” Morris agreed. “She’s one lucky lady.”
“We’ll be at Deaconess,” Jack said.
“I’ll keep you updated.”
Chapter 7
Jack and Liddell sat with Sergeant Mattingly in the emergency room lobby. He was a short man with a wide build. He resembled an old Volkswagen bus with a bad hairpiece and a temperament to match, but he was a good street cop with good instincts. He gave them a brief report on the cemetery incident and was anxious to go back to the scene. Jack had worked with him several times before and always thought him to be levelheaded in a crisis, but this one had shaken him. He seemed to take it personally and it came out in his brief verbal account of what they’d found at the scene. He told them the paramedics suspected a head injury, but she was conscious now and the prognosis was good. Mattingly told the ER receptionist to call him if there was any change, gave her his personal phone number, and left.
“Mattingly seems sure it wasn’t a robbery,” Liddell said.
“I agree. If the guy wanted to kill her, why not just walk up to the car and shoot her? George said the shooter took something and no one found Reina’s purse and according to Mattingly, it wasn’t brought in with her. I don’t mean to sound gender biased, but have you ever heard of a woman not having a purse?”
Liddell shook his head. “It’s like American Express. They don’t leave home without it.”
“Exactly,” Jack said.
“This was personal, pod’na. If I was a betting man, I’d say this has something to do with Reina Day going to the news media about dear old Double Dick.”
“Before we jump to conclusions, we should ask her if she had it with her. And we need to ask if she has an ex-husband or a boyfriend, or someone at work that she’s pissed off. I agree this suggests it was personal, but that could mean domestic violence.”
“Do you really believe the words coming out of your mouth, pod’na?”
“No.”
Claudine Setera came in with a comforting arm around Mrs. Day.
“I thought you were barred from Deaconess?” Liddell said to Claudine. Several months ago, Claudine had been escorted by security from the emergency room after she and her cameraman snuck into a treatment room to interview a preteen male survivor of a mass murder. She frightened the boy so badly that he fled and had to be tracked down. But Claudine wasn’t satisfied with that. She aired the attempted interview even though the boy hadn’t spoken a word. The news media motto was, “If you don’t know the truth, tell a sensational lie.”
Claudine gave Liddell an oily smile. “The hospital called Mrs. Day. I’m here for support. You can’t keep me out of the hospital, and you can’t keep the truth from the public.”
Jack ignored Claudine’s bait. He said, “Mrs. Day, we haven’t spoken to your daughter yet, but Sergeant Mattingly came in with her and said paramedics suspected a head injury, but she was conscious in the ER.”
Mrs. Day’s hand went to her mouth and the color drained out of her cheeks. “I have to see her.”
Jack said, “I’ll tell the nurse you’re here.”
Liddell said, “Let’s find you a seat, Mrs. Day.” He led her gently toward the row of chrome and red plastic chairs in the lobby.
Claudine latched on to Mrs. Day’s arm like a barnacle to a hull and said reassuringly, “They should let us see her. We should know something soon.”
Jack came back with the ER doctor in tow.
“I’m Dr. Hanson. Are you here for Reina Day, ma’am?” he asked Mrs. Day.
“I’m her mother.”
Dr. Hanson glared at Claudine and asked Jack, “Is she with you?” Jack said nothing. To Claudine, the doctor said, “I thought you were barred from this hospital, Miss Setera. In case you don’t remember, I am the doctor that had you thrown out.”
Claudine said, “I’m here with Mrs. Day. You have no right to—”
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Day said. “She brought me. I didn’t think I could drive. You can say what you need to say in front of all of us.”
Dr. Hanson said, “Reina has a concussion and a pretty nasty cut across her scalp and facial bruising. The concussion doesn’t appear to be severe, but she was confused when she came in. I’ve ordered a CT scan and depending on the results, I might keep her overnight for observation. I understand from the paramedics who brought her in that someone shot at her. That might explain the cut across her scalp.”
Mrs. Day’s hand went to her mouth but she said nothing.
“She is coherent now and agreed to the CT scan, but I know Reina. She’ll ask to be discharged as soon as we get the results. You know the saying that doctors make the worst patients. Maybe you can talk some sense into her, Mrs. Day. She really needs to stay overnight, at least.”
“I need to see her,” Mrs. Day said.
A nurse came out of the treatment area and Dr. Hanson said, “Excuse me a moment,” and walked a short distance away to talk with the nurse.
He was gone a moment and came back. “The CT scan showed she has a mild to moderate concussion, but there is a little bleeding. I’m going to keep her overnight. Since she was unconscious, I’m ordering an MRI. She’s being taken for that now and we’re making a room ready. I’ll have a nurse take you up to the waiting room.”
Dr. Hanson said to Jack, “You and Mrs. Day can talk to her, but she needs to rest tonight. No excitement. No television or other excitement for the next twenty-four hours. No television interviews. No cameras. If you have no further question, I have patients.”
Mrs. Day thanked him and Hanson motioned for Jack to follow him. They walked through the sliding doors of the ER treatment area. Dr. Hanson said. “I’m going to give the nurses and security here the order to keep that woman out of Reina’s room. I can have them turn the phone off in there if you like.” He was referring to Claudine. “She has a brain bleed and I have to take that seriously. That must have been one hell of a beating.”
“You and I both know you can’t stop Claudine, but thanks for trying.”
A nurse came and they followed her to a third-floor visitors lounge.
Mrs. Day said, “I want to see her first. Alone.”
“Of course,” Claudine said, as if this was directed at her and not the detectives. “It shouldn’t be long before she comes back, Amelia,” she said to Mrs. Day.
Claudine was right. A few minutes later a nurse came and told Mrs. Day to follow her, leaving Jack, Liddell, and Claudine alone in the lounge. A small table sat in one corner with a coffee setup. There were two carafes, one with a quarter-inch of sludge in the bottom and in the other the coffee was so weak he could see through it.
He held the sludge carafe up and said, “I don’t suppose you’d go to the nurses’ station and get us some coffee, Claudine? Chop-chop.”
“I’m impressed,” she said. “That’s the first sexist remark you’ve made. You didn’t even call me hon.”
“I’m inhibited by the female nurses,” Jack said and took a seat.
Claudine sat by him and put a hand on his arm. “Poor you,” she said with a pout. “We don’t have to be enemies, Jack. This is a
highly unusual situation. You’ll need my help and I’ll need yours. We’re both after the same thing. The enemy of my enemy and so forth.”
“I don’t have enemies, Claudine.”
“Yeah, right. What I meant was that we stand a better chance of solving this thing by working together. I’m willing to share everything I find with you.”
“And the Golden Globe Award goes to Claudine Setera,” Liddell quipped.
Claudine smiled at the jibe. “Okay. I admit I might need your help more than you need mine, but think of this: I have the trust of the family. They came to me. They don’t trust the police department and that includes you two. I was the one who suggested Mrs. Day talk to Chief Pope. I can help. If I trust you, they’ll be more likely to open up to you. It’s as much about restoring the reputation of the police department as it is solving a cold case. Imagine the public impact we can make before Benet Cato takes office.”
Jack could see she was almost salivating at the idea of being an embedded reporter, like Geraldo Rivera in Iraq, and he remembered how that turned out. It was a necessary evil in police work to keep the public ignorant until they needed to know something. No one liked you for it. He didn’t enjoy it. But his job was to protect. That meant protecting his case, giving the jury the entire findings to ensure they could make an informed decision, and not try the case in Facebook court. When the case was completed, the public could have everything. He would be happy for the news media to dine off the case. It didn’t make sense for the news to tell people what happened and color the jurors’ memory, scare them, or worse, create a copycat situation.
Murphy’s Law said: There are two constants in life. One: You die. Two: Never trust the media.
“I’ll think about it,” Jack said.