by J. V. Speyer
Hyena Lady’s eyes bored into him.
Donovan glowered at the phone when it rang. It was four o’clock. He could leave in half an hour. Okay, technically, he could leave whenever he wanted; he was the boss. Still, he had to set a good example for the people reporting to him, even if he wanted to get home before Luis.
Still the phone was ringing, and he had to answer it. Especially when he saw the name associated with the obnoxious tone. Alex Morales wouldn’t be bothering him during a case for anything trivial. For one thing, Alex had two detectives with him. If he was calling Donovan, and not Fitch or Nguyen, something must be wrong. Not that they weren’t friendly, but Alex was outside his chain of command.
“Hey, Morales. What’s going on?” Donovan kept his voice light. If by some chance things hadn’t gone bad, he didn’t want to tempt fate.
Sirens wailed in the background on the other end of the call. “Hey, Carey. Um, there was an ambush.”
Morales’ voice had a strain to it, one Donovan recognized all too well. “Shit.” He stood up and grabbed his keys. “Both down?”
“Both breathing. Assailant is dead.” Alex took a deep breath. “I couldn’t—there wasn’t an opportunity to take a nonlethal shot.”
“I believe you. I’m on my way, Morales. Are you hurt?”
“Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix—hey!”
Donovan heard the unmistakable sound of a phone being seized. “Are you Agent Morales’ superior?”
Donovan paused in his mad dash for the door. “This is Lieutenant Donovan Carey, Major Crimes Unit, Massachusetts State Police. Who is this?”
The man on the other end cleared his throat. “Sergeant Robert Dupree, sir. Apologies. I’m one of the first officers to respond to Agent Morales’ call for assistance. Detectives Nguyen and Fitch are on their way to Bay State Hospital. They’re in bad shape but they’re breathing. Agent Morales has a shoulder wound, through and through from what it looks like. He’s refusing to get into the ambulance until the crime scene is ‘secure.’ Can you please explain to this man the scene won’t be secure if he bleeds out onto the motel room carpet?”
Donovan huffed out a little laugh, in spite of the circumstances. It wasn’t hard to see who’d mentored Alex. He rattled off Agent Holcombe’s number from memory. “That’s a supervisor at the FBI field office in Boston. She can actually give him orders. I can argue with Agent Morales all day, but I know exactly who put that idea in his head and I’ve never convinced him to take care of himself either. Look, I’ll be out there as soon as I can get there. You’re in Southwick, right?”
“Starlight Lounge Motel, that’s right. It won’t be the first questionable stain on this carpet. I look forward to meeting you, sir.” Sgt. Dupree passed the phone back to Alex.
“It’s not that bad.” Alex sighed. “Donovan, I’m sorry about Fitch and Nguyen.”
“I know. It’s part of the risk we all take. We’ll talk about it in the hospital. Let them patch you up or the nice sergeant is going to sic Holcombe on you.” Donovan closed and locked his office door behind him. “No time to waste. See you soon.” He hung up and turned to the department admin.
“Two men down out in Southwick. I’m on my way out there. If you could let Captain Power and maybe Public Relations know, I’d appreciate it.”
The admin sat up straight, face drained of all color. Donovan knew she’d do exactly what he’d asked of her. He didn’t need to sit there and watch her do it.
He called Luis from the car. He didn’t pick up, probably because he was still in court giving testimony. Donovan didn’t mind. He left a voice mail as he pulled out onto the Mass Pike. “Hey, I was hoping to get home before you, but it looks like it’s not going to happen. We’ve got two detectives down and one fed—Alex Morales. He’s alive, it’s a shoulder wound, but I’m going out there to handle things on the scene. If you get this message and you feel like it, give Morales a call and yell at him to let them take him to the hospital and fix him up. Love you.”
Then he threw on the sirens and went full throttle all the way out to Southwick.
The media was already on the scene by the time he got there, lighting the place up like Boston Garden on game night. Donovan knew the main stations had just reached out to local affiliates in Springfield and Hartford to get people to the site, but it still bothered him. What ghoulish purpose did it serve to have bloody pictures of a motel room splashed all over people’s screens without information to go with it?
Sgt. Dupree turned out to be a tall Black man, head shaved with a neat little beard, in his late twenties. He found Donovan easily. “Lieutenant Carey, thanks for coming out. I don’t know what magic you used to get Agent Morales to finally get into the truck, but he got a phone call at around five and let them take him to the hospital.”
Donovan grinned at that, although he kept his face away from the cameras when he did. One of the first rules of police work was to never smile at a crime scene. “I called his mentor. Agent Gomes knows just what buttons to push.”
“That would be the Agent Gomes with the book? The one who found the Rabbit Tracks Killer?”
“Same guy.” Donovan stuck his hands in his pockets.
“That’s some pull you’ve got, Lieutenant.” Dupree nodded appreciatively. “The scene is secure, although you’ll want to put booties on.”
Donovan accepted the shoe coverings that would keep him from tracking debris over the scene. “Are the feds on their way?”
“Some guy by the name of Wong started screaming at me about not moving anything.” Dupree rolled his eyes. “I spoke to an Agent Borchard afterward. He apologized and told me ‘Dr. Wong lacks chill and social graces.’ That was putting it mildly, but whatever. We’re not touching anything. Do you know these people?”
“Dr. Wong works for the State. I’m surprised you haven’t had to deal with him yet. It’s an experience.” Donovan grimaced. “And yeah, Borchard is putting it mildly. Agent Borchard is probably the most mellow federal agent I’ve met. If he’s on his way, he’s likely got Agent Wragge with him. They’re partners. They’re decent guys, for feds.”
Dupree gave him a suspicious look. “Do you work with a lot of feds?”
“Well, I live with one.” Donovan led the way into the motel room. “I’ve had a few beers with both of these guys.”
The crime scene didn’t seem to hold a lot of information. It was a seedy motel room, like any number of other seedy motel rooms on the back roads of the Commonwealth. Donovan had lost count of how many there were and how many he’d had to go poking into over the years. Gunfire had shattered the curtain, which was old enough to be made from actual glass instead of plastic. The carpet probably hadn’t been cleaned since sometime in the fifties. A body lay facedown in front of the bed, adding its own contribution to the stains. An AR-15 lay a short distance away.
“Christ.” Donovan shuddered. “This really was an ambush, wasn’t it?”
“Looks like it. You’d have to talk to your guys, but from what Agent Morales told me they were at least suspicious from the start. They were wearing their vests . . .”
“But standard-issue vests are only rated at level three. If he had an AR-15, they’d have had to go in with hard armor—level four.” Donovan wiped a hand over his face. “Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate your help. I’m going to give you a word of advice.”
Dupree raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Dr. Wong is the state medical examiner. He’s going to come out here to handle the shooter. The FBI has their own evidence technician, a guy named Maxwell. He and Wong get along like a house on fire—if the house is filled with accelerant and gunpowder. Don’t get in between them unless someone pulls a gun. It’ll feel like you’re banging your head against a wall, without the reprieve of the blackout afterward.” He passed Dupree his card. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, any questions I can answer.”
Donovan got away before he had to deal with Wong or any of the feds. He
wanted an update on his people before he had to deal with any of the personality clashes involved.
By the time he got to Bay State Hospital, the emergency department was filled with cops. A lone camera crew, trying to make themselves inconspicuous, lurked in the back of the waiting room. Donovan almost felt bad for them. He’d hate to be the one to have to try to get answers out of state troopers after a shooting.
Reporters weren’t his problem right now. He strode up to the triage desk and showed his credentials. “I’m Lieutenant Carey. I’m here about Detectives Fitch and Nguyen.”
The nurse behind the desk nodded and lowered her gaze. That wasn’t a good sign, and a pit formed in the middle of Donovan’s stomach. “Come on back, please.” She pressed a button under her desk, and Donovan opened the door that suddenly unlocked itself for him.
The nurse let her colleague cover her station and guided Donovan back toward a long row of treatment bays. “I’ll get Dr. Kumar. He’s the trauma doctor in charge tonight. In the meantime, why don’t you have a seat in here?” She gestured to a small conference room, with thick walls and low light.
A box of tissues sat on the table.
Donovan moved robotically toward the table, forcing himself to breathe. He could handle this. It was part of the job. His hands trembled, so he kept them in his pockets.
Dr. Kumar, a dark-skinned South Asian man in fresh, clean scrubs, entered the room. “Lieutenant Carey?” He closed the door behind him and sat down. “I understand you’re the supervisor of the two detectives who were shot.”
Donovan nodded. “I am. What’s their status?”
Kumar nodded and glanced down at his tablet. “Detective Nguyen was hit twice, once in the leg and once in the abdomen. She’s still in surgery to repair abdominal damage. You’re aware of how we prioritize trauma damage, yes?”
Donovan bit down on his tongue. “Insides first, then extremities.”
“Correct. I can tell you that her leg is severely damaged. I’m not able to tell you at this point if she’ll be able to keep it.” He took a deep breath. “But I have to confess, it’s doubtful.”
Donovan closed his eyes. “She’s alive.”
“She is. We’re hopeful we’ll be able to repair all the damage in her abdomen. The bullet damaged the large intestine and the kidney but didn’t damage her spine. Everything else should be something that we can fix. She’ll have a long road to recovery.”
Donovan exhaled slowly. “Thankfully, she and her family will be well taken care of. What about Detective Fitch?”
Kumar looked away. “He was also hit twice. While he was still alive when he was put into the ambulance, he died en route to the hospital.”
“Fuck.” Donovan clenched his hands into fists. He wouldn’t react worse than that. Not here, in front of a stranger. It wasn’t his place. He had to think about the families. He had to think about the other officers, the rest of the team. He had to think about the other cops all over the state who would have to process this.
He looked back at Kumar. “Does Morales know?”
“The FBI agent who came in?” Kumar swallowed. “No. We were able to stabilize the bleeding and repair some of the damage to his shoulder. We’ll get an orthopedist to look at the injury when the swelling has gone down and we’ve got a better view of what we’re looking at, but right now he’s resting in a room on the fifth floor.” He managed a wry grimace. “For a given value of resting, I suppose. Am I correct in assuming you’d like to debrief him?”
“I would.” Donovan rose. His stomach stayed where it was, weighted down by the two lives destroyed. He’d been the one to send them out. He’d given them this assignment. He couldn’t get away from the facts.
“I’m sure I don’t have to caution you about questioning him right now.” Kumar rose and opened the door. “He’s been given painkillers. You can’t take anything he says too seriously.”
“I know.” Donovan pressed his lips together. “Alex Morales is more than some federal agent. He’s a friend.”
“Ah.” Dr. Kumar led Donovan to the elevator and then personally guided him to Morales’ room, all in silence. “You can give him the news, but don’t let him get out of that bed. He’s lost a lot of blood. While we’ve given him a transfusion, he’s probably still pretty dizzy.”
“Got it.” Donovan shook Kumar’s hand. “Thank you for your help, Doctor.”
He entered the room and pulled the nearest chair over to Morales’ bedside.
Morales blinked his eyes open. “Hey.” He looked away. “You’re not here with good news, are you?”
Donovan sighed. “Nguyen is still in surgery.”
“And Fitch?”
“Didn’t make it.” Donovan took Alex’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“No—I am.” Tears leaked out of Alex’s dark eyes. “This is my fault.”
“No.” Donovan kept his voice firm. “The only person at fault is the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger. He made the choice. Not you.”
Alex stared into space for a moment. Then he squeezed Donovan’s hand. “Hey, Donovan?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that conversation we had yesterday?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Don’t wait. Everyone thinks they have time.” He closed his eyes, and his hand went limp.
Donovan could see, based on the monitors attached to his friend, that he was asleep.
Chapter Three
Luis kept his face neutral as he walked back into the courtroom, but he knew he didn’t cut the most appealing figure. He’d been at the hospital out in West Bumblebutt, Massachusetts, until six in the morning, keeping a vigil by Alex’s bedside. He’d only left when Brick Fontana showed up to relieve him, and even then he’d hesitated.
He knew Judge Sullivan wasn’t going to cut him any slack, never mind who’d been shot in another part of the state. Nothing in Hampden County was Sullivan’s problem, not until federal charges were filed. And as much as it sucked, Luis knew Sullivan was right.
He’d gotten to see Donovan a couple of times. He couldn’t do much for him, not under the circumstances. Donovan didn’t have time to be taken care of. He had to organize the hunt for the gang that had set his people up for death. Luis hugged him a few times, and he knew Donovan appreciated the support. There wasn’t time for more right now.
Later, there would be. Later, Luis would hold the love of his life close and let him process his grief and his misplaced guilt in private.
For now, they both had work to do.
He forced thoughts of Donovan, and of Alex, from his mind. He was here to stop a serial predator. Fahey murmured her sympathy before starting her questioning. She knew about him and Donovan, of course. She probably knew Alex, for that matter. Even Morello stopped over to offer his condolences.
Fahey cleared her throat, and the jury was brought into the room. Luis looked them over and surveyed the room to see if anything stood out. Hyena Lady was there, the exact same expression on her face as she’d had yesterday. It had to be botched plastic surgery—no one could go twenty-four hours without her face moving. Most of the people in the gallery had been there yesterday, although maybe a few of the reporters had been exchanged for new ones.
Fahey was speaking. “Agent Gomes, you were the lead investigator on this case, as we discussed yesterday. You’re also a profiler, is that correct?”
Luis nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
“You coauthored a study about child pornography, didn’t you?”
Luis had to smile a little bit at that one. He’d almost forgotten. It hadn’t been his favorite project. “I did. It was probably four years ago. I worked on the project with the Child Pornography Task Force.”
“So you’re something of an expert on the subject.”
Luis grimaced. “I’m more of an expert on criminal psychology, ma’am. It sounds like I’m splitting hairs, I’m sure, but I don’t want to get up here and make i
t seem like I’m something I’m not. There are people out there who can testify about how these networks are built and how they operate in such detail it will make your head spin. That’s not me. I take the clues they provide, and I hunt the perpetrators down, but I give full respect to their ability to dive deep into all that data. What I do is analyze the mind behind the behavior.”
Fahey nodded, a little smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Understood. In your expert opinion, would you say Mr. Gelens fits the profile of a typical child pornography distributor?”
Luis snorted. “Mr. Gelens exhibits behavior above and beyond the ‘standard’ profile of a typical distributor because he’s not simply a distributor. He’s also a producer.” Luis launched into an explanation of Gelens’ pathology that would make sense to a typical juror. He’d done this often enough that he could do it in his sleep.
It should have been enough. He just wanted to get back to Chelsea and throw himself into the hunt for whatever gang of freaks shot Alex and Donovan’s detectives. The chair in the witness stand wasn’t designed for comfort, and it wasn’t designed for a tall man either.
Unfortunately for him, Fahey had more questions. She wanted to drive the nail into Gelens’ coffin just as badly as he did, which meant leaving no room for him to try to escape his sentence.
“In your professional opinion, would you say Gelens was insane?”
Luis pressed his lips together. “I haven’t given him a full psychological examination. I interviewed him upon his arrest, although not with a view toward a diagnosis. He does display traits consistent with a severely narcissistic personality, but that doesn’t mean he can’t differentiate between right and wrong or that he doesn’t see the same reality as the rest of us. He knows the difference between right and wrong; he’s simply not interested. He isn’t suffering from delusions or hallucinations. He just views his victims as a means to an end—his own gratification and the augmentation of his own wealth.”