Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  She snatched up the phone and glared at the screen. 4:36 A.M. She did not recognize the phone number, but it was local. Letting it go to voicemail would have been so easy. Oh, so tempting. Her only active case was in its wrapping-up stage now, but it was still open so she still felt obligated to answer it.

  “Moore,” she said, a questioning tone to her voice.

  “Agent Moore, this is Mark Weber at St Mary’s hospital. Um, you gave us your cell number in case Steven Ambrose remembered anything.”

  So now he remembers something?

  “And he remembered something so important it couldn’t have waited another couple hours?”

  She regretted saying it as soon as it came out of her mouth. She was more professional than that. Her line of work demanded it. A black woman didn’t rise through the ranks by blurting the first thing that came to mind. Damn. She hated taking phone calls before she’d actually woken up.

  “Uh, maybe after some coffee,” she added, trying to sound apologetic, already committed to the remark.

  “Um, not exactly. He’s gone missing.”

  “What?” She sat up suddenly, throwing covers aside with her empty hand, and shook her head. She needed to be sharp and awake just then.

  “He’s missing, Ma’am.”

  “Yeah, I think I heard that the first time.” Missing? What time was it? She ground her palm into her left eye as if she could push wakefulness into it. “Sorry, I’m still waking up. Care to elaborate?”

  Fuck. So much for taking time for coffee to relieve the grumpiness. How does a quadriplegic go missing? She rubbed her other eye, starting to wake up more.

  “Uhh...his room is empty. We found his IV and his wristband in another patient’s room. That patient is missing some clothes. We have security sweeping the hospital now, and we’ve locked it down, but, ah, I thought you’d want to know right away.”

  “Shit. So how the fuck do you lose a quadriplegic? He sure as shit didn’t just walk out.”

  “We’re still working on that, Ma’am.”

  “And the officer on duty outside his room?”

  “Oh, that changed a week or so ago. There’s only one here during the day now.”

  Of course there is. Crap. She sighed.

  “Fi—I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t let anyone touch anything until I get there.” She stabbed her thumb at the red button to end the call. This was not happening. It couldn’t be. She had invested months in investigation and work and planning into catching Ambrose, even before she could name who she was after. She had stopped the string of robberies—a story the news had been only too excited to report on—but now she was going to have to explain how the quadriplegic ringleader had either escaped or been rescued. She heaved an angry sigh and hoisted herself out of bed. She set the phone down so she would not accidentally throw it.

  The media had been pretty excited when she’d answered their questions right after the arrest. There had been the expected questions and accusations about excessive force and police brutality, but she had been able to placate them by sharing that none of the civilians had died. More importantly, she was able to confirm the ringleader and the entire crew had been arrested. It was over with no loose ends. They had a triumph to report. People could rest a little safer. A little, anyway.

  So much for that now. There were phone calls to make. If hospital security did not find him stuck in the hospital somewhere it would take professionals stepping in. To hell if she was going to be the only one woken up for this. And she was going to need some damned coffee.

  She started the pot while she debated who to call first. She should call Assistant Director West first. The last thing she needed was him hearing it from anyone else first. But 4:40 in the morning? That wasn’t the best career move, either. Crap.

  Bite the bullet. She scrolled to his name and pressed. Rip off the Band-Aid. Her chest tightened with each ring.

  “Moore,” he asked, “what the hell time is it?”

  “It’s early, sir, and I’m sorry for that, but I figured you’d want to know right away.”

  “—Know what?”

  “Apparently Steven Ambrose is missing. The hospital is locked down, and they’re doing sweeps. Maybe it’s nothing. I hope it’s nothing. I’m calling Lieutenant Thorne next and we’ll meet there. I’ll keep you updated.”

  “You do that, Rachel. And find out what on God’s good Earth happened. And pray he’s just misplaced somewhere.”

  “I know, sir,” she said before he had a chance to launch into what might happen otherwise. She did not need reminding. Ambrose was the case that was supposed to take some tarnish off her career. Him walking free meant a distinct risk of her ending up with her nameplate outside a closet somewhere vitally unimportant. “I’m on it.” She ended the call.

  “I hope I don’t have to explain to you how important this case could be to your career,” West had said when he gave her the assignment. West was nearing mandatory retirement, and how this case turned out would be an important part of how he was remembered. She knew that was important to him. She could not screw this up.

  “Why is it always the women that screw these up,” she had overheard him say once. West was the type that still believed in golf course meetings and cocktail meetings. Other women in the Bureau had warned her West didn’t believe women belonged in law enforcement, but he kept to himself just enough to stay out of trouble. But it could still be more than enough to cause her trouble if she gave him an excuse.

  Food. Stop for something on the way? No, that would take longer. A box of strawberry Pop Tarts in the kitchen cabinet caught her eye. Good enough. She pulled two packets out and set them next to the gurgling coffee pot.

  She fluffed her hair with her fingers before she rushed a brush through it. She ended up dropping the brush on her bed. Usually she made the bed every morning. Today wasn’t going to be like just any other day, was it?

  Fresh panties. She missed the hamper, and sighed as she stepped over to fix that. Fresh bra, not the sports bra she slept in. Slacks. Like hell she was going to deal with stockings today. She threaded a belt through the loops and clipped on her gun, badge, and phone. Four fifty-one. She shrugged into a pale pink blouse and snagged a jacket on her way back to the kitchen.

  The stubby little pot of coffee was almost ready. Her favorite travel mug sat by the sink. She pried the lid off and dumped it before she dared enough time to give it a quick rinse. She pulled the pot out early and coffee sizzled on the burner while she poured. The pot hissed when she put it back. She stabbed at the power button to turn it off; she could clean it later.

  Her shoes were already neatly lined up near the door, so slipping into them was easy. Keys hung next to the door. She snatched those and her laptop bag and yanked the door open.

  A neighbor kid in his early teens waited for the elevator with a leashed black lab puppy. “Time to catch some more bad guys?” he asked as they stepped into the elevator together.

  “Well, it’s too early to chase after kids skipping school....”

  He yawned while nodding and returned to calming the excited puppy, whose tail smacked against her leg.

  In her car she paired the Bluetooth connection and dialed Thorne before backing out of her space. Her stomach rumbled, so she fumbled on the seat next to her laptop bag for the pop tarts.

  They were still on the counter. Dammit.

  “Rach?”

  “Morning, Pat. Did you by chance just get a call from the hospital?” The dashboard clock read 4:56.

  “Um, yeah. What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. I take it you’re on your way?” She pulled out of the parking garage and onto a street lit far more by yellow streetlights than by the hint of twilight starting much further down the street. Sunrise was at least an hour away still.

  “Yep. Already enjoying beautiful city traffic.”

  Only a smattering traffic shared the roads around her. That helped. She was not ready for traffic. “Yeah, who g
oes to work this early on a Friday?” Suburban traffic had been easier to live with, but FBI life apparently didn’t revolve around sleepy suburbs.

  She reached down to the cup holder. Good, her mug was there.

  “Crime never sleeps, Rach. I’ll meet you there.” She heard the whoop-bloop of him using enough siren to get around someone or through an intersection.

  She tapped the button on the steering wheel to end the call and rolled through a stop sign turning right. A block ahead the congestion started. Really? Fuck it; she had a siren, too.

  She parked in the hospital visitor lot and got out of her car, slamming the door without meaning to. It was gradually promising to be a sunny morning, but her mood was far from matching it. At least most of the traffic had been light, since rush hour had not quite started yet.

  She swirled the coffee in the plastic travel mug, judging about half of it still left. She gulped some more before leaving it in the car.

  It was a short walk to the hospital entrance. The parking lot was perhaps one-third full, so there were available spaces nearby. She could have parked in one of the closer spaces reserved for the doctors, she knew, but she never liked taking advantage of that, never liked how it felt to her when she saw other people abusing privilege.

  Lieutenant Thorne had probably taken one of those spots, and was waiting outside the main entrance.

  “You going to be cranky all day, Rach?” Thorne asked teasingly. He had shown himself to be a fairly light-hearted man, more so than she had generally encountered when she had had to involve herself with local police departments. All in all she liked the man, and thought she could see why his men liked him, although sometimes his occasional disrespectfulness grated.

  “Yeah, yeah, good morning to you too, Pat.”

  “Shall we get started?” Thorne suggested. “It’s going to be a long day and you’re not going to like it.”

  She followed him through sliding double doors to the main entrance. A man waited near the reception desk, tall and lanky in a white shirt, navy pants, and an ugly tie patterned with golf clubs, balls, and tees.

  “Agent, I’m Mark Weber, the assistant hospital administrator. We spoke on the phone,” the man said, extending a sweaty hand with a weak grip. Short brown hair stuck close to his scalp and thin-rimmed glasses with brown and gold frames made him look like a professor.

  “I remember,” Moore said. “I’m sorry I was a little gruff.”

  “It’s okay, Agent Moore. Trust me, I’ve heard far worse.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Let’s start with the footage you and I found,” Thorne said to Weber, gesturing to a little security cubby behind its glass window. She noted the credit Thorne was already taking. How much before her had he gotten here? Moore followed them into the room which barely held the three of them plus a uniformed guard seated at a computer station with a trio of monitors.

  “Go ahead and pull it up,” Weber told the guard, sounding embarrassed.

  “This is from the ambulance approach,” Thorne explained as black and white video of the sliding double entrance doors came up on one of the monitors. The guard punched some commands and the footage jumped to a dimmer view—nighttime. The doors slid open and a man in dark clothes with a beer belly walked out.

  “Pause it and zoom in on the face again,” Thorne gloated.

  It took adjusting to get to the right spot where the man briefly looked towards the camera, then the guard closed in on and enlarged the man’s face. It was not a perfect picture, but it was clear enough to recognize the man.

  “Look familiar?” Thorne asked.

  “You didn’t mention this on the phone,” Moore accused.

  “We only just found it a few minutes before you got here,” Thorne explained, raising his hands defensively in the small space.

  Shit. So much for quadriplegic.

  “Would you like to explain just how that happens?” she asked them as a group. “We’re going to have to take a new look at everything since he was brought here.”

  “I told you you weren’t going to like it,” Thorne pointed out.

  Moore sighed. “Let’s start upstairs in his room, then.”

  “She’s not going to like that, either,” Thorne warned the assistant administrator, shaking his head. Moore frowned and followed them wordlessly. He led through hallways to a bank of elevators and up to the third floor.

  They proceded straight to 310, Ambrose’s room. A folding yellow warning sign feebly blocked the door next to the orange chair in the place it had been since her last visit. It was a sign they would put at the entrance to a restroom being cleaned. Not exactly crime scene tape.

  “We haven’t cleaned any of it up. Like you asked,” Weber said as he turned on the light in the room.

  A moderately sized puddle sprawled under the bed, centered closer to the foot. A thin plastic hose line ended at the middle of it. The bedcovers were rumpled, but nothing else appeared out of place or out of the ordinary.

  “His catheter bag was hung under the bed, and it started leaking after it was pulled out,” Weber offered as explanation.

  “The CSI techs have just been through,” Thorne said. “But we already know whose piss it is.”

  Thorne led her a few rooms back towards the elevator.

  “This room got cleaned up before we got here,” Thorne warned outside the door.

  “Mr. Ambrose’s IV stand and identification band were found in here,” Weber explained. “It’s another patient’s room and it had leaked some on the floor. We had to clean it. ”

  “The patient’s name is Paul Jenkins,” Thorne said. “He’s in there in the closer bed.”

  “It was one of our nurses who found the IV stand and Mr. Ambrose’s identification band,” Weber said. “Mr. Jenkins was sleeping. That’s when I called you. He is missing a set of navy blue sweat clothes from his effects closet there. He said he wasn’t aware of anyone in his room.”

  “I had CSI dust it for prints,” Thorne offered.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Uh, sure, but I really don’t think he’ll be able to help you.”

  Thorne and the administrator followed her in. Jenkins was an older man, gray and wrinkled with saggy cheeks and yellow teeth. He was finishing his breakfast.

  “Mr. Jenkins, I’m Special Agent Rachel Moore, with the FBI.” She showed him her badge then put it back on her belt. “The man a few rooms down from you was apparently in your room last night?”

  “That’s what the nurses say. I was asleep.” He shrugged and took another bite of French toast she would have sent back if she had ordered it at a restaurant.

  “I told you,” Weber reminded. “Can you tell them to get me some chocolate ice cream? They have these little cups of it, but they never have chocolate.”

  “I’m not the one to talk to about that, Mr. Jenkins. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Ambrose? Anything at all. Maybe something you overheard someone else say.”

  “The bank robber guy? I dunno. I know there were a lot of cops in and out and hanging around all the time. I walk the hall quite a bit—the physical therapists keep telling me that’s a good thing, but half the time it’s just ‘cause I’m bored or I can’t sleep. Some of the cops really bitched to each other about having to just sit there all day. Heh. ‘The boringest stakeout in history’ one of them called it. But I never even seen his face. I guess he couldn’t move none, so I don’t know why they bothered keeping anyone around all the time watching him.”

  “How much did the nurses talk about him?”

  “Not any that I know of. I mean, I know they chitchat and stuff with each other, but usually they do that at their little station over there where they keep the real coffee. We just get this decaf crap. I tell them I don’t want aspirin, I just want real coffee. You know, the leaded stuff. Sorry. But they usually stop their chitchat whenever I walk by. Privacy or something, I guess. He was here already when I got here, so I don’t know if they talked more when he f
irst showed up, maybe.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Meh,” he said, going back to his breakfast.

  “Ah, Doctor Pierce,” Weber called to a goateed doctor reading a patient chart at the nurse’s station when they all left the room. “These two will want to speak with you, too.”

  Weber introduced everyone around.

  “I think we met briefly when Ambrose was first admitted,” Moore said to the doctor.

  “Probably,” Pierce agreed. “I have been the primary overseeing his care since he arrived.”

  “I’m a little confused, Doctor,” Moore led. “How does a man go from quadriplegic to walking out of the hospital without anyone noticing him leave?”

  “I can’t help you there, Agent,” Pierce said. “Maybe if the police detail had still been in place things would be different. Whatever happened he had help. He has brain and spinal cord damage. We ran nerve induction tests in determining the extent of his paralysis. He had limited feeling in his neck and nothing below that.” He waved his hands over each other like scissors at the end. “Here. Follow me.”

  He led them around the nursing station and inside the little alcove of countertops. He pulled up black scan films and jabbed them in a line into holders on the wall light boxes. He smacked the switch to light them up and a series of white ovals surrounded shades of gray with some whiter splotches.

  “Now. Neither bullet penetrated very far, which is probably the main reason he survived at all. This portion here is the cerebellum, at the back and bottom of the brain. That’s mainly motor coordination. These large areas of white here are blood pools. That’s the first indication of damage there. These other little bits of sharper white you’re seeing are a couple pieces of skull that broke loose.” His words were terse, almost clipped, lending an irritated and condescending tone to his voice. Defensive. He tugged those films down and snapped another row of them up.

  “Now. Here we have a couple of weeks later. Not long after he regained consciousness. Now in those same areas we see dark regions. The more white you see, the more blood is in an area. We want to see a nice medium gray. The darker it is the less blood there is there. In this case it means these areas just aren’t functioning. They can’t. That’s lost. Gone. Dead.”