Barry Friedman - Dead End (24 page)

Rankins bent low and moved into the living room.
His rubber-soled shoes made a slight squeaking sound on the uncarpeted hardwood
floor, but the noise was obscured by the slurp of the soft drink passing
through the straw in the man’s mouth.

Slowly, Rankins crept toward the kitchen. Now he
was at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. His body still in
the living room, Rankins reached around the doorframe, his fingers groping
until they found a rack of knives mounted on a magnetic plate. Noiselessly, he
removed the largest knife, an eight-inch blade. He gripped the handle until his
knuckles were white. The man in the chair chewed noisily. Slowly, now, Rankins
told himself. He started moving into the kitchen. He felt as though the tension
inside him would burst out. He moved a millimeter at a time. Now he was three
feet behind his prey. Now two feet.

“UNIT ONE. SUSPICIOUS PERSON APPROACHING.”
      

The sudden blare of the speaker startled him.
Rankins jumped back into the living room, behind the doorframe.

He watched, every muscle taut, as the man picked
up the walkie-talkie from the table alongside him. “What is it now, some kid on
a bicycle?”

“Show, it’s a man getting out of a blue Honda in
front of your building.”

The man put down the walkie-talkie, went back to
chewing on his sandwich. A few moments later, the tinny voice came through the
speaker again. “Cancel the suspicious person alert. It’s a guy going in the
building next door.”

Rankins watched the man speak into the
radiophone. “Listen, I’m eating. Don’t bother me unless you see some dude
walking up the front steps with an assault rifle, you hear?”

He slammed the radiophone on the table and went
back to his hamburger.

Rankins drew the knife across the man’s neck and
watched the mouthful of food he had just swallowed drop through the wide slit
in his throat that extended from one ear to the other. The wad of hamburger
dropped from the opening in his esophagus and plopped to his chest before it
landed in his lap. His eyelids flew open and his eyes turned up until only the
whites were exposed. A double jet of crimson pulsed out of his neck and
splattered the window he was facing. His hands clawed at the air, and in slow
motion he toppled from the chair landing with a thud on his side on the kitchen
floor.

Rankins carried the knife to the sink. He rinsed
it and dried it as though he were doing the dishes after a meal. He barely
glanced at the body that still writhed in terminal agony as he walked back to
the bedroom. He carried with him a thin-bladed screwdriver that he had taken
from a kitchen cabinet drawer.

At the bedroom closet he kneeled, and with the
screwdriver, pried up a floorboard. Reaching down into the space below the
floor, he retrieved the small automatic pistol and placed it his trouser
pocket.

He left the apartment building by the same route
as he had entered. As he walked down Fern toward his parked van he turned,
glanced up at the kitchen window, now streaked with red rivulets.

*
  
*
  
*

Conrad said, “Do you suppose maybe there’s
something wrong with his radio?”

Clemens said, “I’ll bet the prick is just being
stubborn and won’t respond.”

“Jesus, it’s been over an hour since we heard
from him.”

“Let’s wait another fifteen minutes. If he
doesn’t answer I’ll go up. Probably wake the bastard.” Clemens leaned back in
the chair, laced his hands behind his head. “So, anyway, this broad is comin’
on me like I’m a rock singer…”

*
  
*
  
*

Vandergrift put down the magazine she was reading
and folded her hands in her lap. Across the room, Dr. Marino was talking into his
dictating machine, several charts spread out on the desk in front of him. He
stopped and glanced over at Vandergrift. “Bored?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m just thinking.”

“Here, want something to read while you’re
waiting?” He picked a manila folder from his desk. “I brought home Rankins’
record. Thought I might go over it. So far, I haven’t had the chance.”

Vandergrift shrugged. “Okay, but is it all right
if I interrupt you to ask questions? I probably won’t make much out of the
medical terminology.”

“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble
understanding it. Most of it is in straightforward English. Maybe a little
jargon. Sure, yell if you get stuck.”

She reached forward to take the chart. He said,
“Normally, this stuff is doctor-patient confidential material, but I don’t see
how it will make any difference in this case.”

She smiled and raised her right hand. “I swear it
won’t go any further than this room—unless it turns out to be juicy, in which
case I’ll only tell the rest of the guys on my shift.”

Marino went back to his dictating while
Vandergrift started reading the chart.

She scanned the first several pages of typed and
dated notations labeled “Initial History and Physical Exam.”

It related the onset of his back problem to the
lifting injury he sustained. His first treatment by the doctor in New
Philadelphia was described. Finally, it told of the progression of symptoms
leading to his first visit to Dr. Marino’s office. The description of the
physical exam included terms, which she did not understand, but she could
figure out their meaning from the context of the record.

The following page was a report headed “Stark
Medical Imaging Laboratory.” She skimmed over the details of the Magnetic
Resonance Imaging scan, focused her attention on the conclusion which read, “Probable
herniated nucleus pulposus, L4-5, left with compression of nerve root.”

“What’s a ‘nucleus pulposus’?”

Marino said, “That’s the disk between two
vertebrae. Actually, it’s the central part of the disk. It’s the softest part
of the disk and is the part that ruptures.”

“I see.”

The sheet headed, “Report of Operation” was
replete with medical terms. She concluded that the operation removed the
ruptured nucleus pulposus and gave up trying to decipher the details of the
incision, the use of a variety of instruments. The final paragraph said that
the patient “left the operating room in stable condition.” She smiled as she
pictured the patient walking out of the operating room, waving goodbye.

A discharge summary from St. Agnes Hospital,
repeated, in abbreviated form, Rankins’ condition on admission, said that the
herniated disk was found at the time of surgery and that the operation was
performed without complication.

A paragraph in the summary caught her attention.
She read it through twice, finally glanced up at Marino. “What’s a
p-h-i-m-o-s-i-s?”

His brow furrowed. “A what?”

She repeated the spelling.

“Oh, a phimosis. That’s where the foreskin over
the head of the penis becomes inflamed. Where the hell did you get that term?”

She pointed at the record. “In here. It says,
‘The patient’s post-operative course was complicated by development of a
phimosis. The patient was seen in consultation by a urologist who performed a
dorsal slit relieving the constricted foreskin. This was followed by a
circumcision two days later’.”

Marino held out his hand. “Let me see that
chart.”

She passed him the chart open at the page she had
read. He turned a few pages scanning quickly. Still reading the record, he
said, “I had forgotten all about that. Sure, he had some difficulty urinating
after the operation, not all that unusual. He was catheterized and probably got
the phimosis from all the manipulation.”

“So the catheter caused it?”

Marino became a little defensive. “Well, it was
uncleanliness on his part that caused it. He didn’t clean the space between the
head of his penis and the foreskin over it. The catheterization helped of
course.”

Vandergrift said, “What’s a ‘dorsal slit’?”

“It’s a little operation that slits the foreskin
over the head of the penis. Like opening the seam of a dress to make more
room.”

“Ouch!”

“Under local anesthesia, of course.”

“Of course. After that he was circumcised to
prevent it from happening again, I guess.”

Marino grinned. “Congratulations. Your eligible
for your degree—A.A.D.”

“A.A.D.?”

“Also A Doctor.”

Vandergrift laughed. “By the way, who was the
urologist who did all this?”

Marino looked through the chart, stopped at a
page. “Hal Schneider—Dr. Harold Schneider.”

“Did Rankins have much contact—“ The phone on
Marino’s desk rang. She stopped and waited for him to pick it up, but he let it
ring until it stopped after the third ring.

Marino sat looking at the phone, “I guess Kim
picked it up downstairs. I signed out to my partner so I wouldn’t have to take
any medical calls tonight. Sometimes people will call me at home, and it’s
difficult for me to tell them I’m not on call—especially if it’s a doctor who
refers a lot of patients.”

 
Maharos
walked into the room. The grim look on his face spoke of trouble. Quietly he
said, “He got Show.”

Vandergrift looked puzzled. “Show?”

“The Vice Unit detective they assigned to us.”

“My God! What happened?”

Maharos gave her what details he had gotten from
Cassidy in the communications center. The message had been relayed from Clemens
at the Massillon stakeout. “It means Rankins is on the loose and he’s still in
the area. No doubt of it now.”

Vandergrift was gazing at a blank spot on the
wall behind Marino’s desk. Maharos caught her faraway look. “Something?”

Slowly she turned to face her partner. “I wonder
if we’re guarding the wrong person.”

Maharos cocked his head, waited for her to
continue.

“I’ve just been going over Dr. Marino’s record of
Rankins.” She told him about the phimosis and the subsequent operations to
correct it.

Dr. Marino broke in. “Wait a minute.” He leafed
rapidly through the chart. “Yeah, here it is.” He looked up. “I don’t know why
I didn’t think of this before. The last time I saw Rankins for a follow-up his
back was okay, but he looked more depressed than usual. He said something about
losing his manhood. I was quite sure the back operation didn’t cause him to
become impotent. But just to be certain I sent him back to Dr. Schneider. He
ran some tests and told me that the guy had always been impotent. I remember
Schneider telling me that even after he reassured Rankins that none of the
operations caused his impotence, he didn’t seem convinced. He wanted to finger
someone for the blame.”

Maharos and Vandergrift exchanged glances.
Maharos’ mind was racing. Loss of his manhood! A motive? You’ve got it!

“Where is Dr. Schneider?”

Marino said, “Probably at home.”

“Can you call him?”

Marino pulled a thin book from the bookshelf
alongside his desk. Rapidly he flipped the pages. “I’ve got his home number. He
jotted the number on a pad, picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. He
sat for a few seconds, the phone cradled at his shoulder. “Naomi?…Hi. Russ
Marino. Can I talk to Hal?…Where?…St. Agnes?…He went there directly from
the office?” Marino glanced at his watch. “It’s after nine. You mean he hasn’t
been home yet?…No, that’s all right. I’ll see if I can reach him at the
hospital. Thanks.”

He disconnected the call without removing the
receiver from his shoulder and immediately punched in some numbers on the
keypad. While he waited to be connected he looked up at the officers. “He had
an emergency at St. Agnes. His wife thinks he’s still there in surgery.”

Maharos fidgeted. Vandergrift held up crossed
fingers.

Marino was speaking into the phone. “Dr.
Schneider, please…What time did he sign out?…Try the O.R. anyway.”

He glanced up at Maharos. “The operator said he
signed out of the hospital at eight-ten… O.R.?…Is Dr. Schneider there?…I
see. Thanks.” He shook his head.

Maharos flicked the switch on the walkie-talkie he
held. “I want one of you in here, stat. The other remain in place.”

“Ten-four.”

He turned to Marino. “Get Dr. Schneider’s wife on
the line. Ask her what car he was driving and the license number. Get the
number of his cell phone.”

Marino punched in the numbers. While he waited
for the connection he said, “I know he drives a white Cadillac Seville. He has
a vanity license plate, ‘PP DOC’.”

Vandergrift’s brows went up. “How would you
remember his licen—. Oh, he’s a urologist, right? Real cutsie.”

Marino’s call to Schneider’s home was connected.
“Naomi, was Hal driving his Caddy?…Uh-huh. What’s his cell phone number?…Uh-huh…Oh,
you did. When did you try last?…” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “She
tried to call him on the cell phone and got no answer, twice.” He spoke into
the phone. “Yeah. Well I’m anxious to reach him. If he comes home, tell him to
call me right away. I’m home.” He started to hang up, kept the receiver to his
ear, listening. “What time was that?…Okay, thanks.” He hung up, turned to
Maharos. “She thought she heard the automatic garage door open and close around
eight-thirty. When he didn’t come into the house, she looked into the garage,
saw his car wasn’t there, decided she had been mistaken.”

Maharos grabbed the phone. He punched in the
number of the communications center at Stark County Sheriff’s Office, and
waited while his call was connected. “Cassidy?…Get the sheriff’s helicopter
in the air. I want the pilot to cruise

I 77. Start south of Canton for about twenty
miles, then north. I want him to look for a white Cadillac Seville. License
tag: PP DOC. Got that?…Next, call Highway Patrol. Have them alert all units.
The car we’re looking for is probably on I 77. If they spot it, have them trail
it along with the ‘copter. Have them hold fire, repeat, hold fire. Either the
driver or the passenger is our perp. The other is a hostage. We don’t know
which is which. The guy is armed and extremely dangerous. Vandergrift and I are
leaving Dr. Marino’s and we’re heading for I 77. Keep in touch with my car. The
sheriff’s surveillance team will keep cover on the Marinos. Got all that?” He
listened for a few moments, hung up and gestured with his chin for Vandergrift
to follow as he sprinted for the stairs. He called over his shoulder to Marino,
“Keep trying the cell phone. If you get him, call Agent Cassidy at Stark County
Sheriff’s office.” He was already out of the front door and headed for his car,
Vandergrift a step behind.

*
  
*
  
*

State Highway Patrol Officer Chuck Schulte in car
86 was parked on the right shoulder of I 77 just past the Portage St. entrance
ramp. Elbow resting on the open window frame, he was watching the northbound
traffic. Just past nine on a Tuesday evening, there were relatively few cars.
The sun had set an hour before. He looked up at the starless sky. Rain was
predicted for the next day. It was already muggy.

He glanced at his watch, calculated how long
before he would head for the barn. Miller time. Sandy digging in the
refrigerator for a beer for him. Cold sweat on the outside of the can, the icy
fluid on his tongue.

The static of his two-way radio speaker broke
into his thoughts. “All units I 77. On the lookout for white Cadillac Seville.
License plates PPDOC, repeat PPDOC. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Hostage
aboard. Trail and report but do not, repeat, do not fire. Air search will
assist.”

Schulte acknowledged into his dashboard
microphone.

He did not have long to wait. The ninth car that
passed after the call was the white Caddy traveling in the left lane at an
unhurried pace. He almost missed it. A semi, traveling in the right lane,
passed at the same time. He spoke into the microphone as his patrol car pulled
on the road. Schulte’s eyes were fixed on the Cadillac’s red taillights two
cars ahead as he reported his location. With the communicator’s acknowledgement
came the caution—no flasher, no siren.

Twenty miles to the north, in the Akron area,
State Highway Patrol Officer Ham Fisher in Patrol Car 92 was cruising south on
I 77. He heard Schulte report that he had the Caddy in his sights. He went on
full burner, racing to meet Schulte and the car he trailed.

*
  
*
  
*

Dr. Harold Schneider lay face down on the floor
behind the driver’s seat. His hands, bound tightly behind his back, were
already numb. His feet were bound at the ankles and a rag was tied across his
mouth. He had no idea how long he had been there. When he first became aware of
his situation after regaining consciousness, the bumpiness of the road and the
occasional stop and start of the car told him they were traveling on city
streets. Sometime later the ride became smooth, the car no longer made stops.
It could only mean that they were on a highway.

Who had done this to him? Why? He vaguely
remembered getting out of the car in his garage. He recalled nothing after
that, until he found himself tied up on the car floor. He wasn’t even sure
whether he had been knocked out or if he fainted.

He tried to yell. His cries, muffled by the gag
were unintelligible. They were met with silence from whoever was in the
driver’s seat. He strained his neck to try to see over the back of the front
seat, but finally gave up. He only knew he was in trouble. His first thought
was that he had been robbed. When his mind cleared and he could think more
clearly, he knew this was not a simple robbery. He was being taken somewhere,
kidnapped. Kidnapped? That only happened in Europe and the Middle East.

He recognized the irregular, racing pulse at his
temples. Paroxysmal atrial fibrillation. It had come on several times since his
heart attack four years ago. Each time it had been successfully treated with
medication. He wondered if his heart would survive the current assault. Did he
have some chest pain when he got out of the car? He couldn’t remember, but was
encouraged that he felt none now.

The cell phone in his trouser pocket buzzed for
the second time since they had been riding. Whoever was in the front paid no
attention and the calling party rang off.

He rolled to his side until his back came to rest
against the bottom of the back seat. Wiggling his fingers to try to regain some
feeling, they touched an object on the floor behind him. Something that moved,
but he couldn’t recognize it by feel. He touched it again and again until he
realized it was a soft material intermeshed with something that could be wire.
Suddenly, he knew what it was. An umbrella. He had always kept one in the back
seat of his car. It usually fell off the seat and ended up on the floor. He was
now quite certain that he was in his own car.

He struggled, pulling against the cord that held
his wrists, trying to loosen it. But pulling only caused the binding to dig
more deeply into the skin.

Schneider’s fingers grasped what he now knew was
one of the metal ribs of the umbrella. He bent it back and forth. Each movement
caused him to wince with pain as the cord cut into his skin. Finally, he felt
the metal rib break. He could feel the sharpness of the broken edges.
Tediously, he worked the end fragment of wire rib loose from the fabric that
surrounded it. The piece was about four inches long. He now had something—a
tool? A weapon? He tried to manipulate the fragment so that the sharp end of
the wire could be pressed upward into the cord that surrounded his wrists.
Maybe he could weaken the strands, break the goddam cord. Working the metallic
segment with his fingers just increased the numbness. Finally, the piece of
wire fell out of his grasp. He groped the carpet with his fingers and managed
to find it, but when he tried to pick it up, it rolled away and he could not
find it again.

The cell phone buzzed again. Naomi is trying to
reach me, he thought. Maybe she’ll realize something is wrong and report me
missing.

*
  
*
  
*

At the wheel of the Olds, Vandergrift drove along
the city streets at speeds up to 60 miles an hour from the Marino home in the
northeast part of the city, west toward I 77. The blinking red emergency light
on the car roof chased some cars to the side of the road, but a few drivers
either did not see the emergency light or ignored it, forcing her to slow down.
The traffic became heavier as they approached the business section. On Atlantic
Boulevard she weaved in and out between cars until she reached the freeway. She
stopped and turned to Maharos in the shotgun seat, manning the two-way radio.
“What’s your guess, north or south?” Maharos had been in constant contact with
Cassidy at the communication center. Cassidy was in touch with the broadcast
band of the Highway Patrol as well as that of the units Maharos was running. So
far, Schneider’s car had not been sighted.

Maharos threw an imaginary coin in the air and
looked at the back of his hand. “Try south.”

They had reached the top of the southbound
entrance to the freeway when Cassidy’s voice came on the speaker. “Maharos. We
have a location for your suspect. Northbound I 77, now four miles north of
Portage St. ramp. Highway Patrol car is trailing.”

Northbound. His guess was wrong.

Maharos acknowledged while Vandergrift spun the
car around on the shoulder, and with her finger pressing the horn button, sped
down the ramp they had just come up.

“Look out!” Maharos shouted as a car came up the
ramp directly at them. Vandergrift swerved to the side, avoiding by inches a
collision. The eyes of the woman driving the other car were saucer-wide, her
mouth gaped. At the bottom of the ramp, Vandergrift drove to the northbound
side and in a moment was back on the freeway now headed in the right direction.

Maharos yelled into the mike, “Give me a location
on the Caddy.”

Cassidy said, “They’re about 14 miles ahead of
your position. Just passing the airport. Speed 55.”

“Tell Highway Patrol we’ll be with him in ten
minutes. Have him pursue but don’t make a threatening move.”

*
  
*
  
*

Lying on the floor of the car, Schneider could
not recall ever being so uncomfortable—even when he lay in coronary care
attached to monitors. Then, at least, he could call for pain- killers.