Fever Dream (5 page)

Today, what I felt as I stepped carefully into the glass-strewn, bullet-scarred lobby was the claustrophobic encasement of a meat locker. The overwhelming stench of a slaughterhouse. The smell of blood and open wounds held captive by the frigid air.

At first, I didn’t even register the cops on the scene. Polk and Lowrey. Uniforms milling around. CSU techs setting up their equipment. EMT clearing out, the medical examiner and his people coming in. Their wheeled beds, body bags, white sheets.

In that feverish flurry of activity, nobody seemed to register me, either.

I took another breath and found myself looking at the walls. Maybe to avoid looking down at the bodies. The walls spattered with blood, scarlet blotches that sprayed out in a curving pattern like thrown mud. That dripped slowly in rivulets to the floor like some living Pollock painting.

Bits of flesh and bone fragments pitted the teller’s stations, the customer counters, the free-standing courtesy desk whose pen still dangled half-way to the floor from its silver chain.

The first body I saw lay beneath it. A young East Indian woman, the top of her head blown off. Her wounds oozed blood that pooled on the cold marble beneath her. Spreading in waves to mingle obscenely with the blood of another, older woman lying three feet away.

She wore a pale green blouse and gray pants, and had a gaping black hole where her face had been. Head thrown awkwardly back against a nest of blood-splattered hair. At the end of an outstretched arm was a smooth, manicured hand. An expensive-looking watch on her wrist. Was this Phyllis, wearing the anniversary present her husband had given her?

Not a half-dozen feet away, a man lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs at odd angles. His Hugo Boss suit was flecked with blood and bits of flesh, but what drew my eye was the perfect triangle forming the tip of his white linen handkerchief, still neatly tucked into his jacket breast pocket. The tip itself stained pink.

Bobby Marks, the assistant manager. Most of his face had survived the bullet that had cleaved off the back of his skull. Now it lay unnaturally flat against the floor, like a grotesquely comic theatrical mask, eyes and mouth opened wide with surprise.

Suddenly I was all out of toughness, or stunned curiosity, or whatever the hell I wanted to call my state of mind. The room began to spin. I put out my hands, like a high-wire walker, and tried to get my bearings.

“Hey!” A sharp, officious voice made me turn. I drew a couple more deep breaths. Reoriented myself.

It was Lt. Stu Biegler from robbery/homicide, striding purposefully across the floor toward me. Not even glancing down at the body of Bobby Marks, other than to step carefully around the blood spreading beneath him.

Thin and handsome in a useless, male-model kind of way, Biegler was easily forty but looked ten years younger. Though he carried himself in a way that seemed more callow than youthful.

Now, planting his feet as though to establish his authority, he glared at me. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Boy, I was getting tired of people asking me that.

Not for the first time, though, anger helped me get a grip. Seemed like I was never in Biegler’s presence without wanting to punch his lights out. Not the kind of response you’d normally expect from your average mental health professional, but there it was. Sue me.

“I was called to the scene, Lieutenant,” I said evenly. “Got a problem with that, take it up with the assistant chief.”

“Don’t worry, I will. Last thing we need is some civilian fucking up our crime scene.”

I indicated the bodies strewn about the lobby floor.

“Looks like somebody already did that.”

He was about to respond, when something he saw over my shoulder made his jaw tighten. Then, to my surprise, Biegler covered his mouth with his hand and brushed past me toward the opened double-doors. His body in a kind of half-crouch, I could tell he was trying very hard not to be sick.

I turned and got my first look at what Biegler had seen. Steeling myself, I came over to where Harry Polk stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Staring down at what was left of the masked gunman.

“Who got our perp?” Polk addressed the assistant medical examiner who squatted next to the body. His name tag said “Reynolds.” Middle-aged, balding, and bored.

“According to the witness,” Reynolds said, “looks like
we
got him. I mean, SWAT did. Their sniper took him down.”

Before Polk could stop me, I bent to take a closer look at the dead man. Most of his face had been sheared away by the sniper’s bullet, and what was left was still hidden by the singed fabric of his mask. A kind of thin, woven scarf that he’d wrapped around his head. It clung in bloody shreds to his exposed cheekbones, torn fragments dotting the ugly pattern of flesh and brains that fanned out from beneath his head on the smooth marble.

Reynolds got awkwardly to his feet. “SWAT uses those nasty-ass hollow points. A head-hit pretty much turns everything into Hamburger Helper.”

“Where’s his gun?” Polk said, pointing at a spot just beyond where the dead man’s outstretched palm lay still against the floor. “It was just here, right by his hand. A .357 Magnum. Musta dropped it when the sniper dropped
him
.”

“CSU bagged and tagged it,” Reynolds said. “Already on its way to the lab. Lieutenant gave ’em the go-ahead.”

“Sure he did.” Polk gave me a sour glance as I straightened up again. “Biegler can’t get this scene cleared fast enough. He’s probably hiding behind a black-and-white down the block, puking his guts out.”

Polk turned back to Reynolds. “Tell me we caught a break and there was some ID on this guy.”

“CSU didn’t find squat. No wallet, keys. Nothin’. Maybe we’ll get lucky when we run his prints. He could be in the database.”

“Probably is. I can’t see some fuckin’ virgin trying a job this size. In broad daylight. Him and his partner.”

“Maybe the partner’s the first-timer,” I said. “According to Treva Williams, the partner got spooked by the alarm and ran out. Left this guy on his own.”

Polk scratched his nose. “We’ll know more once we get a look at the surveillance video.”

“What there
is
of it,” I replied. “Looks like the first thing this guy did when he entered the bank was shoot out the cameras.”

Polk gave me an irritated look. “You got any other good news for me, Doc? ’cause so far all you’re doin’ is pissin’ me off.”

I smiled. “Kinda like old times, eh, Harry?”

Reynolds very deliberately cleared his throat. “Look, can we bag this guy, Sarge? Doc Bergmann wants all the vics down at the morgue ASAP.”

“This asshole ain’t no vic.”

“He’s dead, right? Makes him a vic in my book. Just another slob on a slab.”

“Enjoy your work, don’t’cha, buddy?” Polk shook his head. “Speakin’ of your boss, where the hell is he?”

Reynolds jerked his thumb in the direction of the far corner of the lobby. “Over there. With the witness.”

Polk said nothing, just sort of grunted and stepped carefully over the body at our feet. Then he headed across the floor, avoiding the coagulating pools of blood, the sprawled corpses of the bank employees, and a couple desultory coroner’s assistants unfolding body bags. I followed.

We found Eleanor Lowrey standing with Dr. Rudy Bergmann, the veteran medical examiner whose lauded forensics expertise was somewhat undercut by his famously bad hairpiece. A video of it slipping from his forehead during an interview with a local news anchor had become a YouTube sensation a few years back.

Bergmann was stoop-shouldered, bespectacled, and probably nearing retirement. So at first I was surprised to see him here. Then I realized that with a crime of this magnitude, the assistant chief would want the heavy-hitters involved from the get-go.

That’s why the distinguished Dr. Bergmann was reduced now to doing triage, attending to the badly bleeding left arm of the bank security guard, who sagged, obviously in great pain, against the wall.

His name, I recalled from Treva, was George. Tall, salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to a severe V at the middle of his forehead. He was in his mid-fifties, and, given how tight he wore his olive green uniform, maybe a bit vain about how fit he was. Skin tanned like leather, a strong chin. Hard grey eyes that had seen a lot.

As Bergmann wrapped a bandage around his wound, a tangled spool of torn flesh and splintered bone, George winced angrily.

“It was
your
guys,” he said, aiming those ice-chip eyes at Polk. “Your fuckin’ sniper shot me. I’m on my knees near the goddam window and the next thing I know my arm feels like a hot spear went through it.”

“Wait a minute, pal.” Polk leaned in to peer back at the guy. “First of all, what’s your name?”

“George,” I said helpfully.

Polk grunted. “I think I got this, Rinaldi.”

Then, back to the security guard: “George what?”

Lowrey spoke up. “George Vickers. Works for a private security firm the bank uses.”

Polk glared first at Lowrey, then me. “How ’bout we let the guy answer for himself, okay? Unless either one of
you
wants to ask the questions…?”

Eleanor Lowrey gave her partner a wry look. “Easy, Harry, okay? We’ll all a little stressed here.”

“Yeah, a
little
.” George Vickers snorted. “I mean, one minute I’m standin’ in the bank, like usual. Next thing I know, this guy comes in, starts shootin’ out the cameras. He and his partner have us down on the floor so fast, I didn’t even have time to draw my weapon.”

Polk glanced meaningfully at Vickers’ belt holster.

“Yeah, I can see that. Since you didn’t discharge it, you can hang onto it. We won’t need it.”

Vickers reddened. “Hey, you weren’t
there
, man. Y
ou
weren’t the one that got shot.”

“Don’t worry, George,” Polk said evenly. “The perp got his, too. Head shot. Real pretty.”

Vickers smiled crookedly. “I know. I saw him take the hit. Spun him clean around. Like a top.”

“Great. Think we can get the story from the beginning, George?” Polk pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket.

“Forget it. I ain’t got time. I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Hurts like hell, too. I need to get down to the hospital. Ain’t that right, doc?”

Bergmann sighed. “Unless the sergeant here wants to add another death to the four we’ve got already, I’d have to say yes. This bandage is makeshift at best.”

Then the ME signaled to one of his people, who trotted over. She seemed barely out of her teens, with a pony tail that bobbed as she ran.

“Get Mr. Vickers here in the ambulance before it leaves with the Williams girl,” her boss told her. Cutting his eyes back at Polk. “Or before he bleeds to death.”

The girl had just started reaching for the wounded security guard when Polk stepped between them.

“C’mon, George. I bet you used to be on the job.”

Bergmann stared at him. “Sergeant, I just said—”

But Vickers answered, coolly. “The two-forty, yeah. Did my twenty and got out.”

“Then at least give me the headlines, okay? Help us out here.”

Vickers considered this for moment, then smiled grimly. “Ya want headlines? Two guys try to rob the bank, one of ’em panics and splits. The other guy freaks out, starts killing the hostages. Suddenly, SWAT’s shootin’ through the windows. I get hit, but before I go down I see the perp get popped. Then the good guys bust in and the next thing I know, the doc here is bandaging my arm. Now all I gotta do is get me a lawyer and figure out who to sue. End of story.”

He got gingerly to his feet, then reached out with his good arm for the pony-tailed coroner’s assistant.

“Now, c’mon, girlie. Walk me over to the ambulance. I’m feelin’ kinda faint.”

As the wounded guard went off with the girl, Polk grunted something unintelligible and snapped his notebook shut.

“Fuck it,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m goin’ outside for a smoke.” Which he did.

Then Dr. Bergmann adjusted his wire-rim glasses, gave Lowrey and me a cursory nod, and headed off to supervise the bagging of the victims. I didn’t envy him the brutal day’s work he had in front of him.

Standing next to me, I heard Lowrey’s long, weary sigh. She spoke without turning.

“Like I said, a real cluster fuck.”

Chapter Nine

It was then that I remembered my promise to Treva. I mumbled a quick explanation to Lowrey and headed across the lobby. Behind me, I heard the detective flipping open her cell phone and asking for a number.

I strode quickly out onto the sun-baked street. It still thronged with police personnel and news crews, but the Assistant Chief’s car was no longer on scene. I couldn’t see Biegler, either.

As I crossed the intersection and headed toward the far perimeter where I’d left Treva, I also noticed that a half-dozen uniforms had been deployed to keep a growing crowd of on-lookers back behind the crime scene tape. At least a third of them had their cell phones raised above their heads, shooting video of the scene. Maybe the cops would be bringing the dead bodies out soon! Something to show the wife and kids. Or put up on their Facebook page.