Murder at Willow Slough (34 page)

A helicopter zoomed over the treetops. “Police, don’t move! Put your hands up,” Slaughter ordered. Kent wanted as many alive as possible.

“Oh, God, run!” Crum yelled. Kent, shoulder braced against the open door, aimed his weapon and squeezed. Tommy Ford screamed in agony, then experienced death first-hand.

Bulldog squeezed. Lash fell wounded.

Jack Snyder pivoted and fired. A photographer twitched and left.

More shots exploded. Barry Hickman got someone’s leg. Lash’s high-pitched voice screamed, “I surrender!” Others ran for the darkness.

“I surrender too!” Crum cried.

Eight feet before Slaughter landed the aircraft Kent jumped out, trained his sights on Crum. Other officers poured out of the chopper.

Someone else tried to flee and Phil Blaney dropped him, Gay on Gay, bang!

Gunsmoke singed Kent’s nostrils, tears burned his eyes. The semiautomatic felt too small, he suddenly wanted an Ouzi, as many dead as possible. Then he saw Littleknife trying to escape and he squeezed. The stabber died.

“I’m on Crum, Kent,” Helmreich yelled, weapon drawn, hand pushing Kent’s arm down. His arm was trained, so it dropped, but his legs wouldn’t run yet. He stared at Jamie. His naked body hung on the tree, but his spirit seemed to be airborne.

38  

Blood

It only lasted a split second. Kent ran and the sensation was gone. “Victim!” he commanded, dashing to get Jamie free. Someone radioed HQ.

Armed officers—soon to be 50—brought survivors into the clearing. Helmreich, weapon drawn pointblank, snarled at Crum, “Who’s missing?”

Crum looked around, petrified as his peter drooped. “Let’s see, oh, don’t shoot.”

“How many total?”

“Thirteen.”

“Count bodies!” Slaughter yelled as he ran to Jamie.

“Systematic sweep,” Kent shouted. “Core group on the victim.” Stop the bleeding!

“We’re gettin’ ’em,” Hickman whooped. He came to snap cuffs on Crum, tried not to beat him to a pulp.

Jamie, on some unknown plane of existence, saw a bright red vision; his ears heard the roar of consuming fire. The famed TV preacher was done up like the Devil himself, blood-freezing; speaking in tongues of hatred, smiling on cue. Devil had no horns—he had satellites, advertisers, a studio audience and ten billion dollars.

His eyes were furied, ecstatic; his set was dressed with skulls stacked from here to Cambodia. His throne built of Bibles burned without ceasing, the heat flesh-melting. His angels rent bodies scabbed of lavender sarcoma. His fire stole oxygen from gasping lungs. He was a sadist. He enjoyed murder as much as Tommy Ford did.

Kent saw, heard, smelled it all too; shook it off, searching for arteries to squeeze shut.

Then Jamie saw a white pinpoint of light, far off, intense; getting bigger, welcoming and wise. Rick. He watched his rescue with reportorial detachment.

Kent felt hot blood spurt onto his chest. He pressed his hands on the wounds while Doc Helmreich sawed the rope. Kent felt open flesh, hot, soft and mooshy. He tried to find those arteries.

Jamie’s arms dropped free from the branch overhead as Doc cursed.

Gently, quickly they laid the body face down on the ground. Hickman felt the neck for a pulse. It was there, but irregular, weakening fast. They had no blankets. “Cut off my sweatshirt, Doc,” Kent cried. “Wrap it around him to prevent shock.” Helmreich chopped at the fleece.

Kent found a blood vessel on Jamie’s side, squeezed it; felt his guts try to vomit. The spurting there stopped, but continued from the back like a hydrant flushing. “Stay with me, Jamie!” he shouted. “Help’s on the way. Stay with me, partner!” He kissed a swoop of blond hair.

Jamie stopped being able to see anything but the light.

Blaney finished checking Ford’s body, hurried over. Campbell came running with a stretcher. Doc got the sweatshirt round Jamie’s back, obscenely striped.

Where’s that other artery? Kent couldn’t find it.

They got the body onto the stretcher. Campbell and Hickman carried while Kent kept pressing down, down, watching the sweatshirt get soaked. With a stick Bulldog grabbed Crum’s videocam, ran to load it on the aircraft. “What’s the nearest hospital?” Kent cried. They ran, he held on. There! He squeezed, the bleeding stopped.

“Shawnee, and it’s got a pad,” Phil said.

Kent yelled, “Hang on, Jamie! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Slaughter jumped into the captain’s seat and in seconds they were away.
***

They made Kent leave him once they got Jamie onto the table and clamped.

He stood aside to watch the doctors prep the body. Then a gloved nurse and a chaplain forced him into a scrub room to wash off. “Get in the shower. You’ve got it the worst. We’ll give you a hospital gown,” the nurse said.

“Forget it,” Kent growled, “I ain’t wearing no gown.”

The blood on his jeans caked. He didn’t let the nurse touch him. Someone threw him a towel. He wiped off his chest and arms. He caught himself in a mirror and froze.

The other officers were led to a room for those who wait. Kent stared at rusty blood on his lips.

Everyone looked up as he was brought into the room. He shook off his escorts politely, stood motionless a second. Slowly he walked over to the near wall, in front of a bank of windows with heavy drapes drawn. As a police officer he was trained to die. He was not trained to have Jamie do it for him.

Kent moved deliberately, almost in slo-mo. He reached up, yanked the curtain rod out of the cement blocks and screamed into the night. There lay Jamie, pale and naked as death.
***

Someone was holding Kent down. Others patted his shoulder, held his hand. He was still wracking; his eyes ached. In a minute he would try to open them. He gasped for air.

He made out that it was Slaughter who was holding him down, holding him. The hand in his right was soft, so it had to be Julie’s.

He didn’t want his hand held, so he let go. Bulldog was above somewhere, murmuring comfort. Kent could feel wall on both his shoulders. They had taken him to a corner. He sat on cold tile with his knees to his chest. Someone had taped blankets over the windows.

He gained the ability to look at George. “They’re doing all they can,” Slaughter said.

Another round of sobbing overtook Kent. “Oh, man, no!”

At some point he convinced them to let him stand. Slaughter hung on his shoulder. Kent needed to walk, get the stiffness out of his knees. He was keening softly now. Slaughter patted Kent’s chest as they walked together.

Campbell was frightened. She had never seen her partner lose it like this. She had never seen any officer lose it like this.

A chaplain spoke quietly at the table with Blaney and Bulldog. Doc Helmreich stood away from everyone, illegally smoking. Jack Snyder joined him. Hickman asked about coffee.

The nurse came back, or maybe hadn’t left; he leaned against the back wall. Kent walked up to the guy, looked him in the eye, then down and away. “Sorry.”

“You okay?”

Kent mumbled, “Getting there.”

“Everybody has to get an AIDS test.”

Kent turned slowly to confront this. “Why?”

“You came in contact with a lot of blood,” the nurse replied, palms up like the answer was obvious. “Look at your britches.”

The room was silent for a minute. Kent just shook his head; shook it and shook it.

Campbell spoke up. “Think about it, Kent. He was a homosexual. I sure as heck want that test.”

He looked at her. She was standing only six feet away.

If she were a guy he’d have slugged her. It didn’t matter that she’d been in on the rescue, he’d have slugged her.

“He is my partner! He is my living partner!” He slammed his fist into his other hand in lieu of her face.

Campbell stepped away, tried to make amends. He turned his back on her. She put her hand on his shoulder. Carefully, firmly and in control, without turning around, he removed the hand. He paused, felt the tightness of his grip, let loose.

It did not violate him again.

The nurse said something about making arrangements at the lab, and how everyone would have to be retested three and six months later. “I refuse,” Kent told Slaughter. The chief looked at him, made no reply.

“Kent, maybe we should listen to what the nurse here is saying,” Bulldog offered. “I’m pretty sure Jamie’s negative, but a little needle-stick won’t hurt anybody. We’d know that way, have peace of mind.”

“I refuse,” Kent repeated to Slaughter.

“Okay, son. Okay. You’re on the record. Relax now.”

Kent tried to, couldn’t. Jamie’s in there dying and they’re worried about themselves? Puh-lease.

In the corner, Campbell complained to anyone who would listen about how scared she was of getting AIDS. “I told you we should have worn our rubber gloves,” she told Hickman. “These damn homosexuals scream bloody murder if you try to protect yourself from them. God, what a night. First it’s a gaybar and then we get doused with a homosexual’s blood.”

As nearly as Kent could make out, the most she’d gotten was two drops on her right boot. How selfish can you get? “Bloody murder,” huh?

“If I get it I’m going to sue,” Campbell said.

“Who would you sue?” Hickman wondered.

“His estate maybe. The state of Indiana. I don’t know.”

“You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. Four years, right? Homicide, right? He was our witness long before you people came along.”

“That doesn’t prove anything to a virus.”

“Listen,” Barry Hickman said. “I’m not thrilled about homosexuals either. But one of them just saved my life. And 50 other officers, including you. So lay off! We could have gone flying down that road and gotten shot. But no, we got notified about snipers. I’d sure as hell rather take my chances with AIDS than a bullet.”

Barry Hickman had never defended a homosexual in his life. But he wasn’t going to stand there and listen to this. He knew the homosexual. He was a friend to the homosexual. He was proud of the homosexual.

Coffee arrived, “Thank God.” He hurried to get some. Elsewhere discussion started, in dribs and drabs. It was about the suspects and the great evidence from all those cameras.

Not the victim. Either Kent was going very crazy, or there was something not right here.

Someone medical came in to report that surgery had started. Kent listened hard, but “it could be several hours” was all he really heard.

The others went off to get their blood drawn. Steve Helmreich patted Kent’s shoulder on the way out, “I’ve known Jamie for years. I knew Rick, too.”

“Really, Doc?”

“They were both negative, and Jamie still is, trust me. It was a weird disease that got Rick, vasculitis, a terrible killer. Don’t worry about this testing shit. You did great out there. Textbook, though you may not be ready to hear it right now. Anyway, get the test if you want to, don’t if you don’t. Won’t make a bit of difference. I’m just going through their little procedural motions, being the hired consultant. You know the damn bureaucracy, they’re more concerned with their liability than

your health.”

Kent chuckled. It sounded rusty, but at least it was a laugh.

The others went from the lab to individual debriefings with chaplains and the crisis psychologist corps. Troopers came to inform Slaughter about a statement made by Lash. “Don’t tell me, tell your Commander.”

Kent took the report, issued an appropriate followup order; Slaughter praised him. TV crews began setting up outside; there was a rumor that CNN was going live. Kent said, “I can’t deal with TV. There’s a police operation to run, a man to protect.”

So Slaughter talked to Col. Potts, who was far away from the action as usual; briefed the press spokesperson; woke up the governor, who congratulated him and asked to be kept abreast on Jamie’s condition; spoke to the mayor, who resented being awakened; was told of more possible suspects out-of-state, and heard Kent issue new orders; conferred with an assistant Attorney General in Washington, and even a White House politico; finally satisfied himself that the good guys had effective control.

A message was relayed from Casey Jordan of The Ohio Gay Times. Slaughter went out to take that one himself. Casey and someone named Dyson claimed they had tele-photos from the scene. Casey had Jamie’s mother’s answering machine code. He wanted to see his reporter.

Slaughter explained Jamie’s situation, demanded the film. “It’s evidence. Don’t make me detain you and get a court order, Casey. I can have one in two minutes flat.”

Casey insisted that his newspaper control the photos, but offered to share prints as soon as they could be made in the morning. Slaughter agreed, assigned a trooper to secure them and bodyguard Jordan. Casey again pressed to see Jamie.

“He’s in surgery, Casey, on the operating table as we speak. We’re not keeping you from seeing your writer, Shawnee Hospital is.” Slaughter put a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “They’re doing all they can, son. He’s told me you’re a great editor and his best friend.”

Casey trembled, changed tactics, asked for Kessler. Slaughter suggested the ISP flack. Casey demanded Kessler. “Your incompetent department has my number one reporter in surgery because you could-n’t protect him. I have a right to ask for Kessler. This is our case every bit as much as it is yours. Don’t forget: I know you and Jamie are friends. I’ll be happy to tell CNN all I know.”

Then he backed off from blackmail. “Come on, chief. Five minutes?”

Slaughter weighed it, couldn’t care less about blackmail. “Sgt. Kessler is traumatized,” he said sharply.

“So’s Jamie. So are we! He’s my reporter and my best friend. Major, put yourself in my place. What else can I do for him now but get the goddamn story?” Casey wept one tear, shut his eyes furiously.

Slaughter agreed finally to ask Kessler. “If he says no, it’s no deal. You have no idea what thin ice we’re on.” Casey didn’t back down. “Just you. No photos, no tape, off the record. And only if he agrees to it, which I highly doubt.”