Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (7 page)

Chapter
Ten

Head Shot

St. Paul, MN

Late October

J
OHN GOODMAN WOKE up to an empty bed several hours
after he had returned home from performing surgery on Rick Wilson. The sunlight
curled around the edges of their room-darkening shades. He snatched his cell
phone off the nightstand to see the time…1:12 p.m. He blinked a few times and
rubbed the sleep out his eyes.

He reached over and switched on the lamp on his side
of the bed. Propped against his stack of medical journals and publications, he
found her note, written on the back side of the one he had written the previous
evening. It said,

John

Looks
like your head trauma case just became my case with Frisco. Sorry to screw up
what's left of our Sunday...I will try to be home in time for a late dinner.

Love,
Jo

P.
S. And thanks for asking!

Disappointment was replaced with happiness as he read
the last line. He lay back on the bed, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy
the thought of spending the rest of their crazy, busy lives together.

John realized he hadn’t made the most romantic of proposals
to Jo. There wasn’t a ring – yet – and he hadn’t gotten down on one knee, but
the excitement he had seen in her eyes when she had said yes told him none of
that mattered.

After years of being a confirmed bachelor at the ripe
old age of thirty-six, he never thought he’d get married. His grandmother had
never given up, though. He made a mental note to call her tonight and pass on
their news. He knew she’d be over the moon, probably pushing next for
great-grandchildren.

He sighed, and pushed back any more thoughts of his
future with Jo. It was time to follow up on his patient’s progress. Reaching
for his phone, he padded down to the kitchen and started the coffee maker.
Caddy followed behind him, nails clicking on the tile floor. He reached down to
give her a quick, absent-minded ear scratch. While he waited for the coffee to
brew, he dialed the number for the intensive care unit at the hospital.

When one of the intensive care nurses he worked with
frequently answered, he said, “Hey, Cindy. Looking for an update on Rick
Wilson.”

He could hear the click of her keyboard as she pulled
up his patient’s file. “Well, Dr. Goodman, all I can say is that you must have
done a hell of a job last night. Can’t believe that kid made it. I just checked
his stats myself. His BP is down to 135, heart rate is at 90, temp is slightly
elevated to 100.1, and respiratory rate is 20.”

John felt he had been holding his breath as she
rattled off Rick Wilson’s stats. He blew out a puff of air. “And how about the
ICP?”

“I saved the best for last. The
intracranial
pressure is down to 14. Way
to go, Doc.”

The last vestiges of fatigue melted away and he let
out a small whoop. “Now that’s a step in the right direction. I’ll be heading
down soon to check on him. Thanks, Cindy.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee, humming a few notes
from “The LocoMotion”. He pictured Jo singing on the ladder last night and
couldn’t suppress a grin.

***

After Jo and Frisco left Mazlo’s house, they sat in
the detective’s car. Jo held up the injunction they had received from the
adjunct professor. “This is great, but a copy of the documentary would be more
helpful.”

The detective nodded. “Agreed. Why don’t I call
Caroline Wilson and see if she knows if Rick was working with another student
on his movie.”

The detective pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
After a moment, he said, “Mrs. Wilson. This is detective Mike Frisco. Look,
sorry to bother you again, but do you happen to know if Rick was working with
anyone else on his fracking documentary?”

Jo could hear snatches of the woman’s voice come
through Frisco’s cell phone. “…would be Billy…address. Hang on…”

 
Frisco pulled
out his notebook, and scribbled down a name and address. Into the phone, he
said, “Thanks for the info. We’ll be in touch.”

As soon as he disconnected the call, he handed the
paper to Jo. She pulled up the GPS system in Frisco’s car and punched in the
address for Billy MacGregor.

Frisco summarized his discussion. “The mother said
Billy and Rick grew up together. He’s not a student at the U, just helping him
out with the project. Probably why Mazlo didn’t know about him.”

The detective put the car in drive. As Frisco wound
through the streets, he glanced at Jo. “So, are you buying that Mazlo doesn’t
have a copy of Rick Wilson’s project? Seems like he would have demanded to see
it the minute that lawsuit from Wellborne Industries hit their desks.”

Jo shrugged her shoulders. “You could be right, but
why would Mazlo lie about it? Maybe the kid was a perfectionist and didn’t want
his advisor to see it until the final edits. Some people are just that way.”

 
“Maybe, maybe
not. I sure as hell wish we could get our hands on a copy of that video,
though.”

“Let’s hope MacGregor has one.”

The female voice on the GPS system directed Frisco to
turn east on University Avenue, as they headed towards the area known as
Frogtown. The avenue was dotted with restaurants serving various Asian and
Mexican cuisines.

Jo realized she was suddenly famished. “What do you
say we stop for a bite to eat after we’re done talking to MacGregor?”

Frisco smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The GPS directed them to make one
last turn. Jo knew this part of town had a rough reputation and she saw many
houses with boarded windows, faded foreclosure signs flapping in the breeze.

They stopped in front of a hunter
green clapboard house. Several of the shutters were missing and two more hung
askew.
Frisco said, “Looks like a crack house. Think he
really lives here?”

As Jo opened the car door, she said, “Well, this is
the address Rick’s mother gave us. Let’s give it a go.”

Frisco followed her up the cracked sidewalk. Walking
carefully onto steps that didn’t look like they would hold her weight, she
crossed the small porch area and rang the doorbell.

After a few moments of silence, Jo knocked and called
out, “Mr. MacGregor. I’m Special FBI Agent Jo Schwann. I’m here with Detective
Mike Frisco of the St. Paul police department. Could we have a word with you?”

When there was still no answer, Frisco said, “Let me
go check around back. I’ll see if there is another door.”

Jo peeked into windows that were surprisingly clean
given the shabbiness of the house, but couldn’t detect any movement in the
room. Frisco came back a moment later. “Place looks deserted.”

“I’ll try his cell.”

Jo punched in the phone number they had acquired from
Rick Wilson’s mother. As she waited for the call to connect, she looked around
the porch of the house. An old sofa moldered next to the front door. On the
floor in front of the sofa was an old rusty coffee can, full of cigarette
butts.

As she ended the call, she looked across the way to
the adjacent house and saw a frail, elderly woman with faded denim jeans and an
oversized man’s coat shake out a rug over the railing of the porch.

Before the woman could re-enter her house, Jo called
out, “Excuse me ma’am. Do you know the people who live here?”

The woman shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Who’s asking?”

Jo stepped off the porch of Billy’s house and began
walking toward the woman. “My name is Special Agent Jo Schwann. I’m with the
FBI.” She fished out her badge and held it out for the woman to see. “This is
Detective Mike Frisco. We’re looking for Billy MacGregor. Do you know where we
might find him?”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Billy’s a good kid,
unlike most of the scum that lives around here these days. Always willing to
give me a hand. Whatcha want him for?”

Frisco spoke up. “We just want to ask him some
questions about a friend of his. He’s not in any trouble.”

 
She seemed to
consider this for a moment. Finally, she said, “Well, I ain’t seen him around
for the last day or two.” She paused, as if trying to recall the last time she
had seen him. “He carried up some boxes from my basement a couple of days ago.
Seemed kinda jumpy and distracted, now that I think about it. I asked him if
anything was the matter, but he told me he was fine. Didn’t really believe him,
but he clammed up after that.”

The old woman frowned, and the lines around her mouth
deepened. “You sure he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jo assured her. “Does he have
any roommates we could talk to? Seems like a big place, just for one kid.”

“Yeah, but they’re in some kinda alternative rock
band. Billy says they’re on the road a lot of the time, so I doubt you’d catch
them.”

 
Jo pulled out
one of her business cards, and handed it to the woman. “Would you please call
us if you see Billy?”

The old woman stared down at Jo’s card and then looked
up into her face. “Will do. If you find him first, tell him Sue was worried
about him, will you?”

Sue turned and entered her house, the rug forgotten on
the porch.

Frisco watched her retreating figure. “Hope we didn’t
just lie to that little old lady about MacGregor being okay. Guess you didn’t
catch him on his cell?”

Jo shook her head. “He didn’t even have a voice mailbox
set up, so I couldn’t leave a message. I’ll send a text message, but I’m not
holding my breath that we’ll hear back from him. Got any bright ideas?”

Frisco smiled. “Well, you did mention something about
grabbing a bite to eat. I always think better on a full stomach.”
 

***

John arrived at the hospital and went down the hall to
Rick Wilson’s room. Caroline Wilson was slumped in the chair pulled up
alongside the bed. Her right hand rested on top of her son’s and her head
lolled back. John studied her sleeping form for a moment, and then gently shook
her shoulder. “Ms. Wilson?”

She jerked up in her seat and stared up at him, as if
she wasn’t sure where she was or why she was there. John saw recognition in her
eyes as she pushed back the grogginess. Her voice was hoarse when she said,
“Doctor Goodman.” She turned her gaze to her son. “How is he? He made it
through the night.”

John smiled. “It’s an excellent sign. His vitals have
improved, particularly the
intracranial
pressure
. I’m very encouraged.” He studied her face
as he explained her son’s current situation in greater detail. There were dark
purple smudges beneath her reddened eyes. It looked as if she hadn’t slept more
than a few minutes the whole night.

When he had finished describing his patient’s
progress, John said, “How are you holding up? Why don’t you head home for a bit
and try to catch up on some rest. We’ll call you if there is any change in his
condition.”

She yawned. “No, I’m ok. I want to be here when he
wakes up.”

John said, “It may be quite some time before that
happens. He’s going to need you at your best. I know this is hard, but you need
to take good care of yourself, as well.”

John could see the struggle on her face. She looked
back at her son again. “Well, if you are sure…they’ll call me right away? I’ll
be quick. Just long enough to grab some clean clothes and maybe a short nap.”

He patted her arm. “I promise. You will hear from us
if anything changes.”

Caroline Wilson leaned over her son’s bed and kissed
him gently on the forehead. When she passed by John, he could see the tears
threatening to spill over. “He’s a good boy. Please, take care of him.”

“Will do. Get some rest.”

After she had gone, John double-checked Rick’s vitals
and scribbled down some adjustments to the dosage of medications. Just as he
was finishing, he heard shouting coming from down the hall.

“Get outta my way. I’m telling you, I’ve got to see
Rick.”

John poked his head out the door and looked toward the
commotion at the nurses’ station. A young man in low-riding jeans and a hooded
sweatshirt pounded his fist onto the counter top in front of the nurse. “Damn
it! Just need to see for myself that he’s ok.”

Cindy, the ICU nurse whom John had spoken to earlier,
was on her feet. She said in a calm, but firm voice, “Sir, you can’t go that
way. I will call security if you don’t leave. Only family is allowed in the
room.”

The young man paced back and forth in front of the
station, "Oh, man. Oh, man. I am so royally fucked here. You’ve got to let
me see Rick. I’ve got to know. We didn't think they'd do it! Why won't you
people let me see him? Is he gonna make it?”

Cindy’s voice was less patient now. “Sir, don’t make
me call security.”