The Three Monkeys, a Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller Page 19

  A large black man in front of him on the sidewalk raised his arms and spoke. "Whoa, what the hell are you doing, fella?"

  Johnny closed on the man quickly and fired two thunderous rounds before he dodged around the tall, obese man. The .45 caliber bullets were much louder than what the dark-haired woman shot at him. The man stumbled aside, twisted, and fell in the yard beside them. Johnny continued to run erratically. At the corner, he threw the door open on an older model black Toyota Camry. He jumped inside and Paul spun the tires, accelerating away.

  Paul noticed blood flowing profusely down the sleeve on Johnny's left arm. "How badly are you hurt?" he asked? Johnny was crying.

  Carter and Kate stood in the living room intimately embracing. Each had a before dinner drink in their hand. A loud gunshot startled them. Carter sloshed some of the liquor as he thumped the glass on a table and ran to the bedroom where he'd laid his Glock on the dresser. Multiple shots made him hustle faster. Kate was on his heels and grabbed her M&P from her purse. She turned and followed Carter as he raced down the back stairwell. His shoes only touched every third or fourth step.

  Deline struggled to rise with her right arm on the storm door handle; her Berretta was still clasped in her hand. Blood splatters littered the ground at her feet. She heard more shots in the distance and wondered what that was about. The detectives stepped through the doorway and around Deline, fearful of her injuries.

  Kate said, "It's us Deline. Where are you shot? "

  Carter took her handgun as he helped her stand. The storm door closed behind them with a solid click.

  "I am not shot, I think. The bastard hit me in the head with something and I shot at him. I am not sure if I hit him. I pray he lays close by with a bullet in his rotten brain."

  "Carter, call 911 for an ambulance. We need towels and a washcloth." Kate rushed inside and up the stairs.

  Deline muttered meekly, "The damn blood in my eyes blinded me…Nausea…need to sit before I faint dead away like a silly heifer."

  Carter helped her sit to the left of the door with her back against the building. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the bricks. Her breaths were slow and shallow. He wondered if shock could be sitting in. The 911 dispatcher answered immediately when he dialed.

  Kate returned minutes later and carefully washed blood from Deline's face before patting it dry with a towel. She held a towel firmly against the gashes to Deline's forehead and further up in her hair to slow the bleeding. “I do not believe you’ve lost enough blood to have circulatory shock. It is more likely acute stress reaction. I’m sure you’ll be okay, but an ambulance is on the way.”

  Deline placed her hand on Kate's knee appreciatively and gripped it tightly. Her eyes closed and she continued to breathe in short shallow breaths. A hobbled grin formed as she said, "I wished for excitement and danger and I damned well got it."

  Carter stood. "I'm going to the next street where the last gunshots came from. The ambulance should be here any minute. I'll be right back." He turned and jogged toward the alley. People stood on their second-floor porches across the alley. He slowed and looked up. "Did you see who did this?" Three people shook their heads. "Did you call 911?"

  Three people nodded and one said, "I did, an ambulance is on its way."

  Carter yelled, "Thanks," and continued to jog.

  Carter reached the sidewalk. Several people were gathered to his right further down the block where a person sat on the ground. He jogged to the group. A large man sat on the grass in front of a narrow, brick shotgun house. A plump, dark-haired Caucasian woman held a cloth to his shoulder. She looked frightened and worried. Blood soaked his short sleeved Hawaiian shirt down to his pants. People pointed and stared at Carter before he realized the Glock was still in his hand.

  After carefully shoving it inside his pants and under his shirt, he pointed. "Sorry, there's another victim in the next block over." The pulsating sound of multiple sirens became increasingly louder as he turned and hurried home. A foot off the sidewalk, he stopped in mid-turn and bent over to look at an object on the ground. An empty cigarette package lay on the meager grass. Three drops of blood had fallen and collected on the cellophane where the shooter hesitated before turning right onto the sidewalk. Carter yelled in the direction of his building where a single policeman had just parked his patrol car. He waved and the uniformed officer scurried toward him.

  Paul parked the stolen Camry at a failed plumbing supply business ten blocks from the mansion. Johnny's sweatshirt was wrapped around his upper arm near the shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. "I'll be back as soon as I get your car."

  Johnny looked at him, fright plain on his features and in his voice." Am I going to die, Grandpa? I'm scared, my arm and chest hurt like hell."

  With a hand laid on Johnny's thigh he comforted the man-boy, "No, Johnny, you won't die. It's a minor wound. The vest we bought protected your chest. You’ll have a bruise, but the pain will go away. I'll take you home and stop the bleeding with a bandage. Then I'll find a doctor to patch you up like new. You will be fine, I promise. Bear with me, I'll return quickly and take you home."

  Exasperated was how Paul felt. How was he supposed to know those nosey detectives would have a guest or employee leaving at the exact time Johnny arrived? Johnny said a dark-haired woman met him there, not the blonde. And the bitch was armed; Johnny could have been killed even after he hit her and knocked her down. Thank God, I bought the bulletproof-vest as an extreme precaution. The whole effort was a disaster. The only piece of the plan that went well was the boy's hot-wiring of the stolen Camry. When Johnny's wound was under control, he'd phone a doctor of dubious integrity he'd met through one of the fringe hate groups. If the retired quack could be convinced to treat Johnny off the record, they would drive to Arkansas as soon as a proper bandage was in place. Mountain Home, Arkansas, was about three hundred fifty miles and six or seven hours away. That would be an easy drive in the big, comfortable Cadillac sedan. Paul frowned, another night without sleep because of situations out of his control. He was learning firsthand why failed issues he'd heard about in the media didn't always go as planned or as he thought they should have.

  Carter stood beside Kate as an ambulance following another police car parked behind their building. Two EMTs took Deline's four primary vital signs information and examined the cuts to her head. The heavyset female EMT said, "You'll need sutures to close these lacerations. We'll transport you to the emergency room and someone can pick you up there later." Deline was assisted onto the gurney and wheeled to the ambulance.

  The gaunt male EMT spoke on his phone, "Patient is stable and loaded. We're about to transport. ETA ten minutes." Kate insisted on going along. She sat beside Deline, held her hand and quietly questioned her for details of what happened. She gave the EMT a stern but not unfriendly glare. The EMT looked on critically but didn't interfere.

  As the ambulance sped down the alley, Carter found himself pigeonholed between three police officers. Sergeant Jablonski asked, "I know you already told these officers what happened twice, but now tell me what happened. Humor me, okay?"

  Carter fumed loudly and visually at the donut-bellied, mid-fifties policeman. "I was upstairs with my wife—

  "Where is she?"

  "She went with the ambulance. We heard gunshots—"

  "How many gunshots?"

  "Four. We came downstairs. Our office manager, Deline Durand—

  "Spell that name."

  "D-e-l-i-n-e, got that? D-u-r-a-n-d." Carter paused for the fatheaded cop to finish writing. "She was on her knees hanging onto the screen door for support. Blood was running down her face. We thought she'd been shot in the head, but it was her who shot at the attacker—”

  "Why is this Darlene carrying a concealed weapon?"

  Carter was getting pissed. "You know as well as I do that she doesn't need a license to carry in Missouri. She had several cuts where the attacker hit her."

  "Did you see her alleged attacker?
"

  "I saw his back as he reached the sidewalk on the other side of the block and turned right."

  "Describe what he was wearing."

  "Dark sweatshirt, dark pants, dark running shoes."

  "And then what did you do?"

  "Shots were fired at the other street as we got to the door. My wife stayed with Deline and I went over there to see what happened. A man past the middle of the block was shot and didn't seem to be in a life-threatening situation. I was assured 911 had been notified, so I came back. These two officers and the ambulance arrived then."

  "Okay," the Sergeant said, "start at the beginning and go through it again."

  "NO!" Carter shouted forcefully as he leaned in nose-to-nose with Sergeant Jablonski. "I am not repeating it a fourth time. Call Captain Davis. She'll vouch for me. Now get out of my way, I'm going to the hospital to be with my wife and our office manager."

  "Hold on, Mister, I didn't say you could leave the crime scene."

  "And I didn't ask you if I could. Now move aside."

  Jablonski stood with his hand on his holstered semi-auto glaring at Carter.

  A speeding car screeched to a halt in the alley. Jablonski slowly moved his hand away from the gun. Captain Davis hurried around the front of the unmarked car and walked to Carter. "Now what the hell has happened, Carter?"

  Carter directed a shit-eating grin at Jablonski as he answered the Capt. "Give me a ride to the hospital to check on Deline and I'll fill you in on the way."

  She turned back toward her car. "Let’s go." She stopped quickly, then turned back to stare pointedly at Jablonski. "Detective Marcotto will be here shortly to take the lead. Work with her, Jablonski, work with her and don't give her any shit."

  Jablonski made a growling noise like a constipated pit bull as Carter smirked in his face.

  A patrolman said, "We found this shoe laying across the alley in the grass. It could belong to the shooter."

  Carter injected, "Yes, I'm sure it's his, I heard him clomping along on one shoe."

  Captain Davis ordered, "Bag it and tag it."

  As the car sped away, Carter wore a sly grin as he asked Davis, "Is Jablonski one of the dipshits you referred to some time ago?"

  She kept her eyes on the road and moaned. "Oooohh! He's the shittiest of the worst dipshits I have to deal with. Totally hard headed and he knows every trick in the book to do as little as possible but still stay out of serious trouble that would get him fired. Some days I dread coming to work knowing I'll have to confront him on his latest screw-up. The problem is, he has drinking buddies in high places. But, enough of my problems. What happened at your place?"

  Carter relayed what he knew about Deline's attack. "Hopefully, she can tell us more details about her attacker. I didn't see anything important because he was too far away.”

  Captain Davis stopped at St. Mary's Emergency Room in a no parking zone, flipped on the emergency flashers and locked the car. A hospital security guard shook his head with vigor and indicated for her to move the car. She flashed her badge, then ignored him and kept moving. Dusk was descending. It would be dark in less than a half hour.

  They sprinted inside the weathered brick structure and were directed to Deline's cubicle. Kate was somber as they approached. The bed was empty. "Deline was taken for a CT scan to see if she has a concussion. She should return in about twenty minutes."

  Carter asked, "Did she see anything useful to us?"

  Kate shook her head. "No. The perpetrator's face was covered and he wore gloves. She saw nothing except that his eyes were a dark shade of blue."

  He motioned to Capt. Davis. "In addition to that lost shoe, we also found a trace amount of blood on a piece of cellophane. It likely belongs to the shooter. Hopefully there's enough for a DNA test."

  Chapter Thirteen

  At eight o'clock, Paul's black Cadillac was on Interstate 55 South. Dusk was descending and the headlights were on. Johnny lay in the back seat snoring loudly. Several over-the-counter pain pills served to calm and relax him. Paul wondered if the Camry was being taken on a joyride as he drove south. The Camry was left abandoned with the engine running in hopes some young miscreants would steal it.

  Before leaving, Paul applied a dressing over the entrance and exit wounds. Both wounds appeared minor, just neat little holes a little larger than a quarter inch. He knew the bleeding looked more serious that it was because of the blood thinner medication Johnny took for a minor heart issue. He expected to be at Dr. Wilson's home a little past midnight. At Sikeston, he exited onto Highway 60 West toward Poplar Bluff and West Plains.

  On the phone, the old fart wanted to know why Paul didn't take his grandson to a doctor or hospital in St. Louis. Thinking quickly, he claimed to have accidently shot Johnny and was fearful of the notoriety it would cause at his age if the Nazi-like authorities learned of the incident. Wilson apparently bought that reason because it fit his opinion of any law enforcement authorities. They had finally settled on a price of five thousand dollars. Paul objected to the outrageous fee, but Wilson stood firm. "If it's too high for you, go find somebody else willing to risk losing their medical license for not reporting a gunshot wound to the cops. Take it or leave it." Paul grudgingly agreed to the robber's unreasonable demand. After ending the call, he went to the wall safe in his bedroom and counted fifty one-hundred dollar bills.

  The house was dark when Paul found 3727 Garden Drive. He parked in the driveway as instructed. "Johnny we're here. It's time to get out of the car and go visit the doctor." The patient grunted something unfathomable and sat blinking and rubbing his eyes with his right hand.

  "Is this going to hurt, Grandpa?"

  "Maybe a little, but the doctor will have painkillers, so you shouldn't feel much."

  Outside the car, they stood in near total darkness. Feeble yard lights glowed at only two houses on the street. Paul looked at the diminutive ranch-style house with a brick front and white fiberboard material on the sides and front gable. He guessed the semi-retired doctor's practice wasn't lucrative. Probably the man suffered for his outspoken radical views. He felt guilty for having to bring Johnny to someone he suspected being of dubious competency. The night breeze was cool, so he left the dark blue sports coat on. A plastic Walmart bag in his left hand contained a clean short sleeved shirt for Johnny. As they entered the backyard, the neighbor's dog set up a loud ruckus.

  At the back door, he knocked forcefully as instructed. Many seconds passed. A gray-haired, going to bald, older man peered at him from the dark kitchen. "Are you Greenwell?" Paul replied yes to the name he had given over the throwaway phone. The door opened and they entered from the unlit darkness outside. "Get in here quick so that damned dog will shut up. I'd like to shoot the damned thing but don't dare because the owners would turn me in again like they did the last time. Follow me, we're going downstairs." The old reprobate hadn't shaved in days and smelled of body odor. He was slightly built, stooped, with an alcoholic's protruding pot belly. The house slippers on his feet flip-flopped with each step, and the blue plaid summer weight house coat appeared to have smudges of food on the front in multiple spots. Paul judged him to be at least eighty. A dim nightlight provided meager illumination needed to traverse the room. Even in the dim light, Paul noted accumulated items cluttering the counter top and half the top of a kitchen table.

  At the foot of the gray painted wood stairs, Wilson stood aside for both Peltiers to pass by him in the dim light of a single bulb. Paul smelled a strong liquor breath, whiskey he was sure, exhaled by Wilson. Three bare light bulbs meagerly lit the basement. Paul didn't like what he saw. He reviewed their options in the space of scant seconds. He quickly accepted there were none. It was the grungy bastard or a legitimate emergency room. Legitimacy was out of the question.

  Wilson led them toward a bare stud room in the right corner of the cluttered basement. Paul squinted to identify years of accumulated debris. Stopping momentarily to scan the collection, he noticed old furniture, wooden gun ca
binets with long guns and two metal gun safes. Assorted camouflage clothing hung on a six-foot-long metal rack. Bags and boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling against the far wall and in two corners. Crudely made black cloth curtains covered four short windows near the ceiling joist. He shook his head in despair as he followed Wilson.

  Inside the improvised surgery, unfinished drywall was nailed to the stud walls it hid. A stainless steel table large enough to hold a hefty adult sat in the middle of the room with a huge, ancient-looking, adjustable operating room-type light over it. Paul focused on the light; the plastic cover on the light was fogged and cracked. Against the right wall, a stainless steel chair with arm supports on each side sat above a wide, round base with a hydraulic pump lever to raise and lower it. An old refrigerator sat in the far corner. A scratched and dented gray metal file cabinet, an old battered wood desk, an eight-foot section of wall cabinets over a Formica counter supporting a small sink in base cabinets, and several chairs with gray plastic seats completed the room's dingy decor. The open wooden beams above took the place of a finished ceiling.

  "Take the young man's shirt off and get him in the chair while I wash up and put on scrubs." Wilson left the room and closed the door.

  Paul did as directed and tossed the shirt to the floor near the wall. Blood had seeped through the bandage to stain it. Johnny was clearly afraid. He whispered, "Grandpa, I don't like that man. Are you sure he's a doctor?" His fingers rubbed a darkening red spot at the center of a bruised area near the center of his chest.

  Paul's guilt weighed heavily on him as he assured Johnny everything was preceding fine. Privately he wished he was that positive.

  Wilson entered the room in blue scrubs and wearing blue nitrile surgical gloves. At the wall cabinets, he searched thoroughly and found a bottle of lidocaine. Paul barely heard Wilson mumble, "Out of morphine, I'll use ketamine." He selected the small bottle then pushed an I.V. stand close to Johnny. An I.V. bag of saline solution was injected with the ketamine then hung on the stand.