Disturb, p.21
Disturb,
p.21
“Jess, jess, they coming.”
An eyewitness in the making, Rydell thought as his eyes bored into the superintendent, whose eyes registered terror.
“Hey, amigo, I didn’t do this!”
The super and others now who gathered behind him like a lynch mob only saw the bloody hammer.
Marcus called 9-1-1 only to learn that someone in the building had already alerted authorities. The dispatcher calmly assured him. “Help is on its way, Mr. Rydell.”
Rydell then turned to stare at the crush of neighbors now staring in at the bloody heap of flesh at the center of the room.
Some stood crossing themselves, while others fought for a better look, only to look away. The crush of faces reminded him of the people standing about the parade route taken by Christ as he carried the cross through the streets. How often had Marcus heard the rumor that mankind was on a march toward evolving into the caring, gentle most compassionate creature in the known world, left in charge of overseeing all the so-called lesser beasts? Some things never changed.
Then he saw one face in the crowd that caused a blip in his chest, a beautiful young woman, a dead ringer for Lauren Bacall in Key Largo. This one pushed past the gapers, shouting “I’m a doctor! Let me through.”
“Finally! ‘Bout time you guys got here,” Marcus said to her.
“I live in the building,” she replied.
“You’re not here with a paramedic team?”
“Just me.”
The young woman quickly assessed the situation as Marcus stepped around the blood spatters. “Thought I might be of help,” she began, “but apparently not.” She’d gone to her knees over the dead man.
“Doesn’t look too good, does he?” Marcus dryly replied, realizing only now that he’d rushed from his apartment directly below without any shoes or socks. He thought of the man’s dying words, cursing the child when the despicable child molester ought to’ve been asking forgiveness.
“He’s suffered multiple fractures to the skull,” she said.
“So I noticed.”
“No longer breathing.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, doc.”
“I’m pronouncing him dead, Mr. Ahhh … Rydell, 48-B, right?”
Marcus nodded. “Hail, hail, the wicked one is dead.” Marcus stood a head taller than she.
“I’m an intern at Atlanta Memorial,” she said, “and you, you’re 48-B, right?” she repeated.
“Right below, yep. Heard the screams.” He shrugged. “Came running.”
“And I called 9-1-1.”
“Oh, that was you, was it? Thank you.”
The sound of an ambulance rose up from the street. “I’m Katrina Holley, Kat,” she said, extending a hand to Marcus.
“Marcus … Marcus Rydell.”
She nodded, eyes downcast. “I’ve heard about you.” She said it in a sultry voice. “As for this guy,” she indicated the dead man at her heels, “I knew he was bad news. So where’s his supposed sister’s adopted daughter he’s been baby-sitting for?”
“That the story he told you?”
“Me and the cops, yeah.”
“Did they check it out?”
“They’re getting around to it. So where’s the kid, Kim?”
“Kim, yeah. Where is she. ‘Round here someplace. So you called the cops on this guy earlier?”
She answered while walking away from him. “‘Course I did.” She turned on him, eyes daring him to suggest otherwise. “You think anyone else in this place’d bother?” She began searching the apartment for Kim, going into the bedroom, seeing a bloody pillow that made her gasp.
“Creep must’ve slipped the cops tickets to the Brave’s game tonight,” he cynically said in her ear.
“I reported them—got their names and badge numbers.”
“Reported them, eh?”
“For doing a half-assed job, yes.”
“And got no answer, I imagine.”
“Heard nothing back. You oughta maybe look into it. Wrongdoing on a police force. Might be a headline in there somewhere.”
“Not my call.”
“Then who’s call is it? Hell, I even called Child Protective Services again.”
“Let me guess. Overworked and underpaid, eh?”
They both heard the bathtub shower kick on. Dr. Holley’s eyes became blue beach balls. “Tell me she’s not in the shower.”
“She’s washing off, and I can’t blame her.”
“You’re a cop! You oughta know better.” She went for the bathroom door, the layout of the apartment a match for her own. “That’s evidence in a crime washing down the drain. If she’s been raped, and I suspect she has—”
“Look, lady … Doctor, I told her to stay out of the shower, only that she could wash her hands and face.”
“But Detective—”
“I’m not a cop anymore, but I’m curious how you knew?”
“I believe everyone in the building knows you’re a cop—or were at one time. Now outta my way.”
He held an index finger to her eyes, slowing her down. “Look, she needed some time alone, and besides, her attacker here is dead, get it? Proving her rape won’t be an issue. She was his hostage, and she fought back.”
“I get that much but—”
“The dead guy’s not going away for anything he’s done, not in this world. Frankly, I’d like to see her spared the inside of a courtroom or a jail.”
“The man’s name’s Quinn, Don Quinn, and all things equal, if Kim’s charged with his murder … ahhh manslaughter, exculpatory … or is it extenuating circumstances?” Katrina hesitated, eyeing the bloody claw hammer beside the victim. “We need to show—”
“Christ, thanks to Law & Order everyone’s an expert nowadays.”
“I’m-this-minute-right-now-damn-it going in to see her.” The doctor might just as well have said: And no one is standing in my way. “Kim’ll recognize me from before. She needs a friend, a woman, and a professional.”
“I suppose you’re right, Doc.”
“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said since I arrived.” Dr. Holley slammed the bathroom door in his face, cutting him off.
In another half minute, medics came pouring in with a stretcher and life-support. “Too late, my friends,” said Marcus, “but if you wanna shoot me some extra oxygen, I’ll take it.”
Copyright © 2009 by Joe Konrath
Afterword copyright © 2009 by Joe Konrath
Cover art by www.bellbridgebooks.com
Pill – © Comugnero Silvana - Fotolia.com
Skull – © V. Yakobchuk - Fotolia.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath.
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J. A. Konrath, Disturb
