Blood (2 page)

              When the phone rang at 3:15 a.m., Captain Jim Underwood had no doubt it was trouble.  His men knew better than to call this early for anything routine.  It had to be a major headache.  He reached for the phone quickly, so the ringing wouldn’t wake his wife.  Then he remembered once again that that wasn’t a problem anymore.  Even after sixteen months he sometimes forgot she was gone. 

              Standing just over six feet, Underwood looked like an ex-boxer.  His slight paunch failed to detract from the muscular arms and shoulders.  A nose broken years before was the only flaw in a classic Grecian face.  A full head of dark slightly curly hair completed the picture.  In truth Jim had been so skinny and shy as a youngster, he took up weight lifting to keep kids from picking on him.  When he added some bulk to his frame, the bullies soon realized it wasn’t safe to cross him.  One schoolyard fight and the word got around. 

              But Jim didn’t like to fight.  As shy as he was, he preferred words to muscles in confronting others.  Of course, the muscles did seem to get people to listen to his point of view more often.

              As Jim got older the shyness faded, but the muscles stayed.  He found his hour at the gym each day relaxed and stimulated him.  The days that his schedule required him to miss his workout seemed to drag and his concentration wavered.

              “Captain?  We need you at the Bay Street station immediately.”

              “What’s up, Morris?”  He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

              “Ah, sir?  We seem to have misplaced a prisoner.”

              “Well, one minute we had a prisoner in the holding cell.  The next minute he’s gone.  There’s no trace of him.”

              The captain’s finger began making circles on the end table.  It was an unconscious habit, something he did when he was deep in thought. “I assume the building has been searched?”

              “Yes, sir.  We checked everywhere.  We even combed the entire block.”

              The finger continued to circle while Underwood weighed his options.  He hated to get the commissioner involved and then find out the suspect was cooling his heels in some office.  But if the guy had really vanished and he didn’t inform his superior…   Visions of what Williams would say to him helped make up his mind.  “I want a full report from everybody on my desk when I get there.  I will call Commissioner Williams myself.  We will be there within an hour.  Any questions?”

              “Yes, sir.  I mean no, sir.  I mean . . . We’ll be ready for you, sir.”

              As Underwood hung up the phone and started to press the buttons to summon the police commissioner, his thoughts were racing as fast as his finger.  How does a suspect vanish from a building filled with cops? 

              Savannah is always a beautiful city, with flowers blooming year round.  Spring brings daffodils and roses.  During the summer oleanders abound.  Cold weather brought camellias to brighten the houses.  But nothing took the place of February.  February was a riot of color, especially on Victory Drive.  The azaleas covered the median strip between the east and west traffic with only the occasional intersection preventing a veritable wall of pastels.  For an ex-New Yorker like Underwood, winter in Savannah seemed to start in the second week of December and last only through January.  The first of February brought winter to its knees and spring seemed to burst from the ground with a cavalcade of reds, whites and pinks that took over the city.  Even after living there for fifteen years, he still felt an aura of magic in the air when he drove down Victory Drive during azalea time.  Living in Thunderbolt just behind Savannah State College, Underwood savored the scenic ride to the office each day.

              Lieutenant Benjamin Morris looked nervous as he faced the group of men.  As the Officer in Charge at the time of the disappearance, it was ultimately his gonads that were on the line.  If Internal Affairs could prove that somebody had been sloppy, the other officers could expect a reprimand, but his would be the ultimate responsibility.  Three years of hard work could be down the drain.  At least ten hours each week for six months had gone into studying for his promotion and he didn’t know how long it would take to regain his bars.  He knew that Captain Jim Underwood would be on his side, but making Commissioner Williams and the clowns from Internal Affairs understand would be tough. 

              “Now, Lieutenant Morris, explain to Captain Underwood and myself how a prisoner can just vanish out of a cell in the middle of a police station?”  Police Commissioner John Williams was not happy about being called in the middle of the night, and he made that clear with every word.  “Start from the beginning.”

              All eyes shifted from Williams to Morris like a crowd at a tennis match.  Beads of sweat covered his neck and underarms, but he managed to keep his voice matter-of-fact.  “Commissioner, the suspect, James Patrick, a white male, age forty-seven according to his driver’s license, was brought in at 11:03 by Sergeant Johnson and Officer Beckman, who were patrolling on Whitaker.”  Lieutenant Morris read from the arrest report.  “Beckman spotted a light in the Chatham County Blood Bank, so they slipped into the back alley, where they found the back door ajar.  Unit Twelve, with Carson and Jennings, supplied backup.  Johnson and Beckman entered the blood bank at 10:34 and found the suspect in the center’s cafeteria cutting open bags of blood and smearing the blood all over his body.  The suspect was naked at the time.  He apparently had been using the microwave to thaw the frozen blood.  He offered no resistance to the arresting officers.  The officers state that while he was being cuffed, he was muttering things like ‘It doesn’t matter.  It didn’t work.  My last chance.  Now I have no choice.’”

              Williams shrugged.  “So?  That makes him nuts, not Houdini.”

              Man, I hope my deodorant is working, thought Morris.  Even his shoes felt soaked and he struggled to keep his voice from cracking.  “No, sir.  To continue, Johnson interviewed him while Beckman did the paperwork.  Later Sergeant West took over the interrogation.  According to Officer Beckman, the guy refused to say anything more than, ‘You just wouldn’t understand.’  He wouldn’t even give them a name or age.  They got his stats from his driver’s license.  He was booked and placed in the holding cell until arrangements for transportation and psychiatric observation could be made in the morning.  Johnson and Sergeant West placed him in the cell at 1:10.  Both men swear the door locked tight behind him.  At 2:35 Sergeant Akita, who was in charge of the cells last night, found the cell empty and the door unlocked.”  He shook his head,. “Man, Internal Affairs will have a field day with this!”

              Captain Underwood’s finger circled frantically on the table as he tried to find answers.  “Any evidence of tampering with the lock?”

              “Plenty of scratches over the years, but nothing fresh.” 

              “Could the guy have hidden a master key on himself?”

              “Possible, but doubtful.  Standard operating procedure calls for searching all prisoners before placing them in the cells. The officers say they did this.”

              “I assume he was fingerprinted and the prints sent to records.  Anything back yet?”

              “Yes, sir.  I mean no, sir.  I mean the suspect was fingerprinted and the prints sent to records.  Unless we get lucky it’ll be hours before we can expect to see a match.  Then if we don’t get a match, we’ll send them to the FBI Crime Lab.   Because of the volume of prints they have to process, it could be a week before they get back to us.”

              Commissioner Williams stepped in.  “Captain Underwood, keep me posted on any progress.  Get a lock expert to check the lock and the door mechanism on that cell.  We’re gonna have a tough time proving to Internal Affairs that there was no negligence on the officer’s part, if that lock is functioning properly.  I want that man found before the news gets a whiff of it.  In the meantime, I want the officers who put the suspect in the cell and the officer in charge suspended, pending an investigation.”

              Now the day shift began to trickle in.  During the briefing, officers were appraised of the situation and given a photo of the suspect.  When the second shift arrived, they too received photos.  By now hundreds of policemen, on duty and off, scoured the city looking for the “Blood Man” as some wit had named him.  Whenever an officer was in trouble, the “Blue Wall” did their best to help.  But the man had vanished.

              Night fell as he crouched in the bushes.  The girl was young and pretty.  And alone.  He watched the teenager from the shadows as she walked down the deserted street.  The park loomed just one more block ahead.  Easy pickings.  No witnesses.  He smiled grimly as he crossed the street, visible only for seconds before the dark swallowed him once more.  Moving faster now, ready for the moment she was most vulnerable, at the clump of bushes covering the entrance to the park, he bided his time.

              As she neared the park entrance, he tensed, ready to cover the remaining distance like a cheetah.  Just a few more seconds...

              Before he could move, a car roared up the road, coming to a stop in front of the young girl.  He stepped back into the shadows.  A voice cried out, “Hey, Sarah!  Can we give you a ride?”  The girl walked toward the car as the back door opened.  A swirl of skirt, a glimpse of leg and she was gone.

              He stood there for a moment, torn between relief and disappointment.  Bad luck that the car came just when it did.  But good luck that it hadn’t shown up five seconds later.  He didn’t want witnesses.  There would be another chance.  Hopefully it would be soon.

              Underwood walked into the commissioner’s outer office.  His secretary looked up from the paper she was typing.  “Hi, Grace.  Is his majesty in?”

              She rolled her eyes at his bad boy routine.  She had seen it many times before.   “Go right in, Captain.  He’s expecting you.”

              The captain strode into the office.  Compared to his office, the commissioner’s seemed like a bus terminal.  It took ten steps to get to the plush leather chairs visitors were invited to sit in.    “Commissioner, you sent for me?”

              “Yes, Captain.”  It was never a good sign when the commissioner referred to him by rank.

              The man looked solemn as he sat behind the large desk.  “It’s like this, Jim.  The media’s gotten wind of this missing prisoner thing, and they’re starting to hound me.  It’s been thirty-six hours.  I need you to give me an update.”

              “Well sir, we haven’t made much progress.  Detective Gene McElmurray from Internal Affairs is in charge of the investigation, and he claims than no evidence can be found to back up the officers’ stories.   The lock was inspected and seems to be in working order.”  He shifted in his seat and his finger started circling.  “One interesting note, the suspect left no fingerprints anywhere on the door or lock, nor had he wiped his prints clean.  About half the officers in the precinct had fingerprints there, so it seems the suspect never touched the door.  That’s got McElmurray howling that it’s an inside job.  According to him, the suspect must have had a key, or someone let him out of the cell.  All of the men on duty that night have been interviewed by I.A., with no leads on how the escape occurred.”

              “Speaking of fingerprints, anything new from the lab?”  The case would blot the commissioner’s record, as well as the precinct’s, and he wanted results.

              “No, sir.  As of this morning, our computer failed to match, so the prints were sent to the FBI.  Hopefully they should have a report within a few days, whether or not they find a similarity.  In the meantime we are searching records for any escapes that would match this one.  So far, nothing.”

              The phone ringing interrupted the conversation.  The commissioner picked up the receiver, listened momentarily and said, “Thank you, Grace.”  He handed the phone to Captain Underwood.  “It’s for you.  Line two.”

              The captain got up and reached across the desk for the phone.  “Underwood here.”  He listened briefly, a look of concentration coming over his face.  “Sure, give me what you’ve got.”  The concentration turned to bafflement as the person on the other end of the line continued.  His finger started doing laps on the commissioner’s desk.  “Did you explain why we were inquiring?   Are they sure?  Do they have an explanation?”  Another lengthy pause while he listened and digested the news.  “Okay, thanks for the information.  Let me know if there are any further developments.” 

              He put the receiver down and turned toward Commissioner Williams.  “This case gets stranger by the minute.  The FBI search matched the fingerprints to a suspect named Patrick James.  Patrick James, James Patrick.  Obviously an alias.”

              “Good, now we’re getting somewhere!”

              The captain ran his fingers through his hair.  “Yes and no.  The man was a suspect in an investigation in Arizona over twenty-five years ago.  It seems that in March of 1973, police discovered him hiding in some bushes.  The lady who phoned in the complaint thought he was a peeping Tom.  But when the police arrived and found him two blocks away, they found him naked and covered with blood.  The officers booked him and placed him in a cell until his lawyer showed up. But when the public defender showed up to meet his client, the suspect had vanished.  It took two hours before the lawyer would believe the officers were serious.  The ensuing investigation revealed no clues as to how the suspect vanished, and no clues to his whereabouts.  No trace of the suspect was ever found . . . until tonight.”

              “Interesting.  The profile seems to fit our suspect perfectly.”

              “There’s more.  Analysis showed that the blood was human blood, type A positive.  At the time of the arrest, no source of the blood was found.  However four weeks later, the body of a young girl was found in a shallow grave less than a mile from where he was arrested.  DNA testing was still in its infancy, so it was not done in this case.  No other positive link was ever found, other than the fact that the victim’s blood type was also A positive.  The case was reopened but the new search still found no trace of the suspect . . . until tonight.”

              “Fantastic!  This information can help the men clear their names.”

              Underwood sighed and shook his head.  “Not exactly.  The problem is that the suspect Patrick James was fifty-three years old in 1968.  That would make him seventy-eight today.  Our suspect was middle-aged, but certainly nowhere near eighty.  His driver’s license listed him as forty-seven and his appearance gave us no reason to question it.”

              “Could it be his son?”

              “That would explain the ages, but wouldn’t explain the match of the fingerprints.  Even identical twins have unique prints.”