Orchid Beach (4 page)
“I’ll assign somebody to ride with you,” Wallace said.
“Thanks, good idea.”
Jane appeared and handed her a small cell phone. “This is for you. It fits into a pouch on your belt, and the number is taped to the back of the phone.”
“Thank you, Jane. I’m going to the hospital now. Call me if you hear anything before I do.” She turned to Wallace. “If Detective Hurst comes in, call me and ask him to wait.”
“I’ll do that.” He waved a young officer over. “This is Patrolman Jimmy Weathers. He’ll ride with you today.”
“Hi, Jimmy,” Holly said, shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Chief. Bob Hurst has released the chief’s car, so we’ll use that.”
“Let’s get rolling.”
Holly approached the chief’s car, a newish, dark blue Ford Taurus, unmarked, and walked around it slowly, looking for dents or marks. She found a couple of short, deep scratches
in the paint on the hood and nothing else. She went over the interior thoroughly as well and found nothing of note.
Holly drove, and Weathers gave her directions. “How long are you on the force, Jimmy?”
“A year and a half, ma’am.”
“What duties have you pulled?”
“Just patrol—on bikes and in cars.”
“Motorcycles, you mean?”
“No, ma’am, bicycles. They’re good for the business district and beach areas. The ground is flat, and they keep us close to the public—less intimidating than patrol cars. It was Chief Marley’s idea.”
“What do you want to do on the force?”
“Criminal investigation, of course. Just about everybody does.”
Holly laughed. “Sure, they do.” Following Weathers’s directions, she pulled into the hospital emergency entrance and parked in a reserved place.
“Just put down the visor,” he said. “There’s a badge printed on it.”
She did as he said, then got out of the car and went into the hospital, looking up surgery on the directory. They took the elevator to the fourth floor and went to the desk.
“I’m Deputy Chief of Police Barker,” she said to the woman. “Can you tell me anything about Chief Marley’s condition?”
“No, ma’am,” the woman said, “but I can get Dr. Green for you. He did the surgery.”
“Thank you.”
The woman picked up the phone and paged the doctor. A moment later he stepped up to the desk.
“I’m Dr. Green. Can I help you?”
Holly introduced herself. “What is Chief Marley’s condition?”
“He’s still in the recovery room, on a respirator. I had hoped he would be conscious by now, but it appears that he’s in a coma.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Guarded, perhaps doubtful.”
“Can you describe his injuries?”
“Just one—a small-caliber bullet to the right frontal lobe.”
“Did you recover the bullet?”
The doctor took a Ziploc bag from his pocket containing a chunk of lead. “I was wondering when someone was going to ask.”
Holly looked at it. “Looks like thirty-two caliber,” she said.
“That’s what I figured.”
“And nobody asked about this?”
“I understand there was a detective here during the night, but he was gone by the time I got out of surgery.”
“Did he see the chief at all?”
“No.”
She nodded. “I’d like to see the chief.”
“He can’t be disturbed yet,” the doctor replied.
“I don’t want to disturb him; I just want to get a look at him, with your help.”
“All right, come this way.”
“Jimmy, you wait here,” Holly said.
The doctor led the way down the hall and through the intensive-care-unit doors. There were four beds in the room; only one was occupied. Chet Marley was surrounded by monitoring equipment, his head swathed in
bandages. A nurse sat on a chair beside the bed.
“Any change?” the doctor asked her.
“No, sir, still the same.”
He turned back to Holly. “Well, there he is.”
Holly approached the bed and looked closely at Marley. His head was made to seem larger by the bandages, and his face was distorted by the respirator mouthpiece. She switched on a light over the bed and looked at his right cheek. “Major contusion here,” she said.
The doctor looked at it. “I didn’t see that before. His head was already draped when I came into the O.R.”
She picked up his right hand and looked at it. There were scrapes and bruising on the knuckles. She walked around the bed and examined the left hand. Two nails were broken off to the quick, and there had been bleeding. “I need to look at his torso,” she said.
“I don’t want to move him to undo the gown,” the doctor replied.
“Then cut it open for me.”
He turned to the nurse. “Get me some scissors.” The woman opened a drawer and handed him a pair, and he cut down the front of the gown and opened it.
Holly held the gown back and looked at Marley’s trunk. “Big bruise on the left ribs,” she said. “Some swelling down here.” She pointed.
“You’re right.”
Holly closed the gown, and the nurse taped it closed. Holly gently pulled back the sheet and examined Marley’s legs and feet. “No injuries here,” she said.
“I concur,” the doctor replied.
“Did you note any powder burns around the bullet wound?” she asked.
“There was some blackening; it wasn’t severe.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” They walked out of the recovery room together. “With a wound like this, what are the chances for any kind of recovery?” she asked.
“Well, the damage was limited to the frontal lobe. Theoretically, he could make something like a full recovery, but I wouldn’t want to promise that. On the other hand he could come out of this with what amounts to a prefrontal lobotomy.”
“I’d like to see the chief’s clothes,” she said.
The doctor nodded and went to a phone. A moment later, a nurse appeared with a small trash bag and handed it to the doctor, who handed it to Holly. “Would you like to use my office?” he asked.
She nodded and followed him into the room, the nurse bringing up the rear. She emptied the trash bag onto the desk and spread out the objects. The shirt was spattered with blood and both the shirt and trousers had been cut off the chief’s body. She turned them over and found dirt and grass stains on the backs of the garments. His shoes and gun belt had the same stains. “Where is his pistol?” she asked.
The nurse spoke up. “He wasn’t wearing one,” she said. “I had someone check the ambulance to be sure it wasn’t there, and it wasn’t.”
“Thank you,” Holly said. She unpinned the chief’s badge, put it in her pocket, then stuffed the items back into the bag. “I guess that’s it,” she said.
The doctor led her back into the hall. Holly stopped walking before they reached the front desk. “Doctor, who are you reporting his condition to?”
“His secretary was here most of the night.”
“Do you know if the chief is married?”
“I assume not. A wife would have been here by now.”
“It would be a great help to my investigation if, in dealing with anybody but me, you would put the most pessimistic light on any assessments you make of his condition. And I’m not excepting other police officers.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” the doctor asked.
“Last night somebody tried to murder the chief. I’d like whoever did it to think he was substantially successful. If word got around that the chief was recovering, his assailant could try again. After all, the chief certainly saw who shot him and may have even known him. We don’t want assassins prowling the hospital’s hallways, do we?”
The doctor’s eyebrows went up. “I see your point,” he said.
“I think it would be a good idea if the hospital released a statement to the local press and the wire services saying that the chief has been critically wounded and may not regain consciousness, and that even if he should, the resulting brain damage would probably greatly impair his communication skills.”
“I can do that,” the doctor said.
Holly shook his hand. “Thank you very much. And if he should regain consciousness, I’d like not to be just the first person notified, but the
only
person.” She jotted down her home and cell phone numbers, then rejoined Officer Weathers.
“How’s the chief doing?” Weathers asked as they walked back to the car.
“Bad, Jimmy, bad,” she replied. “Do you know where the chief was shot?”
“Yes, ma’am. I drove by there before they moved his car.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
H
olly stopped by the station and took the trash bag inside. She walked into Jane Grey’s office and closed the door behind her.
Jane looked up from her work. “How’s the chief?” she asked, looking fearful of the answer.
“In a coma,” Holly replied. “The prognosis is not good; he may never regain consciousness.”
Jane’s shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”
“How long have you worked for the chief, Jane?”
“Since he came here, eight years ago.”
“You were pretty close, then.”
“Yes, we were.”
“Is the chief married?”
“Divorced, before he came here. The ex-wife has remarried and lives in Germany.”
“Any family or close friends in Orchid Beach? Anybody who should be notified?”
“Nobody,” Jane replied. “His closest friend is Hank Doherty. They were drinking buddies.”
“I know about him from my father. Where does he live?”
“South on A1A, not far from your trailer park. Jimmy can show you.”
Holly put the trash bag on Jane’s desk. “These are the chief’s clothes. Will you send somebody with them to the state crime lab?”
“Sure.”
Holly produced the zippered plastic bag containing the bullet. “This, too. Please ask them to treat the ballistics as very urgent.” Holly took a deep breath. “You said that everybody on the force has to submit personal weapons for ballistics?”
“That’s right.”
“I want this bullet checked against every one of them—official weapons, too.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Do you think…?”
“I don’t think anything, Jane; I just want to eliminate our people as suspects.”
“I know somebody in the lab. I’ll get him right on it today,” she replied.
“Thanks.”
“Has Bob Hurst come in yet?”
“No, it’ll probably be this afternoon.”
“Do you know if he took charge of the chief’s gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“When he comes in, if he has the gun, I want that to go to the lab, too. I want to know if it’s been fired and if so, how many times. I want to know if anyone’s prints besides the chief’s are on it.”
“I’ll call his house and see if he has it,” Jane replied.
There was a knock on the office door, and Holly opened it. A short, bald man in a short-sleeved shirt and a necktie stood there.
“Oh, Holly, this is Charlie Peterson, the chairman of the city council. Charlie, this is Deputy Chief Holly Barker.”
Holly stuck out her hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Peterson.”
“Call me Charlie,” the man said, shaking her hand. “Jane, when did we get a deputy chief?”
“This morning, Charlie. The chief hired her several weeks ago, but he didn’t want an announcement until she got here.”
“Unfortunate timing,” Peterson said. “How’s the chief?”
“Not good. In a coma, may not come out of it, and if he does, well, there’s brain damage.”
Peterson winced. “I think you and I need to sit down and talk about things,” he said to Holly.
“We certainly do,” Holly replied, “but right now I’ve got to get on top of this shooting. Will tomorrow morning be okay?”
“Sure, you do what you have to do.”
“Thanks, Charlie, I’d better get going.” They shook hands again and Holly left.
At Jimmy’s direction, Holly pulled off A1A and onto the broad, grassy shoulder. When she set foot on the ground it was soft. “There wasn’t any rain yesterday, was there?” she asked the patrolman.
“Yesterday morning, early, we had a line of thunderstorms go through. Guess we had an inch in two hours. Cleared up after that.”
“Show me exactly where the car was,” she said.
“Right there,” Jimmy replied, pointing ahead of them. “Right in front of that real estate sign.”
Holly stepped onto the pavement and walked slowly down the road, looking carefully at the wet ground. There were the tracks of two cars, one in front of the other. Beside the front set of tracks, there were bits of plaster. “Looks like Bob Hurst took a tire impression,” she said, half to herself. “That’s good.”
She backtracked to the chief’s car tracks and inspected the ground in front of where the car had rested. There were indentations, no doubt where the chief had lain after being shot. She didn’t see any blood. She walked slowly around the area where the two cars had stopped but saw nothing of note. She assumed that any other evidence on the scene had already been collected by Hurst.
“Okay, Jimmy, I think that about does it,” she said, getting into the car. “Jane said you could show me where Hank Doherty lives.”
“Sure. Straight ahead about a mile.”
Holly got the car going. “Do you know Hank Doherty?”
“Sure, everybody knows him.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He and the chief did a lot of drinking together.”
“Where? Did they have a regular place?”
“There’s a bar up the road. They were in there a lot.”
“Doherty raises dogs?”
“That’s right, only I don’t think he does it much any more. It’s a shame, too. He was a kind of wizard with dogs.”
“Retired?”
“Well, chief, Hank does a lot of drinking, even when he’s not with the chief. I’ve heard rumors he was real sick.
I think he’s in a lot of pain, you know? He’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t have any legs. Vietnam.”
“Oh.” She wondered why her father had never mentioned Doherty’s lack of legs.
“It’s right up ahead, here,” Jimmy said, pointing at a small house set only a little back from the road.
Holly pulled into the short driveway and stopped the car. A sign on the front-yard fence read
DOHERTY’S DOGS. SECURITY AND OBEDIENCE TRAINING
. She got out of the car and walked through the gate into an ill-tended front yard. She walked up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell. Jimmy stood next to her. Nobody came to the door. She rang the bell again, with the same result.
