Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (3 page)

Chapter Five

Hyatt Hotel, Minneapolis

September

C
HIP
AWOKE AT THE HYATT
in a tangle of sweaty sheets with
disturbing images from a dream in which he was being pursued by a killer who
did not like his books. He felt exhausted rather than rested, unsettled and
anxious. The events of the previous day had taken their toll, and he was unsure
of what this day would bring. He called Jane again.

“Morning,
sweetheart. How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Crappy,
I missed you. How was your night?”

“Ditto
for me.”

“I
got a text message from Sven. Seems you scored with your dinner last night. He
said it was ‘ridiculous.’ Oh, and Ingrid asked when you were coming home. She
wants you to help her with her English essay.”

“Wow,
that’s huge, right?

“Yes,
I think she is finally coming around. It’s been harder for her than for Sven.
So, when are you coming home?”

Chip
crawled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, cell phone in hand. He was
longing to clear his head and revive his energy with a steaming hot shower.

“I
have to meet with the homicide detective and then I plan to head out of town.
I’ll be home for supper. Oh, and Jane, last night I wrote a chapter you’ll
like. Jo was painting a room and John came home and proposed to her.”

Jane
laughed. “It’s about time. For some reason I want Jo and John to be as happy as
we are. Was Jo painting the walls tomato red?”

“No,
she settled on green.”

“Well,
the red in our kitchen is growing on me. We’ll see what you think when you come
home. I’ll throw a roast in the slow cooker before I head to the clinic, so we
can have a nice dinner tonight. Love you.”

“Thanks,
sweetie. Love you, too.”

Chip
still got that newlywed rush when he heard those words, marveling at the
thought of someone waiting at home for him and with dinner planned, to boot.

***

After
his hot shower, shave and a cup of weak coffee brewed in his room, Chip was
ready to face the day. He checked out of the hotel and headed to the hotel’s
parking ramp.

The
parking ramp was dim and damp. Chip got turned around and it took some
searching to locate his car. He spotted a huge black Escalade with dark-tinted
windows idling not far from his car. He noticed a car rental sticker on the
bumper. For some inexplicable reason it gave him an eerie feeling; he increased
his pace to the Ford and used his remote key to unlock the door as he neared.
It beeped and the running lights came on. He quickly opened the door, and as he
slid into the front seat, he heard a roar from the Escalade as it started to
move toward him, the engine’s sound echoing throughout the ramp. Chip
instinctively ducked down and a split second later the driver’s side window
exploded, sending shattered pieces of glass cascading down on him like a meteor
shower.

He
froze, unable to move out of fear. He strained to hear the vehicle’s engine
fade as it exited the ramp. From his cramped position he slipped his cell phone
out of his pocket. His finger fumbled and he misdialed, tried again and finally
reached a 911 operator.

***

By
some divine intervention, he was taken to the Emergency Room of Hennepin County
Medical Center rather than to his eternal resting place.

Hours
later he sat in Franco’s office. He watched the detective open the bottom
drawer of his desk and extract a bottle of bourbon and a not-too-clean looking
lowball glass. The detective poured a generous amount of the amber liquid
before handing it to him.

 
“Here drink this. Think of it as medicine.
It’ll do you good.”

He
gingerly took a sip and felt the heat slide down his throat, closed his eyes
and took another. “Holy crap, that’s the second time I’ve been shot at in the
past year. At least this time, I only got a couple of nicks.” The ER doctor had
extracted a few shards of glass, doused the cuts with antiseptic and applied
butterfly bandages. Then she had sent him off with prescriptions for an
antibiotic and a pain killer, telling him he might experience some discomfort
in the next few days.

“If
you wouldn’t have ducked, your brains would have been splattered all over the
inside of your car. What made you sense danger?”

The
thought made his stomach lurch, and he felt faint. Franco’s face wavered in
front of him, and he was forced to put his head between his knees.
Jeez, I can’t believe what a wimp I am.

“Honest
to God, I don’t really know.” His voice was muffled by his pants. “There was
just something ominous about that SUV idling in the empty parking ramp. It made
my skin crawl.”

“Can
you describe the driver or the vehicle?”

Chip
raised his head slowly. “It was an Escalade, big and black with tinted windows.
I couldn’t see the driver at all. I do recall a rental sticker on the bumper,
green and white. National, I think.”

“We’ll
run a trace on it. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. The bigger question is
why would someone be shooting at you?”

Chip
finished the bourbon and was indeed feeling better. He tried to conjure up
potential enemies, but came up empty. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“Could
be a random drive-by shooting. They’re a pretty common gang initiation around
here lately, although not usually in upscale hotel ramps,” said Franco as he
opened the bourbon again and took a swig, replaced the cap and returned the
bottle and glass to his bottom drawer.

Franco
opened a file on his desk and scanned it. “You know a writer named Margaret
Murphy?”

“I
never met her or read her stuff. Isn’t she that true crime writer who committed
suicide about two weeks ago, self-infected gun shot?”

“Yup,
she’s the one. The newspapers said it was a suicide; Forensics wasn’t sure.
Homicide is still considering it an open case.”

“Are
you suggesting it wasn’t a suicide, that she was murdered?”

“What
I’m saying is I’ve got two dead crime writers and another one who’s damn lucky
he’s not dead. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’m not a big believer in
coincidences.”

He
continued. “Finnegan wrote three books and was apparently researching a fourth.
I figure he pissed off someone in one of his books, maybe uncovered someone’s
shady past. As I said before, that book on his chest was selected for a
reason.”

“Well,
the book on his chest was
Shanghaied;
he wrote about Asian gangs in that one. In addition to Asian gangs, he wrote
about crooked politicians, police brutality, corporate embezzlers, just to name
a few. Many of Finnegan’s characters were thinly disguised local newsmakers.
There was a crooked businessman like Tom Petters, that guy now serving a
fifty-year sentence for a Ponzi scheme. The hockey-playing governor in one of
his books is a dead give-away. And, he had a story about a murdered young
woman, kidnapped from a mall parking lot, wasn’t there a local case like that?”

Franco
answered. “Yes, sounds like the Dru Sjodin case, but we put that perp away.
Real creepy little guy.”

 
“I don’t know who the crooked police officer
in his last book might be, but I bet you have an idea.” Chip waited for a
response but did not receive one.

The
detective hesitated as if he was weighing his words. “Could be Finnegan and
that Murphy gal might have pissed off the same people. Any connection between
you, Finnegan and Murphy?”

“No,
only in that Finnegan and I read each other’s work. To my knowledge we weren’t
writing about the same topics, and I have no idea what Margaret Murphy may have
been digging up.”

Franco
took off his rumpled suit jacket and loosened his tie. “Then again, I could be
wrong. Maybe he was cheating on his wife and she popped him or he owed a bookie
a wad of cash, or was mixed up with drugs, but I doubt it. My gut tells me he
was offed because of something he wrote, and I’ve got a pretty good record by
following my gut.”

Chip
felt another wave of nausea and he broke out in a sweat. “Okay, now you’re
scaring the crap out of me, Detective.”

“In
this case, scared is probably good. I advise you to be vigilant until we know
what’s going down here. You packing, Collingsworth?”

Chip
gulped. “You mean a gun?”

Franco
didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“No,
I don’t own a gun, never shot one in my life, unless you count squirt guns and
arcade ray guns.” His attempt at humor fell flat.

“You
may want to consider it. For your safety, I suggest you go home to Iowa and lay
low. Unfortunately, forensics won’t be done with your vehicle until later
today. They have to retrieve that bullet. Once it’s released, you can take it
to a body shop for repair.”

Franco
picked up a pencil. “You got a decent police chief in Turners Bend?”

“Yes,
Chief Fredrickson is a pretty good law enforcement guy, why?”

Franco
wrote down the name. “I’ll be transferring your protection to him soon and
sending you on your way tomorrow. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate in
the Finnegan case, but we’re going to have to get you out of Dodge as soon as
possible. I don’t want another dead author on my hands.”

***

Unable
to drive home until the police were finished with his vehicle and the window
was repaired, Chip re-registered at the Hyatt. He called Jane and told her
about his day.

“It
was just a big city, drive-by crime. I was merely in the wrong place at the
wrong time. Just a few scratches and a broken window.”

“First
poor Patrick and now this. I was teasing earlier when I asked if someone was
gunning for authors, but now…”

Chip
interrupted her. “Really Jane, this had nothing to do with Finnegan’s murder.
I’m fine and I’ll be home as soon as my car is ready to drive.

He
didn’t want her to worry, but she didn’t sound convinced and neither was he.
The whole thing was starting to freak him out, and Franco’s words about
coincidences kept replaying in his head. He read recently that coincidences
lead to messages.
Is someone sending me a
message?

 
He took two pain relievers and a dose of
antibiotics, and to divert his attention from the events of the day he called
his brother. The call wasn’t to share the shooting or his fears; he didn’t have
that kind of relationship with Parker. He wanted to consult with him about his
character’s brain injury. Parker, like their father and grandfather before him,
was a neurosurgeon in Baltimore. It was late but he placed the call anyway.

Parker
answered in a wide-awake voice. “Hey, bro, I was up and just about to send you
a copy of the article about me in this month’s
Lancet Neurology
. They named me the world’s leader in deep brain
stimulation for Parkinson’s. Just carrying on the family tradition in
neurosurgery.”

Parker
never missed an opportunity to remind Chip he was the black sheep of the
family, the only male who was not a neurosurgeon. The remark pushed Chip’s
button, but he swallowed it and played the bigger man by congratulating his
brother and moving on to his questions about head injuries.

After
he hung up, Chip made a conscious decision to cast Dr. John Goodman as a compassionate
surgeon and a man with a tender side,

not a prick like his
brother.

Chapter
Six

Untitled

St. Paul, MN

Late October

D
R. JOHN GOODMAN TILTED his head one way, and then the other,
attempting to stretch out the stiff muscles in his neck. The surgery to save
Rick Wilson and repair the damage to his brain from the bullet had taken long
hours of close, careful work and John felt the tension up and down his back. He
was pleased with the results of the surgery, but it had been a long night and
he longed to climb back in bed with Jo.

However, that would have to wait
until after he spoke to his patient’s family members. He strode through the
swinging doors and his tired eyes swept the room.

A woman with short, spiky gray hair stood as he entered. John took
in her reddened eyes and walked toward her. Just as he reached her, he was
startled to see Detective Mike Frisco stand up next to the woman.

John said, “Detective…this is a surprise. I assume you are working
Rick Wilson’s case?”

Frisco indicated the woman by his side. “Yes, I had some questions
for his mother. Dr. Goodman, this is Caroline Wilson.”

Before John had a chance to say anything, Caroline blurted out,
“Doctor, is my son going to make it? How bad is it?”

John reached out and gripped her hand in both of his. “Ms. Wilson.
Your son did very well during the surgery and we are cautiously optimistic at
this point. We were able to relieve some of the pressure inside his head. He is
in intensive care now, but you will be able to see him in a few moments. I want
to assure you we are doing everything possible for your son.”

She pulled her hand away from his and took a deep breath, leveling
her brown eyes at him. “Don’t take this as a sign of disrespect, but let me be
blunt. I lost my husband to cancer last year. I found knowing the details of
his case gave me a sense of control; when God knows, I obviously had none. The
minutiae gave me something to focus on, rather than just sit and watch my
husband of thirty years waste away in front of my eyes. Something to hate,
rather than to hate him for leaving me behind. So, while I appreciate your
sensitivity, please just tell me exactly what’s happening to my son.”

John was taken aback, but found himself respecting the woman’s
strength. He looked at Frisco. The detective shrugged slightly. “She’s handled
all my tough questions. Tell her; she can take it.”

Taking a deep breath, John said, “Very well. Your son sustained a
bullet wound to the occipital lobe, at the back of the head. From there, the
bullet traveled the left side of the brain, exiting out the frontal lobe.” John
pulled out a sheet of paper and pen from his pocket. Quickly, he sketched a
rudimentary diagram to show her the path of the bullet.

“I know it doesn’t sound good, but the path the bullet took
actually gave us a fighting chance. Because the bullet exited the head and
didn’t cross over to the other side of the brain, the damage was minimized.”

John saw the woman’s shoulders relax a fraction, and then he
continued. “That’s not to say your son is out of the woods yet. As the bullet
passed through the brain, it sheared off small blood vessels. The bleeding
caused increased pressure within the skull. If left unchecked, it will damage
the brainstem and quickly lead to death. Therefore, our number one priority was
relieving the pressure on the brain.”

John watched Caroline Wilson
carefully, ensuring she understood his explanation. Even though her eyes had
widened at the extent of the damage, she nodded her understanding. Satisfied,
John continued, “First, we removed a section of Rick’s skull to relieve the
swelling and to save the brainstem. Next, we put him into a medically induced
coma, so that his body has time to repair itself.”

Caroline paled a bit. “So, he’s in a coma…that’s bad, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all. As I’ve said, we induced the coma to give his
body a chance to recover from the trauma. It’s a necessary part of his
recovery. We’ll continue to monitor the pressure on the brain and control it
through steroids. We’ll also use a concentrated sugar solution called mannitol
to draw out the excess fluids.”

 
“What…what do you think his
chances are?” Caroline Wilson’s voice was thick with emotion.

“Your son is a fighter and he did very well throughout the
surgery. If he makes it through the day, he has a chance, perhaps a good one.
Only time will tell, of course. Rick has a long journey in front of him, but
he’s young and strong. We’ll know more tonight.” John laid his hand on her
shoulder. “I know this is hard, but try to get some rest. You look like you
could use a break.”

Tears flowed freely down the woman’s cheeks. “Thank you for your
honesty and for all you’ve done to help Rick.”

Frisco spoke up. “Rick’s in good hands, Ms. Wilson. Doc Goodman’s
the best at what he does.”

John felt his face flush at the compliment. “We’ve got a great
team here, all doing their best for your son. We’ll keep you informed of any
new developments. Call me personally if you have any questions.” He recited his
cell phone number and she scribbled it down on an envelope she had fished out
of her purse.

As a nurse directed Caroline Wilson to her son’s room, John turned
to Frisco. The detective frowned slightly as he watched her leave the room.
John said, “Quite a strong woman isn’t she?”

“Yeah. You should have seen her answering my questions. Wish all
the families I dealt with were as helpful.”

Frisco reached his hand out, and John gripped it tightly. “Good to
see you, Mike. It’s been awhile.”

“Not since I saw you and Jo in the hospital up in Grand Marais, I
think. Great to see you looking a little healthier.”

“That’s an understatement.” John chuckled at the memory.
He
had been the patient then, suffering
from a concussion and a bullet wound to the leg, the result of a madman who had
been obsessed with Jo.

John’s thoughts turned back to his patient. “Any progress on
finding out who shot Rick Wilson and why?”

The detective shook his head. “Not yet. Wilson’s roommate and his
girlfriend were home as well, but they didn’t make it. They were both DOA by
the time help arrived. The killer tried to cover his tracks by starting a fire.
At that point, the neighbors called 911. Looks like the killer trashed the
place, looking for something. Sure would love to know what that something was.”

“A burglary gone wrong?”

Frisco shrugged his shoulders.
“The thought crossed my mind, but we have some evidence that suggests Wilson
was the intended target. Could have something to do with a fracking documentary
his mother said he was working on.”

John raised his eyebrow. “You
really think that could be at the root of all of this?”

The detective shrugged. “Trust me;
people have been killed for a lot less.”

Frisco looked down at his watch.
“Say, doc. I’d better get going while the trail is still relatively warm. Give
my best to Jo, will you?”

John smiled. He was bursting to
share his news with the detective – and everyone else, for that matter – but he
knew Jo would want to tell Frisco of their engagement herself. So, instead of
what he wanted to say, he replied, “I certainly will. And let’s get together
when all this settles down. It’s been too long.”

“It’s a plan.”

***

Jo was awakened the next morning by a light kiss on her lips. She
grinned and opened her eyes to see John leaning over her as she lay in bed. He
looked tired, but his smile was warm.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she felt the room tilt slightly.
Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, Jo saw it was nearly 9:00 a.m. She lay
back on the bed, surprised at how tired she felt. Painting John’s office had
kept her up until two in the morning, but this felt like a different kind of
tired.
Damn! Feels like I’m coming down
with the flu again….second time this fall.

Not wanting John to fuss over her, she managed a small smile.
“Wow. I was really out. Glad to have you home.”

He bent down and gave her another kiss, this one lingering a bit
longer than the one that woke her. He sat down on the bed next to her. “The
surgery went better than I expected.”

“What type of head trauma was it?”

“A gun shot. Some college kid, asleep in his apartment.”

Jo’s inquisitive nature kicked in, and she ignored a sour taste in
her mouth. “Wow. Wrong place, wrong time?”

“Not really sure.”

“Amazing he survived. Did they catch the shooter?”

John shook his head. “No suspects yet, from what I gather. By the
way, guess who was assigned to the case? Frisco. I ran into him after the
surgery. He was just wrapping up an interview with the kid’s mother.”

“Well, I’m sure Frisco will figure it out.” Jo rubbed her chin and
stared off into space. Her discomfort temporarily forgotten, her investigative
brain whirled around a case that wasn’t hers. “Wonder what the motive was?”

 
John grinned, “Now you
sound like the FBI agent I first fell in love with. Frisco thought it might be
related to some documentary the kid was making on fracking, although I don’t
know why someone would have killed him over that.”

“I keep forgetting you haven’t lived in the Midwest for long.
Fracking has become a real hot-button topic, especially in North Dakota where
the oil fields are located.”

John stretched his long arms upward and then smothered a yawn.
“What exactly is fracking, anyway? I know it’s a process of removing oil from
the ground, and it’s been all over the news lately, but can’t say I’ve paid
much attention.”

“From what I understand, it involves creating fractures in rocks
formations by forcing fluid into smaller cracks to make them bigger, making it
easier to extract the oil.”

John frowned. “Seems like that would make people happy, bringing
more jobs into the region and making the U.S. less dependent on foreign oil.”

Jo shifted slightly to make more room for him on the bed. “There
is
a lot of support for it, especially
because these fields could be the largest source of oil discovered in the U.S.
But there are a lot of ‘fractivists’, who worry about the environmental impact
of the process itself. Several countries have already banned it, as a matter of
fact.”

John studied her for a moment. “You’re intrigued. Are you
disappointed this isn’t your case?”

Jo felt a sheepish grin creep across her lips. “Well, no, not
exactly. It’s just that I’ve been following this in the news lately, so it’s an
interesting topic. I wonder what your patient found….” John was right; Jo
was
more than just a little curious
about Frisco’s case. Her nimble mind sorted through scenarios, based on what
she had read in the newspapers.

Jo was stirred out of her musings when she felt John’s weight
shift off the bed. He removed his sweatshirt, and draped it across the chair in
the corner. “Well, my job is to make sure the kid recovers. With any luck,
he’ll be able to answer those questions himself.”

John moved back to the side of the bed. “Scoot over. I’m climbing
in with you.” He let out a loud yawn. “God, I’m exhausted.”

She obliged as he slipped off his shoes. He crawled in next to her
and turned her around, so her back was against his chest. She felt the weight
of his arm settle around her waist as he pulled her closer. Grateful her bout
of queasiness had abated, she sighed in contentment.

Tugging at his shirt, she said, “Aren’t you going to undress?
You’re still wearing your street clothes.”

 
“Nah, I was kind of hoping
you’d help me with that later.” He nuzzled her neck and she felt her pulse
race. She knew he needed sleep, but she was definitely looking forward to
“later”.

After a moment or two, Jo said, “This is my idea of a perfect
Sunday morning.”

She felt his warm breath on the back of her neck as he stifled
another yawn. He replied, “Mine, too, although I wish I had some energy. I’d
really love to….”

Waiting for him to finish his sentence, Jo felt him relax against
her and soon she could feel the deep rise and fall of his chest against her
back. She sighed and closed her eyes.

***

Jo awoke a second time that morning, this time to her cell’s
ringtone. Worried it would wake up John, she snapped fully awake, carefully
slid out of his embrace and snatched the phone off the nightstand.

Jo felt a flash of irritation when she saw her boss’s number on
the screen of her smartphone. She answered the call with a whispered, “Hang on
a minute, will you?” Before he had a chance to respond, she moved into the
hallway, carefully closing the door behind her.

Resuming the phone call, she said, “Good morning, Tom. You do know
it is Sunday, right? Traditionally a day off from work.”

Jo heard the deep chuckle of Tom Gunderson in her ear. “Well, it’s
a good thing I don’t stand by tradition, since this isn’t a social call.”