Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour (31 page)
“Only one way in?” asked Ray.
Sue unfolded a map and spread it on the counter in front of him. “One two-track,” she said pointing to a tiny line, “and a couple of old fire lanes.” She traced these with a finger. “But I don’t know how far you can get a vehicle down them. We met this morning at 8:00 and worked out plans. The SWAT team will be in place by noon. The road is blocked in case they try to leave.”
She sat two 8-by-10-inch pictures on top of the map. “Here are a couple of photos the Coast Guard shot this morning. There are three outbuildings that we will use for cover. As soon as the operation is complete, I’ll call you.”
“You got me up to tell me you’ll give me a call?”
“If I hadn’t run the plans by you, you’d never have forgiven me. But in your condition… ”
“Condition, hell.”
“Ray, don’t you think it would be better if… ”
“I’m going to ride along,” he responded, doing a foot-andcrutches dance toward the closet. “Get me that jacket, please.”
Sue was going to protest, but could tell it was futile. She pulled a dark-blue winter uniform jacket off the hanger and reached back in for a bulletproof vest.
“I won’t need that,” said Ray, motioning toward the vest.
“Put it on,” said Sue, “or I won’t give you a jacket.” She waited as he struggled with the vest, then pulled a shoulder holster and handgun and radio off the top shelf. With her help he got the holster on and then the jacket. He turned the radio on and did a battery check. Sue guided him to her Jeep, pushed the passenger seat back to the end of its track, and carefully helped Ray in.
They rode in silence most of the way. Finally Ray said, “Feels like it’s blowing.”
“That’s the forecast, high winds and heavy rain, maybe even a thunderstorm. A cold front is blowing down from Canada. The gales of November.”
“It’s not November yet.”
“We’re on the cusp,” Sue said.“The leaves are mostly gone; the days are getting shorter. Color season’s over, almost.” She slowed, looking for a road, stopped, reversed, and made a right turn.
They slowly jolted up a trail for several hundred yards.
“This is the access road?” he asked.
“No, this is one of the fire lanes. We wanted to make sure they were both blocked.” She stopped behind another police vehicle and killed the engine. “I’ll be back in a bit,” she said. “I’ll let you know what’s happened.”
“Be careful.”
“You know I will.” Sue opened the rear hatch, grabbed her gear. For a minute or two he could see her heading up the road. Then she was gone.
Ray moved around trying to get comfortable; his leg was becoming increasingly painful. He wished he had taken some pain medicine before they left. He squirmed about for several more minutes trying to find a less excruciating position. Finally, he shoved his door open. He slid his trunk toward the driver’s side and pushed the heavy cast out, supporting his body between the door and the seat until he got his footing with his left leg. He reached back over the seat and slowly extracted his crutches, one at a time. Then he grabbed the shotgun from the holster mounted below the dash, and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. Realizing he couldn’t hold a shotgun and his crutches, he left it on the seat.
Ray moved off from the road, carefully working his way up a small rise. A large ash tree lay in his path. He turned and rested against the trunk. The wind was howling through the treetops, the dry leaves of late fall rattled in the gale, a few torn loose with each gust. They swirled around him as they drifted toward the ground. A dead branch came crashing to the earth near him.
Ray could see that this was the rolling terrain common to the first few miles inland from Lake Michigan’s shore. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and a second, and a third. He watched the trees bend and dance before the approaching storm. The air was dense and smelled of autumn decay.
The sky went dark as the storm closed overhead. Thunder joined with the wind in the roaring cacophony. And then came the rain, heavy sheets pulsating off the big lake through the dense forest, pulling more leaves from the frenzied branches.
Ray pulled his jacket zipper to the top and positioned the bill of his hat low over his glasses. As he scanned the road through the heavy rain, he saw a figure running in his direction. He recognized Helen Warrington. He positioned his crutches carefully and slowly pulled himself up from the log.
He heard a door slam, and Sue’s Jeep came to life. He started down the slope as the driver reversed, pulling off the road into the soft swampy underbrush in an attempt to turn in the opposite direction. Ray could hear the motor scream as the driver frantically rocked the vehicle in the soft sand. Ray steadied himself, unzipped his jacket, and reached for his gun. Helen Warrington leaped from the Jeep, clutching the shotgun with her right hand. Ray, off balance, took an unsteady aim in her direction. He was falling forward when he heard the blast of the shotgun. Acute pain exploded in his chest; he toppled backward unable to breath.
Ray had been dozing; he opened his eyes—again—to the harsh lights of the trauma center. Saul Feldman came into view.
“Tripping on pain meds again?” Feldman asked. “Have you considered a career in talk radio?”
Ray gave Feldman a weak smile.
“So, what were my orders?” the doctor asked. “Let me see, that was just a few days ago.” Starting with his pinky and ending with his index thumb, he made his points with his hand, finger by finger. “Bed rest. No excitement. Keep your leg elevated. Take your meds. No alcohol. Return in two weeks so the orthopedist, Dr. Stewart, can make sure the bone is mending properly.”
Ray didn’t respond.
“I think this time we’ll just keep you hospitalized for awhile, in traction, with your arms and legs handcuffed to the sides of the bed. And we’ll put you on a special diet.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Your favorite, tuna casserole made the old-fashioned way, three times a day.”
“When you’re done with your audition tape for Comedy Central, I’d like to ask a question,” grumped Ray, noticing the pain every time he inhaled.
“Shoot,” responded Feldman.
“Bad pun,” muttered Ray. “What’s the verdict?”
“You have four cracked ribs and your chest is going to be black and blue for months. But if you hadn’t been wearing a vest, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. As for your leg, Dr. Stewart hasn’t reviewed the films yet, but the radiologist said things look pretty good. The cast kept everything in place, thank God. You’re lucky as hell, Ray.” He let the comment sink in and then continued. “I’m going to admit you. You’ve had a major trauma, and I’d like to keep you under observation for a day or two. Let’s run a few tests and consult with Dr. Stewart. Then we’ll discuss how long you’ll be with us. I’ll be checking on you this evening.”
After he left, Ray held the button, bringing the back of his bed up far enough that he could see West Bay over the houses and now leafless trees. The storm was still raging, the streets were wet and black, and headlights glistened off the pavement. He watched the whitecaps on the bay—pushed by a furious northwest wind— crash into the seawall that extended across the front of the vacant marina.
He turned as Sue entered the room.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Think so. How about you?”
“Yes,” she answered, grasping his right hand between both of hers and giving him a gentle squeeze before she withdrew them to the side rail of the bed. Ray noticed two shiny balloons were tethered to the foot of the bed.
“I’m pretty foggy on what happened. How about a chronology?”
“Chronology, yes. Everything went as planned, at least at the beginning. We had all our assets in place. Using the outbuildings and the terrain in front of the cottage, everybody was in a protected position with a clear field of fire if it came to that. I called Helen’s cell phone. It was turned off or dead; I got her voice mail. Then I used the bullhorn, again no response. We waited and then teams moved to the front and rear entrances. On command, both doors were kicked open. We found Freeler in a bedroom. He was dead.”
“Hard to tell, the body was starting to go. Probably blood loss or infection.”
“And Helen?”
“She wasn’t in the house. In fact, she really caught us off guard. We were doing a final sweep when I saw her sprinting down the trail.”
“Where had she been hiding?”
“After everything was over, we found a sleeping bag in a little sauna building way behind the house. My guess is that she spent a night or two there after Freeler died.”
“So, you followed her?”
“Yes, Reilly was with me. Helen was way out ahead of us, and it was pouring rain. We didn’t close the gap until she jumped in my Jeep and got it stuck. If she’d engaged the 4-wheel drive, she would have been out of there.”
“I remember her climbing out with the shotgun, then things get fuzzy.”
“She was focused on you, I don’t think she saw us coming. It looked like you were getting your gun out when she fired. I saw you tumble backwards. I thought you were dead. Reilly and I fired. She went down.”
“Is she… ?”
“She has two wounds, right shoulder and left thigh. She’ll recover.”
“How are you?”
“Starting to get gray hair,” Sue said. “You were out cold when I got to you. I couldn’t find any blood, but I could tell you were having trouble breathing. It only took a few minutes for the EMTs to get there, by then you were starting to come to. I can’t tell you what I was feeling when you opened your eyes.” Sue wiped away a tear and took Ray’s hand again.
“So, now I’ve got an important job for you,” Ray said in the firmest voice he could muster.
“What’s that?”
“Get me the hell out of here. Please.”
During the few days that Ray remained in the hospital and the additional week he stayed at home in semi-bed rest, Sue had pulled all the evidence together and prepared a concisely written review of the case. After a consultation, Dr. Feldman determined that Ray could start back to work—half days for the first week, and then a more normal schedule.
And the first item on Ray’s agenda was to meet with the prosecutor and review the Allen/Dowd murders. In preparation for this meeting Sue had—with her usual attention to order and detail—laid out all the physical evidence, photos, sketches, and supporting documents on the large table in the prosecutor’s conference room. At the extreme right side of the table were a military-style rifle, shell casings, and a large hunting knife.
Sue provided a commentary as John Tyrrell, Cedar County prosecutor, viewed the evidence. Ray stood on the other side of the table, rocking on his crutches.
Tyrell, looking over at Ray.
“He should be sitting with that leg elevated, but he’s impossible,” said Sue. “Maybe if we put him on Ritalin… ”
Tyrell look over at Ray. “She’s starting to sound like a wife.”
“Just a dedicated professional,” Ray responded. “Detective Lawrence has done a wonderful job organizing all of this evidence.
“Okay guys, what do you got?” asked Tyrrell, focusing on the table.
“Denton Freeler’s grandparents are very elderly and live in an assisted-living facility in Bloomfield Hills. The cottage is a seasonal home. Their attorney told me that she had arranged for a cottage service to winterize the place in late August. She had no idea Freeler was camping out there.”
“So, he had the run of the place?” observed Tyrrell. “That appears to be the case,” said Ray. “His parents have been living abroad for more than a decade; they seldom come back to the states.”
Tyrrell loomed over the weapons. “You found this at the cottage?” he asked, pointing to a large, commando-style knife.
“Yes,” answered Sue. “I think our search for the murder weapon is finally over. The blade—its size and shape and the serration on the back—seem to be consistent with the wounds found on Allen and Dowd.”
“How about this gun?” asked Tyrrell.
“It’s a Bushmaster .223-caliber rifle,” said Ray.
“Looks military.”
“It’s modeled after the M-16. It’s marketed to ex-military types who are nostalgic for the weapon they had in the service,”Ray said.
“Great, that’s just what we need people running around with. The dumb fucks who support this kind of lunacy should have to clean up the carnage,” said Tyrrell derisively.
“These will be going to the state police lab to verify that the brass,” Sue pointed to the shell casings, “we collected on the dunes were fired from this weapon.”
“And the knife?” asked Tyrrell.
“Yes, that too. Traces of the victims’ blood might be on the knife and scabbard,” Sue said.
Tyrrell opened the folder. “How about these photos?” he asked.
“The interior of the Freeler cottage. The top one is a wide angle of the scene, then I move in.”
“Great viewing, especially after breakfast. Our looks don’t improve as we decompose, do they?” Tyrrell observed as he leafed through the photos. “Cause of death?”
“We just have a preliminary autopsy report, but it appears he bled to death,” said Sue.
“So, you really nailed him,” Tyrrell said looking at Ray. “The knife wounds would not have been mortal,” Sue explained, “if Freeler had gotten medical attention in a reasonable amount of time.”
“They were probably afraid to go to the ER,” responded Sue. “That’s one scenario, but perhaps they didn’t realize or want to believe how badly he was wounded. There was also a large quantity of oxycodone.”
“Which is?”
“It’s a synthetic narcotic, similar to morphine,” answered Ray. “It’s often abused with alcohol. And there were lots of empty Scotch bottles in the cabin. He might have comfortably bled to death.”
“Where did they get the drugs?” Tyrrell asked.
“We’re still working on that,” answered Sue. “They obviously had a good source and the money to buy them.”
“And the woman?”
“Helen Warrington,” interjected Sue.
“Tell me about her,” said Tyrrell.
“Right,” agreed Ray. “We’re just putting that part of the case together. Things are still quite sketchy.”
