Requite (6 page)

He shook his head.

“Do you know if she had any enemies? Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Hank asked.

“Jessica is a good girl. She’s studying to be a physical therapist. She’s getting good grades, everything. I’ve never heard her mention anything bad about anyone.” He raised his eyebrows. “Ever.”

“What about Jake? Enemies? Problems?” Hank asked.

“No, no. They are good kids. They have never been in trouble. He’s goes to the medical college there too.”

“Now, Jake had a DUI a few years back. Did you know about that?” I asked.

“Yeah. He screwed up—first year of college and all.”

“Did you help him in any way?” the captain asked.

“No, I recommended an attorney, that’s about it.”

“The captain said that you didn’t know anyone by the name of Margaret or James Miller, is that correct?” I asked.

“No, I’ve never heard of them before this.”

“We believe that they are connected to Jake or Jessica somehow. The names aren’t familiar at all? They never mentioned a James or Margaret that were maybe a little older?”

“Again, I don’t think so. The names just don’t sound familiar.”

We went on for another half hour with questioning. He didn’t know anything that would help us. We wrapped up with the judge and headed for the door. Captain Bostok stayed behind. He’d meet Hank and I back at the station after we stopped in at the hospital.

We walked out through the big front doors and hopped in the Charger. We pulled out from Judge Casey’s house and drove back down Birdie Court. A couple turns later, we were on the Interstate, making our way back toward the city.

We pulled into Tampa General a little after ten thirty. I navigated the Charger through the hospital’s parking structure and slid into a spot. We walked outside and over to the West Pavilion, finding the reception desk once we got into the building.

The receptionist at the counter finished her phone call and looked up.

“What can I do for you officers?” she asked.

“We are looking for Jake Richwood and his attending physicians,” Hank said.

She clicked a few keys on her computer.

“Looks like you’ll want to go up to level four. I’ll get Doctor Wallace paged for you and have him meet you guys at the family waiting area. Just follow the yellow line to the elevators.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“No problem,” She smiled up at me from behind her desk.

Hank and I followed the yellow line to elevator B. We stepped in and hit the button for level four. After a brief stint of elevator music, the doors opened and dropped us out in a long corridor stretching left and right. Hospital staff littered the hall as they came in and out of the patient’s rooms.

A nurse’s station sat across from the elevator doors. I walked up and initiated conversation with the first person who made eye contact.

“Can you point us to the family waiting area?” I asked.

“No problem, Sugar. It’s right down the hall there on your right. Stop when you see televisions and chairs.”

She pointed ten feet away. I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or helpful.

We plopped down in the waiting area and I grabbed the first fishing magazine I saw. In the next twenty minutes I learned the finer techniques of using a chatter bait to fish for largemouth bass. That was followed by an article titled:
Getting inside the mind of a bass.
I looked over to see what Hank was reading. Clutched in his hands was a copy of
GQ.
He nodded his head as he read along. I smiled.

“Officers?”

Hank and I stood to greet the doctor.

“I’m Doctor Wallace, Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been treating Jake Richwood since he arrived early this morning.”

The doctor extended his hand for a handshake. I took it.

“It’s nice to meet you Doctor Wallace. This is Sergeant Rawlings, and I’m Lieutenant Kane with the TPD.”

“What can you tell us?” Hank asked.

“Let’s go down the hall to my office to talk.” Doctor Wallace motioned us to follow him.

“After you, Mister Style.” I stepped out of Hank’s way and waved my hand for him to take the lead.

He shook his head, smirked and followed the doctor. At the end of the hall we turned to enter his office. He closed the door behind us as we walked inside.

“Take a seat.”

Hank and I each grabbed a chair as Doctor Wallace rounded his desk.

He sat and leaned back, making a face as if he was deep in thought. “Here is what I have for you Lieutenant.” Doctor Wallace opened a patient file on his desk. “First responders immobilized Mister Richwood when they arrived on the scene. They administered a GCS test, shows here he scored a five. The scale starts at three and goes up to fifteen—fifteen being the least injured on the scale. They began administering a hand ventilator to assist in his breathing and controlled the blood loss. Upon arrival to our facility, we diagnosed him with an acute subdural hematoma. We performed surgery to remove the pressure.” Wallace closed the folder and folded his hands together on top of the desk.

“How is the outlook?” Hank asked.

“Sergeant, when it comes to a brain injury like this, we won’t know the extent of the damage until he wakes up.”

“Is he going to make it?” I asked.

“I’m staying positive. We treated him pretty quickly.”

“What about the cuts to his forehead?”

“The writing?”

“Yes.”

“We got it stitched up. Whatever did it was thin and sharp. I’d guess a small knife. There should be minimal scarring. A cosmetic surgeon should be able to rid him of any signs of the lettering.”

“Thanks doctor. Did anyone at the hospital get in contact with his parents?” I asked.

“Pretty sure. Let me check.” Doctor Wallace opened the patient folder again. He ran his finger across the paper in the file. “Oh, guess we didn’t. Looks like we attempted to call Helen Richwood, his mother, twice but never got through.”

“Do you have a house or mobile number you are trying?” I asked.

“I have a home phone number and mobile numbers for both parents.”

“OK, well, can we try a different one than last time?” I asked.

Doctor Wallace picked up the phone and dialed. He cupped the mouthpiece. “Straight to voicemail,” he said.

I heard the recording beep into Wallace’s ear.

“This is Doctor Wallace from Tampa General Hospital. Mister Richwood, we tried reaching your wife earlier. Your son Jake has been admitted to our facility and we are attempting to contact you regarding his condition.” Doctor Wallace hung up the phone and stood.

“You mind if I get those phone numbers you have listed for them? I’d like to keep trying to get into contact with them as well.”

Wallace turned the sheet of paper with the numbers on it toward me so I could copy them down.

I scribbled them into my notepad. “Thanks.”

Hank and I got up to leave.

“I’m going to leave you my card Doctor Wallace. Can you make sure to give me a call if there are any changes with him?”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

Wallace took my card and examined it. He smiled. “I guess your number should be easy enough to remember?”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“It’s the same as my daughter’s but the last two numbers are reversed.”

I nodded.

Wallace looked up from the business card at me. I noticed his eyes were fixed on the side of my head.

“You know we have cosmetic surgeons here that could clean that up a little.” He leaned in to get a better look at my scar.

I pulled back and ran my hand across the scar. “It’s fine. Thanks.”

He shrugged. “Alright. You officers have a good day.”

Hank and I walked to the elevator. He reached out and hit the button to take us down. “You should grow hair on that cue ball head of yours if you don’t want people staring at that zipper.”

“I tried. It doesn’t grow right.”

“Maybe a hat?”

“No.”

“Hairpiece?”

I gave him a look and grabbed the time from my watch—it was a quarter past eleven. “Want to grab a quick bite before we head back to the station?”

“Sure, where do you want to go?”

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. We walked inside.

“Someplace I can grab a salad,” I said.

“Well, I’m going to eat garbage wherever we go. I haven’t had a decent meal in two weeks. Karen has been on some new fad diet. The other night we had kale chips for dinner. I figured it was punishment for something. Then, this morning she made me a spinach smoothie for breakfast. I seriously think she’s trying to poison me.”

“Did she eat any of it?”

Hank thought for a moment. “You know, she did have something else.”

“Yeah, she’s trying to poison you.”

Tom pulled the van back into his shop and shut it off. On the wall, he hit the button to close the overhead door and made his way to the back office. He unchained the door and entered. She hadn’t budged. He used an entire roll of duct tape to bind her to the office chair. Her head darted from side to side at the sound of his entrance. Tom approached and crouched in front of her.

“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. No screaming. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”

Jessica nodded.

He ripped the tape from her mouth as hard as he could. He showed no remorse. Jessica winced from the pain but stayed quiet.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

Tom leaned in, putting his face inches from hers. “Justice.”

She choked at her words. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ll understand soon enough.” He stood and pushed the side of her head. Tom walked a circle around her. “Now Jessica, can you think of any reason why you’re here?”

She began to cry. “No.”

Tom grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back. “Nothing?”

She shook her head and gasped for air from her mouth. “No.”

“So you’ve never done anything wrong to anyone?”

Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I’ve never done anything. Why are you doing this?”

“You’re about to find out. Are you ready?”

“What do you mean
ready
? For what?” Her voice came in between short breaths from her mouth.

Tom rolled Jessica from the office to the drain in the floor at the back of the shop.

He took the corner of the duct tape that covered her eyes and ripped it from her face. The tape took chunks of her eyebrows with as he pulled it away.

She yelled out in pain before opening her eyes. Tom stood before her. He smiled.

The look on her face was that of immediate fear. “Oh my God! Help! Help! Someone!” she screamed.

Tom reached back and punched her square in the nose. It burst into a spray of blood as she ripped back and forth in her chair. Tom stuck his finger in her face. “No screaming, Bitch!”

She didn’t obey. “Help! Help!”

Tom placed his left hand over her mouth to contain her outburst.

She tried biting at his hand.

He reached in her mouth, grabbed her tongue and jammed his fist between her teeth. “If you don’t shut the hell up I’m going to take this knife and cut out your tongue.” Tom pulled the knife from his pants and flicked open the blade.

She quieted. Tom flipped the knife closed and jammed it back down into his pocket.

“Looks like you know why you’re here now, don’t you?”

She nodded. She tried mumbling something. He’d imagined it was some kind of plea. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” He let go of her tongue and took his hand away.

“It wasn’t my idea,” she said.

“I wasn’t kidding about cutting out your tongue. Now zip it.” He walked to the bench. “Remember this?” He slid the tire iron from the top and started back toward her.

Jessica shook her head. “Please no. Please God no.”

He knelt back in front of her. “Did you think I’d forget? Or do nothing?” Each word out of Tom’s mouth was followed by a tap on her head with the tire iron.

Jessica winced with each smack. “Where’s Jake?”

Tom put his mouth an inch from her ear and whispered. “The morgue.”

She began to cry. She squinted her eyes. Her tears mixed with the blood from her nose and streaked down her face. Her shoulders bounced from her erratic breathing. Tom watched her emotions.

She opened her eyes. A look of anger crossed her face. “You were supposed to die you piece of shit!” She jerked at the duct tape binding her. Blood ran from Jessica’s nose down into her mouth. She gathered it and spit it at him—hitting him in the side of his pale, uncovered face.

Tom licked the spit away from the corner of his mouth. “I think it’s time for you to check out.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he raised the tire iron over his head. Jessica’s eyes looked up at the blow coming. She only saw the first one. The impact knocked her out cold. The second strike was fatal. Tom wasn’t through. He raised the tire iron in the air again, and again. Blood ran from the top of her head down onto her shoulders. Tom dropped the tire iron to the ground and grabbed Jessica by the bottom of the face. He pulled the knife from his pocket and held her head steady so he could work. The tip of the knife sunk in, stopping when it hit her skull. The letters flowed from Tom’s knife through her skin. He was getting better with practice. He put the knife away and stepped back. His chest heaved in and out as he sucked in huge breathes of air. His heart banged against his ribs. He closed his eyes and drew in breaths—in and out, in and out, each breath slower. He let his rage fade a little more with each filing of his lungs. He opened his eyes.

“Your father is next.”

We arrived back at the station a little before noon. Hank and I made our way through the cubicles of the bustling bullpen and parted ways—he headed off to his desk and I walked in to my office. I plopped down in my big leather chair, took in a deep breath and tried to get my bearings. It had been a long morning. I grabbed my notepad from my pocket and went over to my to-do list I started earlier. I needed to check and see what Forensics came up with, get out to the crime scene and get interviews set with the witnesses.