Sullivan's Law (26 page)

He heard what sounded like hammering, then a clanking noise. He felt as if he couldn't breathe.
Don't panic,
he told himself. He remembered the metal bolt at the base of the garage door. It must have jammed. The car door opened and closed. Music blasted from the radio.

They were moving.

John's body bumped up and down as they sped along the roads and careened around corners. When the car came to a screeching halt, he slammed into the back of the seat.

Wade opened the rear door, using a pocket knife to slice through the ropes around John's ankles. He ripped the tape from his mouth, pulled him to his feet, then tossed the oversized black-and-red ski parka, which had previously covered John's face, over his shoulders.

John saw the sign for Methodist Hospital. He'd managed to work one finger free, but the ropes were too tight around his wrists. Once they got inside the hospital, he'd scream for help.

“We're just a couple of buddies going to visit a friend,” Wade told him. “Look happy and keep your mouth shut.”

John felt something round and hard pressing against his side.

“You know what a gun feels like, don't you?” Wade whispered in his ear. “Do exactly what I say and we won't have a problem. Make a wrong move and you're a dead man.”

They entered through the lobby and ducked inside the service elevator. Wade punched the button for the sixth floor. Once they exited, they continued down the corridor until they found a supply closet. Wade stripped off his clothes and dressed in green scrubs, also pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He used a towel to wipe down the gun, then switched it to his right hand and shoved it into John's ribs again.

Wade peered outside of the room to make certain no one was around. Leading John toward the service elevator again, he depressed the button for the seventh floor.

As soon as the doors opened, John saw a uniformed police officer sitting in a chair at the far end of the corridor, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

Wade viciously kicked him, causing him to collapse onto the floor. He adjusted the parka so it covered John's arms and upper body.

“He pulled a gun on me!” Wade shouted, running toward the room the officer had been guarding. “He won't stay down long. You better move fast.”

Trevor White removed his service revolver and used the radio clipped near his ear to call for backup. Hearing the ruckus, several nurses huddled together behind the nurses' station. Because his back was turned, White didn't see the man in the green scrubs enter Metroix's room. He was cautiously approaching the suspect at the end of the corridor.

John's hands were concealed by the parka. He knew the officer couldn't see that he wasn't armed. He started to roll over, then stopped himself, afraid the officer would think he was reaching for a weapon. Any second he expected a bullet to rip into his flesh.

John clenched his eyes shut and prayed.

 

Inside Daniel's room, Wade aimed the .357 at the bed, his finger floating above the trigger. As he moved closer, he saw the bed was empty. Deciding Metroix must be using the toilet, he spun around and trained the gun on the bathroom door. He had to kill Metroix, and if necessary, shoot his way out of the hospital. He'd checked the exterior of the building the night he'd tried to run Carolyn Sullivan off the road. There was no outside fire escape. A leap out the window from the seventh floor would kill him.

Wade was backed up to the edge of the bed when he felt something latch on to both of his ankles. The linoleum floor had recently been waxed and he fell forward onto his face, his gun flying out of his hand and ending up on the other side of the room. Wade began kicking to free himself but he felt as if his feet were locked in a vise. He screamed in pain when he felt something sharp cut into his left ankle, then a moment later, his right.

Trevor White flung open the door, leveling his firearm at the man on the floor. “Don't move or I'll shoot,” he shouted, perspiration dripping off his brow. He scooped up the .357 and shoved it into the waistband of his pants, then reached behind him for his handcuffs. “Where's Metroix?”

“How the hell do I know?” Wade told him. “I'm an intern. That man pulled a gun on me. I came in here to check on the patient.”

“He couldn't have pulled a gun on you,” White said, bending down to handcuff him. “His arms were tied behind his back.”

The lower half of Wade's body was still underneath the bed. When White reached for his arms, Wade yanked the gun out of White's waistband and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot reverberated throughout the room. The bullet entered Trevor White's throat. The officer was propelled backward, blood pumping out of the gaping wound at the base of his neck. He struck the wall, then slid onto the floor.

Wade scrambled to his feet and sprinted out of the room. He didn't see John, so he shouted to the nurses. “A police officer was shot! Did you see which way the suspect went?”

The nurses looked confused. Wade didn't wait for the elevator. He found the stairwell and ran down to the first floor. Wiping the .357 clean with the edge of his shirt, he dumped it into a trash container and walked calmly out of the building.

Three police cars with their sirens blasting were pulling up at the curb. Wade fell in step with a group of nurses heading toward the staff parking lot. “What's going on?” a short young nurse asked, craning her neck around to look at the police cars.

“Bomb threat,” Wade said, looking down at the ground so she couldn't see his face. He stopped walking when he reached the spot where the Dodge was parked, waiting until the group of nurses continued on without him.

Once inside the car, he crouched down in the driver's seat and took off. He drove slowly until he was several miles from the hospital, then he parked in an alley behind what appeared to be a vacant building.

Before he abandoned the Dodge, Wade removed his shirt and used it to wipe down the steering wheel, glove box, door handles, radio, and any other surfaces he might have touched. Getting out and opening the back door, he removed the cords of rope and the duct tape, wadding them in a ball and shoving them in the pocket of his pilfered green cotton pants.

His ankles were bleeding and it was painful to walk. They didn't allow animals in the hospital, he told himself, so it had to have been that freak Metroix. He must have heard the commotion outside and hid under the bed. Metroix had spent twenty-three years in the joint, so his survival instincts were better than the average person's. No wonder the people who'd hired him wanted the guy dead. He'd cut Metroix's feet off as payback before he killed him.

Wade limped along another block and a half. He spotted a late model Honda Civic with the windows rolled down. Ducking inside the car, he pulled wires in the ignition until he managed to make the right connection and the starter engaged.

As soon as he reached the city limits of Ventura, Wade pulled off onto a beach access road and parked, pounding the steering wheel with his fists in a fit of rage. Realizing he still had on the latex gloves, he ripped them off and tossed them out the window, along with the rope and duct tape.

Not only had he failed to kill Metroix, which meant he wouldn't get paid, but he'd shot a police officer. The cop had been a fool. He could tell by the way he'd handled himself that he must be a rookie. If the man lived, he doubted if he would remember enough to identify him. He had planned on killing Carolyn Sullivan's son, or he would never have run his mouth, telling him how he operated. The kid knew everything, and would have no trouble whatsoever identifying him.

The tempest finally passed.

Wade told himself all he had to do was skip town and lay low until things died down. The problem was, he'd shot a cop. When you shoot a cop, nothing dies down. The nurses weren't a problem. Sure, they'd seen his face, but hundreds of other people looked just like him. His looks were one of the reasons he'd only been busted a few times after committing more crimes than he could remember. Whether he got paid or not was no longer his biggest problem, although a chance still remained that he might be able to get an extension and complete the job.

The probation officer's kid presented the greatest threat. If he was arrested, tomorrow or six years from now, the boy's testimony would convict him. The cop died and he was looking at the death penalty. It might be risky, but he felt fairly certain he could take care of the problem. He didn't have a choice.

The kid had to die.

C
arolyn and Hank Sawyer heard about the incident at the hospital over the police radio. Trevor White had been rushed into surgery. If the shooting had occurred outside of the hospital, the officer would have more than likely bled to death. The bullet had sliced through his carotid artery and hit his spinal cord.

“Are you certain John's okay?” Carolyn asked, bending over at the waist as if she were about to vomit.

“Take some deep breaths,” Hank told her. “John might have trouble walking for a few days, but he'll be fine. He's lucky, Carolyn. If that bullet severed White's spine, he'll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”

They were only a few miles from the hospital. Carolyn called Paul and explained what had occurred. He assured her that he would look after Rebecca. When he heard what had happened to John, he wanted to come to the hospital and leave Isobel with Lucy and Rebecca. Carolyn thanked him for his concern, then informed him that if he wanted to help her, he'd stay where he was and protect her daughter.

“Having one of those rifles I saw in the cabinet out and loaded would probably be wise,” she told him. “Just don't say anything to Rebecca. Tell her we found her brother and he's fine.”

When she concluded the call, Hank said, “You've gotten tight with the professor, haven't you?”

“He's been helpful,” Carolyn said, recalling the time they'd spent together that afternoon. “Whenever I need him, he's there for me. That's more than I can say for Frank.”

“Everyone needs someone,” Hank told her. “Sounds like Leighton is a decent fellow. Man's got a good job, gets along well with your kids, and seems as if he's genuinely concerned for your well-being.”

Carolyn cut her eyes to the detective, more concerned with catching the killer than discussing her relationship with the professor. “We're going to have to move Metroix. When do you think the hospital is going to release him?”

“Well,” he said, “it's been five days since the shooting. He must be in fairly good shape or he wouldn't have been able to tackle the shooter. Besides, the hospital doesn't keep people the way they did in the past. Where are we going to put him? We can move him to the hospital wing at the jail now that he's out of the woods.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Carolyn told him. “Someone inside arranged Downly's release. If that person was working for Harrison, they could kill Metroix and make it look like an accident.”

Hank realized she had a point. “What do you suggest we do with him?”

“Paul has a house in Pasadena,” she said. “Maybe I can talk him into letting us use it for a while. I'm not only afraid they may come after Daniel again, I'm worried sick about my children. If Paul agrees, I could get a visiting nurse to come in and look after Daniel during the day. Then the children and I could take care of him the rest of the time.”

“What about your job?”

“I have vacation and sick time,” Carolyn said. “Brad has already reassigned most of my cases. I should be able to disappear for at least a week. Hopefully, by then you'll have made an arrest. No one's going to look for us in Pasadena. All we have to do is make certain we're not followed.”

“Take him in an ambulance,” the detective told her. “You and your children can go with him. Can they afford to miss school?”

“Not going to school for a week or two is better than risking their lives. I can get their teachers to give me their assignments in advance. John will pitch a fit.” She thought about it, then changed her mind. “Maybe after what happened today, he'll be more agreeable.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “God, Hank, my son could be dead right now. We have to put an end to this. I don't know how much more I can take.”

They pulled up and parked behind the black-and-white police units. When they reached the seventh floor, Carolyn rushed to the nurses' counter. “Where's my son?”

“Are you Mrs. Sullivan?” Her name tag read Alice Nelson, R.N. She was a kind-faced, middle-aged nurse with short black hair.

“Yes.”

“Don't worry,” Nelson said. “We put your boy in a room to rest. We're icing his knee. He was badly shaken, so the doctor gave him a mild sedative. Other than that, he didn't incur any injuries.”

John opened his eyes when he saw his mother. Carolyn leaned down and kissed him, then pulled away and clasped his hand. “I'm so sorry this happened,” she said. “How's your knee?”

“I'll be okay,” he said, wincing in pain. “They didn't catch him, did they? I knew he'd get away.”

“They will,” Carolyn reassured him. “Have the police talked to you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I gave them everything I knew…the car he was driving, what he looked like, anything I could remember. This guy's a maniac, Mom. He made up this sob story about his father having a heart attack and not being able to find the hospital. I should have never let him trick me. He looks young, though. I mean, he certainly doesn't look like a murderer.”

“It wasn't your fault. “

After John finished telling his mother everything that had occurred, she said, “Why didn't you call your sister on her cell phone if you were going to be late? That's why I bought the phones.”

“I knew you'd blame me,” John said, defensive. “I'm not used to having a phone. I was thinking about this problem, trying to remember what Mr. Chang and I worked on after class. Once I agreed to go with him, the guy snatched the phone from me anyway.”

“Forget about the phone,” Carolyn said. “I'm just glad you weren't seriously injured. Did they tell you the police officer was shot?”

“Yeah,” John said. “The cop almost shot me. He was pretty lame. He acted like he didn't know what to do. Either that, or he was just scared.”

Carolyn gave him a stern look. “It's not right to criticize him. I'm sure Officer White did the best he could under the circumstances.”

Hank Sawyer walked into the room. “You did good, John. When you hid in one of the patient's rooms, you probably kept yourself from getting killed.”

Now that his panic was subsiding, more details were surfacing. “He called himself Wade,” John told them, rolling over onto his side. “That wasn't his real name, though. He said he used all kinds of different names. He bragged that he'd killed someone when he was fourteen. He was so strung out on drugs, I don't know if anything he told me was true.”

Hank asked, “You told the other detective that you saw some kind of spots or something on the man's hands. Could they have been tattoos?”

“I guess,” John said, fear flashing in his eyes. “This was a pretty hairy scene, you know. It's hard to remember everything. He had a saw. He was ready to start cutting my toes off. The thing that scared me the most were the little kid's sneakers in the garage. I'm certain they had blood on them.”

The description matched Eddie Downly. Carolyn tried to suppress her horror that her son had ended up in the hands of such a vile and dangerous man. To make certain, she drew a picture of what Downly's tattoos looked like, purposely distorting the letters. “Is this what you're talking about?” she said, holding the paper in front of him.

“Yeah,” John said. “I saw one of his hands pretty good when he was tying me up. Now that I think about it, I believe it spelled ‘love.' Pretty weird thing for a killer to put on his knuckles.”

“We'll be right back,” his mother told him. Hank and Carolyn stepped out of the room.

“Eddie Downly is left-handed. The tattoo that spelled ‘love' was on his left hand,” Carolyn told him. “Why didn't Downly go after Luisa Cortez, since she was here at the hospital? Those had to be her shoes. John was probably in the house where he raped her.”

“They released the girl yesterday,” Hank told her, pulling out a toothpick. “Do you think Downly really killed someone when he was fourteen?”

“If he did,” Carolyn said, “he got away with it. I already told you to check for any unsolved homicides. There's no telling how many crimes Eddie committed. Like John said, he's young, white, and doesn't come across as a hardened criminal. I only supervised him. I wasn't with him twenty-four hours a day.”

“Stop beating yourself up,” the detective told her. “We never know who we're dealing with when we bust someone.”

They returned to the room. John was sitting up in bed, pressing the ice pack against his knee. “I forgot to tell you,” he said, excited. “He was supposed to kill Metroix by eight tonight. Otherwise, they weren't going to pay him.”

“Did he mention anyone else?” his mother asked. “During the time you were with him, did he talk to anyone on the phone or give you any indication whatsoever that he was working with a partner?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did he tell you who hired him?”

“The Easter Bunny,” John told them. “Obviously, he was making fun of me.” He fell silent, thinking. “I'm sorry I can't tell you more about the house. I was so scared, I didn't pay attention.”

“Do you feel up to taking a drive?” Hank asked.

“I guess,” John said, removing the ice pack and checking to see if the swelling had gone down. The nurse had cut his jeans, so the bottom half of his right leg was bare. “I already told you that I don't remember how I got to the house. I feel like an idiot. I can't remember the name of one street.”

“You'll recognize it if you see it, though,” the detective said. “Were you in the car for a longer period of time from the school to the house, or from the house to the hospital?”

“It seemed like it only took us a few minutes to get to the hospital,” John said, standing and taking a few steps to test his knee. “I may be wrong, though. When we left the house, I was on the floor in the back. I couldn't see, you know. After I saw the little girl's shoes, I kind of lost it.”

“Come on, we'll go now. That house is probably loaded with evidence.”

Carolyn could tell that her son was exhausted. She knew he had to work with the police, though, as the situation was too serious. “There may have been more than one victim. You said he had a saw. Did you see any blood on the saw?”

“I don't think so,” John told her, growing pale as he relived those terrifying moments. “There wasn't much light inside the house. The shades were closed. And there was this really bad smell. I thought it was sewage at first. It might be dead bodies, right?”

“Listen,” Carolyn said, taking a seat beside him on the bed, “the man who called himself Wade raped and strangled an eight-year-old girl named Luisa Cortez. His real name is Edward Downly. He threw her out of the car in a vacant lot, thinking she was dead. She's alive, but that doesn't mean he might not have killed someone else. Do you understand?”

“I thought that guy was in jail,” John said, staring at his mother in confusion. “You told me yourself. One of the teachers at school even mentioned it. How did he get out?”

“I'll explain in the car,” Hank said, finding John's shoes and socks in the closet next to his bed. “Get ready to leave. I'll pick up a few more ice packs for your knee. We need to find that house.”

A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. “We located the Dodge over on Walker Drive, sir. The lab's sending a tow truck. The plate came back as a stolen vehicle.”

“That's how he operates,” John said, speaking even more rapidly now. “He steals a car a few hours before he does the crime. Then he leaves it somewhere and steals another one.”

“Bring him home after you're finished,” Carolyn told Hank. “I'm going to check on Daniel.”

“Oh, my God,” John exclaimed, “where's Rebecca? Did she get home from school? All this time and I haven't even asked about her. I really let you down, Mom.”

“Your sister is all right,” Carolyn told him “Paul is looking after her. You didn't let me down. By not allowing this man to lure me to the hospital, you may have saved my life as well as a number of others. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I didn't want him to hurt you,” the boy said, tears glistening in his eyes. “I love you, Mom.”

Carolyn pressed his head against her chest. “I love you too, sweetheart. Everything's going to be fine. We're going to catch him. Once we do, he'll never hurt anyone again.”

 

Daniel Metroix was propped up in his bed, a downcast expression on his face.

“Were you hurt?” Carolyn asked.

“I'm okay,” Metroix said. “They removed the stitches this morning. How's the police officer?”

“Still in surgery,” she told him. “He's going to make it, but it doesn't look good. The bullet lodged in his spinal cord.”

“I wish I could have stopped him from getting shot,” Daniel said. “When I saw the officer shove the guy's gun in the waistband of his pants, I knew he'd made a terrible mistake. Then he leaned over and practically placed the gun in the man's hand.” He stared at a spot on the wall. The exertion had obviously drained him. “A prison guard would never have done something like that. Did the other officers tell you I bit the guy?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “Where did you bite him?”

“On his Achilles tendons,” Daniel said, reaching over and taking a sip of water from a cup on the end table. “There was nothing in here I could use as a weapon. I managed to take him to the floor, but I was afraid he was going to get away from me. In prison, you learn to use whatever you have. Find someone with bite marks on their ankles, and you've got your man. The forensics people can match the wounds against my teeth, right?”

“Sure can,” Carolyn told him. “First, we have to catch him. We're going to have officers stationed all over the hospital tonight, even though I doubt he'd be stupid enough to come back. By tomorrow morning, I should have figured out a safe place where we can take you.”