The Insanity Plea (19 page)

The ambulance driver eased the
vehicle over the curb. Then he flipped on the siren, made a U-turn and sped
through the almost deserted morning streets to Memorial Hermann Hospital. He
radioed the trauma center. “This is one fourteen. I’m two minutes away. I’ve
got a young female victim with her throat cut and blood spurting from her left
carotid artery. We’ll need an OR stat and a trauma team.”

Memorial Hermann Hospital was one of
two facilities in the medical center that had world class emergency and trauma
teams. If a life could be saved, their personnel would do it. The ambulance was
met by two nurses and a fifth year surgical resident named Oscar Huerta

Dr. Huerta took one look at the
patient whose color was now pale from blood loss and yelled at the nurse. “Get
me five units of packed cells. Forget typing and cross match. We don’t have
time. Type O will have to do. Just get it!”

One of the nurses hurried away as
they wheeled the stretcher into the emergency department. Dr. Huerta noticed
that one member of the team was bare-chested as he pressed a cloth to the
patient’s neck. “You find her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did good, young man. If she
lives, you get the credit. Now, let my nurse take over your job.”

A nurse put her hand over Josh’s hand.
“Okay, now just pull your hand out from under mine. I’ve got her now.”

“Janice,” Dr. Huerta hollered again,
“cut her clothes off and get rid of her shoes. Save them. I expect a cop will
be here any minute.”

They wheeled Rita into an operating
room where another nurse was already hanging a bag of Type O packed cells. They
all knew that there was a serious risk of problems by giving her blood that may
not match her own. That risk, however, was outweighed by her risk of dying if
they didn’t stop the bleeding. As was often true in medicine, particularly in a
trauma unit, the physicians had to make a calculated decision and hope for the
best.

“Get that blood into her arm. Then
start another line in the femoral artery. The more the better if we’re going to
save her and avoid brain damage,” Dr. Huerta barked.

The anesthesiologist worked rapidly
to get the patient intubated and, after infusing medications into a line in her
other arm, nodded to Huerta.

Dr. Huerta cut the neck open further,
exposing the artery and the jugular vein which overlaid it. Both were badly cut
but neither was completely severed. After evaluating the situation momentarily,
the surgeon clamped the artery and the vein on either side of the cuts. Blood
could still get to the brain from the right carotid. He swiftly sutured the
artery and then turned to the vein. Next, he released the clamps to check for
leaks. When he was satisfied there were none, he checked the esophagus and
trachea. Finding no damage, he methodically sutured the cut on the neck, hoping
to minimize any scarring if the patient lived. Completing his work, he turned
to the anesthesiologist.

“How we doing, Sam?”

“Pulse is still racing, one ten to
one twenty. Blood is starting to work. Her pressure was sixty over forty when I
first hooked her up. Didn’t bother telling you since it wasn’t going to change
what you were going to do. Now we’re up to ninety over sixty-five and climbing.
Good chance we’ll keep her alive. Brain damage from hypoxia is my biggest
fear.”

The surgeon nodded. At least he had
done all he could do.

Dr. Huerta left the operating room
and saw two police officers at the nurses’ station, talking with the nurses and
Josh.

“Dr. Huerta, I’m Sergeant Walter Jennet.
My partner here is Ralph Keen. The nurses say your patient was in bad shape. Is
she going to live?”

“I think she’s going to make it. The
problem is that she lost a lot of blood. We’re concerned about potential brain
damage.” The doctor gestured toward Josh. “By the way, I hope you don’t think
this young man had anything to do with it. If she lives, he’s the one who
deserves credit for saving her.”

Officer Jennet shook his head. “Oh,
no, sir. We’ve talked to him and to his friend, Bill. They certainly are not
suspects. There’s one more thing, though. We’ve checked her clothes and shoes. There’s
no identification, only a key in the pocket of her running shorts. Was she
conscious enough to say anything, particularly her name?”

“Sorry, gentlemen. She was never
awake. And it may be a couple of days before she comes around, maybe longer. She
did have one identifying mark. On her left buttock there’s a small tattoo of a
tiger.”

“Thanks, Doc. I guess that means we
better start canvassing area apartments and condos. Hopefully, some manager can
tell us that key came from one of his units. We damn sure don’t want to let
this trail get cold. Do you mind if we just take a quick peek at her? No
pictures, just to get an idea of what she looks like.”

Dr. Huerta hesitated a moment before
motioning the officers to follow him back to the recovery area. Even though she
was still intubated, the officers determined that she was young, probably late
twenties, Hispanic, black hair, height around five feet five inches and
probably a beautiful woman. Officer Jennet gently lifted the sheet and looked
at her right hand. It took less than a minute and gave them enough information
to describe her.

“One more thing, Doctor, our CSI team
will be here shortly. Can you approve them taking samples from under her
fingernails. I think there may be blood there. It may be she was able to
scratch her attacker.”

Dr. Huerta nodded his approval. The
officers left, promising to check back in twenty-four hours. They gave Josh a
ride back to his dorm. On the way, he pointed out the Rice student housing
office. After dropping Josh off and thanking him for a job well done, they
found a woman just opening the office. She examined the key and determined that
it was not one that was used in any of the campus dorms.

As they drove away from the campus,
Jennet said, “Okay, where to next?”

“Let’s try some of those new places
in Midtown,” Keen suggested.

“Good as any. Besides, there’s a
Starbucks in the neighborhood. I’m a little short of my daily dose of
caffeine.”

They parked at Starbucks and after
each officer got a large coffee, black, they started walking the area. With
only one key, splitting up would do no good. At each complex they looked for
the manager. If he or she was not available, they waited for a tenant to leave
so they could compare the victim’s key with the tenant’s. And with each
interview they described the victim, hoping that someone might recognize her. After
two hours and a second cup of coffee they had only strikeouts.

On interview sixteen they hit a
homerun. The manager of the complex was a middle-aged woman named Ruth
Crawford. The door to her office was unlocked. The officers entered without
knocking. They found Ruth smoking a filtered Camel and talking on the
telephone. She glanced up and motioned for them to be seated in two chairs
across from her desk.

She finished her call and hung up the
phone. “Two of Houston’s finest paying me a call. You guys should know that I
run a respectable joint here,” she grinned. “Just kidding, officers. That line
came from an old movie I was watching on cable the other night. Seriously, how
can I help you?”

Walt looked at the name plate on her
desk and replied, “Ms. Crawford, there was a young woman attacked in Hermann
Park early this morning. She nearly died. We’re trying to identify her. All we
have to go on is her key and a quick look at her in the recovery room at the
hospital. Does this key look like one from your complex?”

Ruth took the key, turned it over and
then walked to a cabinet on the wall behind her. She unlocked the cabinet and
opened the door to reveal row upon row of keys almost identical to the one in
her hand.

“See for yourself. Could very well be
one of ours.” Then her face turned solemn. “But, I damn sure hope it’s not if
that woman’s lying in a hospital bed. What does she look like?”

Ralph described the woman in the
hospital bed and as he finished Ruth was shaking her head.

“Since you’re shaking your head, I
guess we’ll be heading out.”

“No, Sergeant. That’s not why I was
shaking my head. I’m sorry to say you’ve given a pretty good description of a
young lady that lives here. Her name is Rita Contreras. She lives in 122. She’s
into computers somehow and mainly works out of her house.”

“Do you mind if we check to see if
she’s home?”

Ruth was already walking toward the
door. “Follow me. No, wait a minute. I need to find the code to her alarm.” She
returned to her desk, unlocked a drawer and pulled a notebook from it. She
scanned pages quickly and wrote the code on a yellow sticky. Then they left her
office.

Ruth rang the bell. No answer. She
knocked. Still no answer.

“Let me have that key, Sergeant. If
it’s Rita’s, she won’t mind if I look inside.”

Walt handed her the key. Ruth placed
it in the lock, opened the door and punched the code into the alarm box. A
frown covered Ruth’s face. “I don’t like this. Rita, you home?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet,”
Walt said. “Do you know anybody who might know her whereabouts?”

“Sure. She spends most of her free time
with her next-door neighbor, Wayne Little. He’s a lawyer downtown. Her cell
phone is sitting there on the kitchen counter. His number ought to be in
there.”

Walt picked up the phone and scrolled
through to Wayne’s office and punched the button. The call rang through to
Wayne’s private line and a male voice answered.

“You in Chicago?”

“Mr. Little, this is Sergeant Walter Jennet
with HPD.”

“Yes, sir. How can I help you?” Wayne
hesitated. “Why are you using Rita’s phone?”

“We’re in Rita Contreras’s condo with
Ms. Crawford. This phone was on the kitchen counter. We’re investigating an
assault on a female jogger in Hermann Park this morning. The jogger had a key
that fits the front door of this house.”

Time stopped and Wayne forced himself
to breathe. He shook the idea from his mind and said, “I don’t think it would
be Rita. She caught a flight to Chicago this morning. Ought to be there by
now.” Then Wayne paused. “Only why wouldn’t she have taken her cell? Sergeant, check
to see if her car is gone. It’s a Lexus. Ruth will show you the stairs.”

Ruth and Officer Keen walked down the
stairs to the garage and returned.

“Walt, the Lexus is still in the
garage.”

“Mr. Little, the car is still here. I
think you better meet us at Hermann. Ask directions to the post anesthesia care
unit in the trauma center.”

“Yes, sir,” Wayne said quietly. Then
his voice firmed. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Wayne careened into the parking lot
in front of the hospital emergency room and pulled into a space marked
“Reserved for Physicians.” He entered and found himself in front of a window
with a woman in a white uniform on the other side.

“I’m Wayne Little. I’m supposed to
meet two police officers.”

“I’ll buzz you in, Mr. Little. They’re
already here. Go down the hallway and take a right. They should be outside the
PACU waiting for you.”

Wayne found two officers and a nurse
waiting as he turned the corner.

“You’re Mr. Little?”

Wayne nodded.

“I’m Sergeant Jennet and this is
Officer Keen. I can’t use the right medical terms, but let me tell you what
happened. Rita, if it is Rita, was brutally attacked this morning. Someone
threw her to the ground and was about to slit her throat when two Rice students
came up. They stopped him but not before he had cut her left carotid artery. If
they hadn’t been there, we’d be seeing you at the morgue. The doctors repaired
the artery but not before she lost a lot of blood. She’s still unconscious. They’re
about to move her to the ICU. You ready?”

Wayne gulped and nodded. The nurse
opened the door and the four of them went to the bedside. Tears filled Wayne’s
eyes as he murmured, “It’s her.”

Wayne took Rita’s hand and bowed his
head as he said a silent prayer. Then he spoke. “Rita, it’s Wayne. Can you hear
me?” When she didn’t answer, he turned to the officers, “I need to talk to you
outside and then, nurse, I’d like to speak to her doctor.”

Wayne and the two officers found a small
sitting area, usually occupied by families of patients but temporarily
deserted. Ralph spotted a coffee urn and poured himself a cup. The others
declined. When they were seated, Wayne leaned forward, his elbows on his knees
and hands clasped. “Okay. I know this is not an isolated incident.”

Walt took a small notebook from his
shirt pocket and started taking notes as Wayne described the killings in
Galveston, Central Park, the one on Allen Parkway in Houston and the dozen
others that his team had put together. When he mentioned that Rita had already
alerted HPD to a possible serial killer and that the FBI was involved, Walt
responded.

“That task force just got another
member. I’m being promoted to detective next week. I go fishing with the first
assistant chief. I suspect I can get on board. Here’s my card. Call me when you
need to.”