Before Another Dies (35 page)

“We've been over this for the last hour,” a woman's voice said. Katie Lysgaard. “You want me; you got me. Let's go.”

I saw Jerry peeking around the corner of the kitchen. He had a fireplace poker in his hand.

“You don't need them,” Katie said. “The cop has nothing to do with this. Hood's no threat to you. It's me you want.”

“SHUT UP!” Harper was no longer sane—if he ever was. I stepped beyond the suit of armor, beyond the stairs, and skirted the plant-filled great room. My motion caught Jerry's attention. His eyes widened, then narrowed. He waved me off.

The phone rang and I tried to leave my skin.

“Why does that phone keep ringing?” Harper shouted.

“It's my producer. I'm supposed to be on the air soon. Let me talk to him.” To his credit, Hood sounded calm.

“Your broadcast days are over,” Harper said.

“Let me tend to the man's wounds,” Katie said. “He's bleeding to death.”

“I don't care. It's one less witness. There will be no witnesses. He was just my key to getting into this place.”

I held my breath. West was bleeding. I couldn't see him, but Katie made it clear. How long did he have? I looked at Jerry, and his expression brought no encouragement. His eyes darted, and I could tell he was weighing his options. He was a man dedicated to preserving life. A man was a few steps away who would die in minutes if he didn't receive help. Logic said to wait for the trained men with guns to arrive, but that might be too long. Five minutes might be too long.

“Then finish it,” Hood said. “You came to do me in; well, do it. I just can't believe you're hiding behind a gun. Afraid you can't break my neck?”

That brought a laugh from Harper. Hood didn't look like he could win an arm wrestling match with a sixth-grader. My guess: He was attempting to get Harper to drop the weapon. Maybe he thought that Katie and he could handle the man.

Jerry looked at me, then handed me the poker. I gave him a quizzical look. He mouthed, “Get out. Now.” With that, he stepped around the corner and into view of the others.

“You!” Harper said.

“Yeah, me. Like your handiwork?”

“How did you—”

I took the spot Jerry had occupied and could see the others. Harper had his right shoulder to me. He held the gun on Jerry. I could see Katie a few feet away, standing in front of Hood, interposing her body in front of his. She was one dedicated woman. I looked down and saw a tiny sea of blood. West lay on the floor, his face pale and his breathing labored. The blood seemed to be oozing from his left side, the side he was lying on. Jerry went straight for him, kneeling by his side.

“I should have finished you last night.” Harper's words were hot.

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “It wasn't like you didn't try. How many times did you shoot this man?”

“The same number of times I'm going to shoot—”

There was a crash. I looked around the corner again and noticed that Hood was standing by himself. There was a dull thud, then another. I risked it all and stuck my head around. Katie had both hands on Harper's wrist, trying to control the direction of the gun he still held. She kicked, driving her knee into his thigh. He shouted something, but it was cut off by another kick, same knee, same spot on his leg. She spun him around.

“Get out! Get out!” Katie shouted.

I rounded the corner, the poker still in my hand and just in time to see Harper head-butt his former partner. Blood squirted from her nose, but she didn't let go. With a spin, Harper turned Katie like a dancer sweeping his partner off her feet. She lost her footing. He jerked the other way. That's when Hood made his move, charging forward. Harper saw it and pointed the barrel his direction.

The shot sounded louder than I would have thought possible. The acrid smell of spent gunpowder filled the room. My ears rang with the retort. Hood screamed and went down.

“Nooo!” Katie said.

With her attention snatched to her love, Harper gave another jerk and freed his hand. He swung the gun in a backward motion, catching her across the face. She stumbled back. Jerry sprung to his feet, but he was two steps behind. Before he could do whatever it was that had crossed his mind, I swung the poker.

In high school we were forced to play softball, a sport I didn't enjoy or have talent for. I never developed a decent swing or an eye to track a moving target. My eye-hand coordination was no better now. I aimed for his wrist; I caught him in the crook of the elbow. My aim was bad but the effect was the same. There was a scream, and he dropped the gun. It was all Katie needed.

Bodyguard that she was, endangered woman that she had become, she shot forward. Fists flew, elbows were thrown. Kicks were launched. But Harper had left his sanity some weeks before. He refused to go down. He fought back with a fury fueled by bitter hatred and made a comeback. He took several blows, recovered, then caught her on the side of the head. She crumpled like a house of cards.

Harper turned on me. I raised the poker, holding it with both hands. The cast on my right wrist made it impossible to get the grip I wanted, and that same wrist burned with pain. I had injured it again. He took a step in my direction.

Jerry charged, both hands extended, and then launched himself at Harper. They collided. Jerry was no match for the likes of Harper even if he had been in the best shape of his life. But Jerry didn't throw a punch. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Harper in a battle hug and tried to lift the man from the floor. The United States Army had trained Harper too well. He broke Jerry's hold and brought the heel of his hand to Jerry's chin. I saw Jerry's eyes roll back. He staggered and dropped to his knees.

I took my second at bat, but it was a weak one-handed swing. Harper took a blow on the shoulder I was sure would leave a bruise but it wasn't hard enough to do any damage. He seized the poker and yanked it from my hand. In a single motion he raised it above his head and started it toward my head. I had the feeling he was better at softball than I was. I ducked away.

There was another explosion and more acrid air.

Harper stumbled to one side.

Another bang.

Harper convulsed. A half second later he fell backward on the tile floor. This time it was his blood that pooled. On the floor, just five feet away, lay Katie, blood trickling down her face, her nose bent to one side, and Harper's gun in her hand.

Jerry groaned and rolled on his back. He opened his eyes. I was hovering over him. Suddenly his eyes widened. He sat up, then pushed to his feet, hunting for Harper. He found him. He looked around the dinette. Four people lay on the ground, although Katie was inching toward Hood.

Victim Jerry became Dr. Jerry. “Get on the phone. Call 911. Tell them we have multiple gunshot injuries.” I looked at West. He was struggling for breath, his face was pale, and he was barely conscious. “Go. Do it now!”

I did exactly as I was told and raced back. “Done. I can hear sirens.”

“Come here.” He was hunched over West. He had already laid him on his back and ripped open his shirt. “Good news—blood loss is not life threatening unless he's bleeding internally. Bad news is, he has a traumatic pneumothorax.”

“A what?”

“His lung has collapsed.” Bubbles were in the blood that oozed from his chest. “Get me a towel from the kitchen.”

I was back in seconds. “Here.”

He took the small white towel and folded it several times. Then he took it in his hand and pressed it against it the wound. Immediately West began to gasp for air. Jerry removed the towel, timed West's breathing, and placed the towel over the wound, pressing hard enough to make the detective groan. His breathing immediately improved.

“Put your hand where mine is,” Jerry ordered. I stared at the blood-soaked towel, then at West. My hand replaced Jerry's. “Press. The trick is not to let air slip in through the wound. I checked his back. I didn't find an exit wound.” He waited a moment to be sure I was doing it right. “Stay put.”

I watched Jerry move to Hood who was writhing in pain. Katie was by his side. “Left hip,” she said.

Hood was wearing baggy shorts and a T-shirt. West pulled the back of the shorts down. “Exit wound,” he said. “Help me roll him over.” He looked at Hood. “This is really going to hurt, but it can't be helped.”

There was a scream. There was some language. But Hood was soon on his back. Jerry gently pulled the man's shorts down around his thighs. “Caught him in the hip. It looks like the pelvis diverted the course of the bullet. No arterial bleeding. He'll live.”

Jerry looked at Katie. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She sounded nasal. A broken nose will do that.

“You'll need to be looked at, too. Once the adrenaline wears off, our perspective of our injuries changes. Trust me on that.”

He rose and stepped to Harper. He stood next to the unmoving body. Most men would have turned and walked away, but Jerry squatted down once more and examined the last of the injured. He placed two fingers on the carotid artery. He left them there for a while, the victim wondering what help could be rendered toward his attacker.

The sirens stopped. Soon, uniformed men with guns at the ready stood with us. Their faces revealed their unspoken emotions. The carnage wouldn't soon be forgotten.

epilogue

J
im Fritz was buried the next Wednesday. Pastor Lenny spoke with compassion at the memorial service held in the mortuary's chapel. The room was crowded. Every council member except Titus Over-street was present. Titus was recovering and had just returned home to convalesce. The city executives, none of whom could claim a longer tenure than Fritzy, were present. We sat in respectful silence. Tears were shed and hearts broken. Following the memorial service, we trailed the hearse to the spot where Jim's walnut casket would be lowered into the open maw of the grave. Again, Pastor Lenny spoke words that brought comfort and read passages from the Bible that had never meant anything to me before. Now they meant a great deal.

Fritzy was a rock. Tears rolled freely, but she held her head high. Grief was evident, but so was the evidence that love spans even the dark chasm of death. Pastor Lenny invited everyone to attend a potluck at the church.

Jose Lopez was buried in Camarillo two days later. The family he had left months before lacked the finances for a proper burial. He received one anyway, as did security guard Carl DiMaio, all courtesy of Mr. Robby Hood. The Atlas Security Guard was buried that Friday. I attended that service. Fifty men in the white shirts and black pants of the company were there. Six of them served as pallbearers. I didn't know the minister who performed the service, but his heart seemed to be the same as Pastor Lenny's.

Harper Barrymore's—Barry Harper's—body remained unclaimed in the coroner's freezer.

Detective Judson West had surgery the night he was shot. He hoped to return to duty in a few months. Webb did the final write-up for the district attorney. There was more investigation to be done, but no trial was needed. Corpses were hard to convict. There was a different judgment for Harper to face.

Doctors were able to straighten Katie Lysgaard Hoddle's nose. She and Hood were no longer reluctant to talk. Katie had been watching her partner slip slowly into madness. He began to see them as lovers as well as business partners. He became aggressive not only toward her but toward clients. The business was headed down the drain. Hood had hired Katie for protection, and the two had fallen in love. The attraction was, in her words, psychic. I wasn't sure what that meant, but it fit with Hood's personality.

Hood announced the wedding on his show. Then the threatening calls began. Since he used a screener and a tape delay, the threats were never aired. Had Hood not been as paranoid as he was, Barry Harper would have tracked the two down and killed them before all the wedding presents were open. The wedding was small, held in the California desert, and only a handful of trusted friends were in attendance.

What remained a mystery, and would forever be a mystery, was how Barry Harper approached his victims. West believed that he used Robby Hood's Web site against him, studying upcoming shows and setting up his victims. Most likely he had several victims in mind. A few strands of Harper's hair were found in Jose Lopez's Gremlin. A downtown bartender came forward after seeing Harper's picture in the newspaper and said that the two men had been chatting it up late Sunday night. He said Harper bought the beer. The two walked out together. Best guess: Harper claimed to need a ride somewhere. In my mind, I could hear him saying, “Just drop me off at city hall.”

As with Lopez, we were left guessing how Harper had approached Jim Fritz and Carl DiMaio. Perhaps he said he needed directions, or that he needed to use a phone for some emergency or another. It didn't really matter. Knowing the details changed nothing. There were a thousand permutations and no way to prove any of them.

H. Dean Wentworth had come to see me on the first of the week. He studied my face, which was no longer swollen but still bruised enough to cause puppies to run the other direction. He also looked at the cast that would be on my arm for the next six weeks.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear about all your troubles,” he said. He was seated in my office, and like Harper, he didn't wait for me to invite him to sit.

“I'm sure you are,” I said. “Can you excuse me for a moment?” I paged Floyd. He arrived in a second. “Please ask Tess to come in here.”

Tess arrived faster than I expected. Perhaps Floyd told her who sat in my office. When she arrived I introduced them although I knew they had met once before. “As you know, this is Tess Lawrence.”

“Yes, we've met.” He looked uncomfortable.

“Very soon, she will be the deputy mayor so I want her to hear this conversation.”

She looked at Wentworth with a gaze that could wilt flowers. “You have something to say to us?”