Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series) (11 page)

Mitchell Trauma Center

Deon Taylor 19 Deceased

Labron Smith 18 Deceased

Jadyn 16 GSW, ICU

Jamal 16 GSW, ICU

Dan Monroe 18 GSW, white kid

Tyler Cogan 16 unharmed

Remember, you NEVER saw me, nor read this message

Every bump rattled the van, producing stomach-churning bounces. Gabe was borderline nauseous as they parked outside the hospital’s front entrance. They each grabbed their gear, raised the antennas, and headed toward the two police officers guarding the double set of doors.

Before Rich had a chance to ask, the officer said, “Guys, we’re in lockdown, no one in or out. You know how it works.”

The blow-off caught him off guard. Rich didn’t recognize either cop, and they needed to get in. His choices were to either bullshit them or find another way in. “Captain Tomke knows we’re here and gave us permission to be on these premises. Go ahead and ask him. We were at the school shooting right along with him. We shot all the live coverage you saw on the TV today. Do you want to undermine a direct order from your boss?” He knew it would look bad if the officer ignored the captain’s order.

Reluctantly, the officer let them in. “Personally, I think you’re full of shit, but I got a kid that goes to school there,” he said as Rich and Gabe passed by.

They walked into the elevator, and Gabe pressed the ‘Lobby’ button. Then they waited a good fifteen seconds before the doors slid close. “Geezus. They must think we’re a busload of senior citizens or something.”

They progressed through the maze of hallways and followed the signs directing them to the information desk. “Wouldn’t you think they would have the info desk right as you get off the elevator rather than needing to form an expedition?” asked Gabe. “We hardly look like Lewis and Clark.”

A tall, older gentleman smiled from behind the desk as they approached the visitor check-in. “Are you TV people?” he asked feebly. He narrowed his eyes and peered though his bifocals, “Is that a camera?”

Rich and Gabe exchanged awkward looks. Rich spoke first. “Yes, sir, we’re here to see Tyler Cogan and Dan Monroe, the kids brought in from Loring High School. We’re from—”

“
You’re not black. The only kids I saw were black. You can’t come in unless you’re family. Hospital rules.”

“
Well I’m—”

“
I’m black. My boy Tyler is up there, and he needs to see his daddy. I’m his father. Get us signed in, and we’ll be on our way,” Gabe said forcefully. That shut the geezer up.

Rich did everything in his power not to bust up laughing. Conning a senile old bastard. We’re a classy bunch.

The man looked at the computer screen and said, “You say you’re Tyler’s dad? Well, the screen says he’s undergoing evaluation and cannot be seen until further notice. For Dan, it says, uh, room 1519. Take the elevator to the top, that’s floor fifteen. Elevator is just right there.” He pointed behind him.

The two rode the elevator up the fifteenth floor and got off. A sign on the wall pointed to their left for Monroe’s room. The room appeared on their right, and at first glance looked vacant, except for the patient information posted on the outside of the door. Two police officers—one average-sized black male and a stocky brunette—stood guard near the doorway.

“
Good evening, Officers,” Rich said with enthusiasm. “I’m Rich Fordham, and this is my cameraman, Gabe Amiri. We’ve come from WSNO News to talk with Dan Monroe,” he said loud enough so anyone inside the room could hear. “How is the boy doing?”

“
I can’t answer that,” the brunette replied and placed her hands on her hips in an effort to intimidate him. “You’ll have to wait down in the—”

“
Let them in,” the masculine voice from inside the room said. “It’s okay, Officers.”

The door itself remained open, and Rich peered in to see who let them in. On the far side of the room, a teenager wearing a sling watched television on the opposite wall. He knocked and entered. “Hey, you must be Dan Monroe,” he inquired with his trademark smile.

“
That I am. You’re obviously the reporter that keeps showing up over and over again on the news,” Dan said in an irritated tone.

“
I’m Rich Fordham from WSNO News, and this is my best friend and colleague, Gabriel Amiri.” They each made the uncomfortable shake with Monroe’s left hand. Rich looked him over and figured he must be on the football team due to his massive size. “You’re a big guy. What sport do you play?” he asked in an effort to gain Dan’s comfort and trust. People, especially teenagers, were anxious to reveal their life story. Dan was no different, but there was something different about him.

“
Tight end, although I might try being a kicker after this,” he said as he held up his right arm.

“
I was a receiver back then,” Gabe added, “but I sucked, so I spent more time on the bench.”

Rich felt they had the rapport necessary to switch gears, and he put on his journalist hat. “If you don’t mind me asking, have the cops gotten a statement from you yet?”

Dan nodded. “They were in and out in an hour. I claimed self-defense. They asked a few questions and left.”

“
Really?” asked Rich. “Rumor has it that this is also race—”

A soft knock on the door interrupted Rich’s line of questions. “Knock, knock,” the teen said as he moseyed on in. He looked at the present company and stopped. “Whoa, bad time?”

Rich swiveled to his right and gestured for him to join them.

“
You’re reporter Rich Fordham. I’ve seen you before on TV,” the boy admitted enthusiastically and shook Rich’s and Gabe’s hand. “I’m Tyler.” He wore hospital scrubs two sizes too large.

“
Tyler, what brings you up here?” Dan asked with a hint of anger.

“
To apologize for getting you into this. I never meant for this to happen,” Tyler said sympathetically.

“
Man, I’m out for the rest of the season.” Dan’s eyes drilled into Tyler. “And hell, you… I could have been killed, damn it.”

Rich and Gabe stood by and listened to them argue.

“
Look, I’m sorry, what else do you want me to say?”

“
Nothing, man, not a
fucking
thing,” Dan said with so much energy he kicked the food tray, sending orange juice and food scraps everywhere. Rich and Gabe were nearest and jumped in time to avoid being hit. Dan looked away and refused to make eye contact. A moment passed where no one said a thing. “I can’t believe I got shot. Never in my life did I think by helping someone I’d end up with a piece of lead in me. I be a nice guy and defend you against the bullies, and look at what happens,” he said as his eyes burned through Tyler’s.

Tyler merely turned his gaze to the floor. “But you’re a hero, man. If it weren’t for you, I could have been killed by those guys,” he said in an effort to ease the tension.

“
Those guys are dead.
At least two are, the other two are in the intensive care unit,” Rich said as he gauged their reaction. “I can’t imagine how awful you feel.”

“
I don’t know what to feel. A gun was pointed at me and I…” Tyler’s voice trailed off.

Rich asked, “How do you two feel about being front and center in the media spotlight? This will make national news and has political implications with your mother and all. Shantell Cogan is your mother, right?”

Before answering, Tyler sat on the edge of the bed at the end and placed his hand next to Dan’s foot. Tyler looked at Dan, “I don’t want any attention—”

A doctor who looked fifty entered and surveyed the group of men. “Hello, gentlemen. I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m Doctor Ally Lacey. I’m the chief of staff here. How is everyone doing?” They all nodded or said “good.” “I just wanted to tell Tyler his mother will be flying in an hour via helicopter.”

Tyler’s eyes went wide “Really?” he asked. “Why would she do that?”

The doctor looked at him in confusion. “To make sure you’re alright, that’s why. It’s her motherly duty.” She looked him over and asked hurriedly, “You okay with that?”

“
Yeah, yeah, I didn’t expect her so soon,” he said nervously as he gave Dan’s foot a slight nudge with his hand. Rich noticed the gesture.

“
Well, I just wanted to poke my head in. You boys behave.” She smiled and left as soon as she’d arrived.

CHAPTER 17

Reggie Taylor listened to the voicemail for the third time. “NOOO!
God-damn-mother-fucker
! This isn’t happening! This can’t be happening!” He kicked and punched the lockers in a rage-induced meltdown lasting for five minutes before he settled down. He dialed his girlfriend, who had left him the message. “Dead, how can he be dead?” he spat. He swung a right hook and put a new dent in the locker. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of this.” Then he hung up. He felt no pain, only madness, pure unadulterated madness.

He stood alone in the men’s locker room where he worked as a janitor in a health club. In his off time, he enjoyed the perks of the job and worked out daily with the goal to get into competitive boxing. Mike Tyson was his hero, and he even wore the same facial tattoo on his bicep. Now thirty-four, he bore the burden of being a father to a dead son.

His son, Deon Taylor, was a spitting image of his father: tall, lean, pure muscle, and he had a temper and personality to match. When Deon’s mother died, it would have been easy to give up on him and let someone else take the reins. A pastor told him to be a man of God: Reggie must take the child and raise it on his own or risk being punished and sent to hell. He was sixteen and went full charge into fatherhood.

Reggie had never felt such rage, which meant a lot for a kid who grew up on the street. His temper had ruined most of his relationships and had gotten him into jail for repeated assaults. He had no fear of the police, nor of anyone else.

Reggie’s mind became so drunk with thoughts and sensations of hatred that he couldn’t see straight. He grabbed his coat, raced for his car, and headed toward the interstate doing Mach I. Doing over a hundred twenty, he swerved in and out traffic, trying to avoid slow cars, cursing them as he passed. Nothing could stop him. Reggie wanted revenge for killing the only thing in his life with any sentimental value. Something primal erupted within him, and he decided the only way he could go on was to inflict the greatest amount of pain possible on the person responsible for his son’s death.

Reggie found Mitchell Trauma Center’s ramp and took the first available parking spot. He jumped around back and popped the trunk. The adrenaline and anger-induced state did nothing but seal his fate on what he was about to do. The area around him was deserted. He stuffed the weapons into a backpack and checked the clip on his pistol before putting it into the back of his waistband. Not wasting another second, he trotted toward the entrance and stopped dead when he saw the two officers guarding it. He had to make a choice: either take out the cops silently or leave the weapons behind.

Seeing the stocky black man coming toward them, the officers quit bullshitting and made a quick assessment if Reggie was a threat or not. The officer closest to him put a hand on top of his weapon and said, “Sir, hospital is off limits. Please return to your car immediately.”

“
Guys,” Reggie said with melancholy, “my dead son is in there. Please, let me see him. His name is Deon, Deon Taylor. My name is Reggie Taylor.” He stopped just outside of arm’s reach.

The cops relaxed and asked, “ID?”

Reggie fumbled around with his wallet, found his driver’s license, and handed it to the officer.

Satisfied, the cop handed it back and let him through. “Sorry about your loss.”

Just as Reggie was about to pass by, the officer scanned over Reggie’s backpack and saw the outline of something bulky pressing against the side. “Hold up,” he said as he held up his hand to Reggie’s chest, blocking his path. “What’s in the bag?”

Two hands grabbed his arm and twisted it until it buckled into an unnatural, grotesque shape. A quick jab to his jaw, and he was out. The other officer was luckier—Reggie wrestled with him until the officer was put into a chokehold and passed out. For insurance, Reggie handcuffed both officers and dragged them behind a minivan. Then he stuffed their guns, ammunition, and a radio into his backpack, and took off into the hospital.

With the image of his son motivating him every step of the way, Reggie found the morgue in the basement and waited impatiently to be escorted in. Finally, the mortician, an older woman with short white hair, escorted him into the chill of the morgue and opened the square metal door and slid out the body of what was once a spitting image of himself. The woman folded back the white sheet enough so he could see his son’s face and make peace.

“
Take as much time as you need,” she said, then ambled out.

Reggie nodded and waited until the doctor left. Once he was gone, Reggie prayed while he held Deon’s hand and whimpered, “It’s not supposed to end like this, God damn it.”

Knowing there would be more heat, Reggie walked the basement hallway until he found the laundry room. Finding Dan’s room would be a problem, so he decided to try to blend in. The door to the laundry had a simple mechanical punch code. He looked both ways, then kicked the door open. The overhead lights automatically turned on as he sprinted over to a series of dryers that were already on. He opened the first one and sifted through the clean scrubs, but they were pink and too small. With the next dryer, he hit the jackpot–blue scrubs in his size, even though they were damp. Time was ticking, and it was only a matter of minutes before someone discovered the cops he had incapacitated.