Fever Dream Page 4

  Polk scratched his nose. “We’ll know more once we get a look at the surveillance video.”

  “What there is of it,” I replied. “Looks like the first thing this guy did when he entered the bank was shoot out the cameras.”

  Polk gave me an irritated look. “You got any other good news for me, Doc? ’cause so far all you’re doin’ is pissin’ me off.”

  I smiled. “Kinda like old times, eh, Harry?”

  Reynolds very deliberately cleared his throat. “Look, can we bag this guy, Sarge? Doc Bergmann wants all the vics down at the morgue ASAP.”

  “This asshole ain’t no vic.”

  “He’s dead, right? Makes him a vic in my book. Just another slob on a slab.”

  “Enjoy your work, don’t’cha, buddy?” Polk shook his head. “Speakin’ of your boss, where the hell is he?”

  Reynolds jerked his thumb in the direction of the far corner of the lobby. “Over there. With the witness.”

  Polk said nothing, just sort of grunted and stepped carefully over the body at our feet. Then he headed across the floor, avoiding the coagulating pools of blood, the sprawled corpses of the bank employees, and a couple desultory coroner’s assistants unfolding body bags. I followed.

  We found Eleanor Lowrey standing with Dr. Rudy Bergmann, the veteran medical examiner whose lauded forensics expertise was somewhat undercut by his famously bad hairpiece. A video of it slipping from his forehead during an interview with a local news anchor had become a YouTube sensation a few years back.

  Bergmann was stoop-shouldered, bespectacled, and probably nearing retirement. So at first I was surprised to see him here. Then I realized that with a crime of this magnitude, the assistant chief would want the heavy-hitters involved from the get-go.

  That’s why the distinguished Dr. Bergmann was reduced now to doing triage, attending to the badly bleeding left arm of the bank security guard, who sagged, obviously in great pain, against the wall.

  His name, I recalled from Treva, was George. Tall, salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to a severe V at the middle of his forehead. He was in his mid-fifties, and, given how tight he wore his olive green uniform, maybe a bit vain about how fit he was. Skin tanned like leather, a strong chin. Hard grey eyes that had seen a lot.

  As Bergmann wrapped a bandage around his wound, a tangled spool of torn flesh and splintered bone, George winced angrily.

  “It was your guys,” he said, aiming those ice-chip eyes at Polk. “Your fuckin’ sniper shot me. I’m on my knees near the goddam window and the next thing I know my arm feels like a hot spear went through it.”

  “Wait a minute, pal.” Polk leaned in to peer back at the guy. “First of all, what’s your name?”

  “George,” I said helpfully.

  Polk grunted. “I think I got this, Rinaldi.”

  Then, back to the security guard: “George what?”

  Lowrey spoke up. “George Vickers. Works for a private security firm the bank uses.”

  Polk glared first at Lowrey, then me. “How ’bout we let the guy answer for himself, okay? Unless either one of you wants to ask the questions…?”

  Eleanor Lowrey gave her partner a wry look. “Easy, Harry, okay? We’ll all a little stressed here.”

  “Yeah, a little.” George Vickers snorted. “I mean, one minute I’m standin’ in the bank, like usual. Next thing I know, this guy comes in, starts shootin’ out the cameras. He and his partner have us down on the floor so fast, I didn’t even have time to draw my weapon.”

  Polk glanced meaningfully at Vickers’ belt holster.

  “Yeah, I can see that. Since you didn’t discharge it, you can hang onto it. We won’t need it.”

  Vickers reddened. “Hey, you weren’t there, man. You weren’t the one that got shot.”

  “Don’t worry, George,” Polk said evenly. “The perp got his, too. Head shot. Real pretty.”

  Vickers smiled crookedly. “I know. I saw him take the hit. Spun him clean around. Like a top.”

  “Great. Think we can get the story from the beginning, George?” Polk pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket.

  “Forget it. I ain’t got time. I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Hurts like hell, too. I need to get down to the hospital. Ain’t that right, doc?”

  Bergmann sighed. “Unless the sergeant here wants to add another death to the four we’ve got already, I’d have to say yes. This bandage is makeshift at best.”

  Then the ME signaled to one of his people, who trotted over. She seemed barely out of her teens, with a pony tail that bobbed as she ran.

  “Get Mr. Vickers here in the ambulance before it leaves with the Williams girl,” her boss told her. Cutting his eyes back at Polk. “Or before he bleeds to death.”

  The girl had just started reaching for the wounded security guard when Polk stepped between them.

  “C’mon, George. I bet you used to be on the job.”

  Bergmann stared at him. “Sergeant, I just said—”

  But Vickers answered, coolly. “The two-forty, yeah. Did my twenty and got out.”

  “Then at least give me the headlines, okay? Help us out here.”

  Vickers considered this for moment, then smiled grimly. “Ya want headlines? Two guys try to rob the bank, one of ’em panics and splits. The other guy freaks out, starts killing the hostages. Suddenly, SWAT’s shootin’ through the windows. I get hit, but before I go down I see the perp get popped. Then the good guys bust in and the next thing I know, the doc here is bandaging my arm. Now all I gotta do is get me a lawyer and figure out who to sue. End of story.”

  He got gingerly to his feet, then reached out with his good arm for the pony-tailed coroner’s assistant.

  “Now, c’mon, girlie. Walk me over to the ambulance. I’m feelin’ kinda faint.”

  As the wounded guard went off with the girl, Polk grunted something unintelligible and snapped his notebook shut.

  “Fuck it,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m goin’ outside for a smoke.” Which he did.

  Then Dr. Bergmann adjusted his wire-rim glasses, gave Lowrey and me a cursory nod, and headed off to supervise the bagging of the victims. I didn’t envy him the brutal day’s work he had in front of him.

  Standing next to me, I heard Lowrey’s long, weary sigh. She spoke without turning.

  “Like I said, a real cluster fuck.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was then that I remembered my promise to Treva. I mumbled a quick explanation to Lowrey and headed across the lobby. Behind me, I heard the detective flipping open her cell phone and asking for a number.

  I strode quickly out onto the sun-baked street. It still thronged with police personnel and news crews, but the Assistant Chief’s car was no longer on scene. I couldn’t see Biegler, either.

  As I crossed the intersection and headed toward the far perimeter where I’d left Treva, I also noticed that a half-dozen uniforms had been deployed to keep a growing crowd of on-lookers back behind the crime scene tape. At least a third of them had their cell phones raised above their heads, shooting video of the scene. Maybe the cops would be bringing the dead bodies out soon! Something to show the wife and kids. Or put up on their Facebook page.

  When I reached the stretch of sidewalk where I’d helped Karp carry Treva into the ambulance, I found only the pony-tailed coroner’s assistant. She was leaning sullenly against a trash can, wiping her brow with her sleeve. The heat poured down in waves, like invisible lava.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” I asked her.

  “You just missed ’em,” Pony-Tail said. She was noisily chewing gum. “Doc Bergmann said to get the security guard on his way ASAP. So I put him in the back with the girl and Karp drove like hell outta here. Pittsburgh Memorial.”

  “So Treva Williams was with them?”

  Pony-Tail stopped chewing long enough to give me a surly look. “You’re Dr. Rinaldi, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Was Treva awake and alert?”

  “Alert enough to ask me w
here the hell you were. She said you were supposed to ride with her in the ambulance.”

  “I was. At least, I told her I would.”

  “Yeah. She said you promised her.” Pony-Tail smiled unpleasantly. “You’re some kind of shrink, right? Shouldn’t guys like you keep your promises?”

  I took a moment before answering. I wasn’t really in the mood for this. “She say anything else?”

  Pony-Tail looked off. “Let me see. Oh, yeah. She said, ‘Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve been fucked over by a man. Won’t be the last.’ Somethin’ like that.”

  “I bet it was exactly like that.”

  She popped her gum. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Suddenly, I heard Eleanor Lowrey’s voice behind me, calling out.

  “Dan!”

  I turned and saw her trotting between the angled black-and-whites at the intersection, heading my way. Even from this distance, I could tell something was up.

  Pony-Tail spat her gum onto the grass. “I gotta go. Some of us work for a living.”

  She made her way over to where a young uniformed officer was arguing across a length of crime scene tape with a heavy-set man hoisting a shoulder-cam. Pony-Tail gave the uniform a sly smile, which he returned with a broader one. I guess they knew each other.

  I wondered for a moment what Pony-Tail’s problem with me was. Father issues? Bad experience with a therapist?

  She’d certainly bonded instantly with Treva Williams. Maybe saw herself as a similar kind of victim. Of men, of life.

  Or else none of the above, and I was just dealing with the horror of what I’d seen in the bank by indulging my clinical curiosity. The classic therapist’s defense mechanism. A way to keep the image of all that blood and carnage, all that gruesome death, at bay.

  My reverie was interrupted by Lowrey’s arrival. Her eyes were bright, charged with feeling. Her sunglasses hung from the deep V in her t-shirt, glinting in the sun. “Good thing I caught up with you.”

  “Make it fast, detective. I’ve got a five-block walk to where my car’s parked.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Pittsburgh Memorial. That’s where the EMT ambulance is taking Vickers and Treva Williams. I promised her I’d ride down with her, and…well…I didn’t get back here in time.”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “We don’t know that. Treva’s in a traumatized state. Since her release from the bank, I’m the only civilian she’s been in contact with. The first one she’s told about what happened in there. What she saw.”

  Lowrey considered this. “Well, I know she trusts you. Made some kind of connection with you. I saw it.”

  “That’s why I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve already violated that trust by breaking my promise. I’ve got to do what I can to repair that. For her sake.” I paused. “The truth is, as of now she’s my clinical responsibility.”

  “Sometimes you act like everyone’s your clinical responsibility. Remember what you went through last year?”

  “I’m not likely to forget it. But the fact remains, whatever happens to Treva from now on—at least psychologically—it happened on my watch…”

  Lowrey paused, put on her sunglasses. “Look, I think I understand. And I wish I could let you go. But I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have orders from Lt. Biegler to bring you with me. There’s an emergency debriefing that’s taking place in ten minutes, and they want to see you. Both of us.”

  I didn’t understand this. Unless they wanted some kind of statement from me. I’d been the one brought in to treat the sole hostage the gunmen released. The only person who’d survived the shoot-out in the bank. Maybe Vickers’ threat of a lawsuit had made everybody nervous.

  “Look, Detective,” I said quickly, “if this is the usual departmental bullshit, tell them to send me all the forms they want and I’ll fill ’em out. In triplicate. But Treva’s the one who needs me now.”

  Lowrey shook her head. “No can do. He specifically wants to see you.”

  “Who, Biegler?”

  “No. District Attorney Sinclair.”

  I stared at her. “Sinclair wants to see me? Why?”

  She managed a brief smile. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. Now come on.”

  She took my arm, exerting just enough muscle to signal that she wasn’t kidding around. I raised my free hand in mock-surrender and went with her.

  “Where is this meeting, anyway?” I gently pulled my arm free.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said. “And for Christ’s sake, stop calling me ‘Detective.’”

  Chapter Ten

  We walked three blocks south of the First Allegheny Bank, and then into a red-bricked, two-story converted appliance store. Instead of banners announcing ceiling fans and dishwashers on sale, the broad picture windows were plastered with bright blue campaign signs.

  I gave Lowrey a stunned look. Another surprise on a day full of them. This was the downtown office of Leland Sinclair’s gubernatorial campaign.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, as we crossed the main floor. The former appliance showroom now displayed a dozen nondescript rented desks piled high with papers, stacks of banners, dirty coffee mugs, and crumpled cans of Red Bull. Each desk also had a computer, fax machine, and printer crowding its surface, and a ridiculously young, caffeine-fueled volunteer sitting behind it.

  None of whom even glanced up as we maneuvered through the room toward the back, where an old, wood-banistered staircase led to the second floor.

  “Why are we meeting here?” I looked at Lowrey.

  “Apparently, Sinclair’s on a tight schedule, and he happened to be here anyway. So his people figured it’d be easier to do it here than for Sinclair to detour down to his office.”

  “But why does Sinclair even want to get involved, especially at this early stage of the investigation?”

  She paused with her hand on the stairway bannister. “Hey, he’s still the DA.”

  I gave this some thought. “Good point. The last thing he needs while campaigning as a tough law-and-order guy is a blood-bath in the heart of town.”

  “That’s for sure. Sorta like what you were talking about with Treva. This bank mess isn’t the kind of thing Sinclair wants to have happened on his watch.”

  “Yeah. Dead hostages make for lousy campaign ads.”

  Before we went up, I glanced around me once more at the swirling activity on the floor. Phones were ringing constantly, faxes curling out of their holding bays. Images from various cable news stations flickered from the four wide TV monitors positioned strategically around the room.

  And throughout all of this hustle and noise, a few slightly older, obviously veteran political types were moving purposefully among the maze of desks, like bees going from flower to flower. Your standard campaign soldiers. Ties askew, shirt sleeves rolled up. Sweating profusely despite the shiny new window AC units. Cell phones and Blackberries in hand, they either leaned down to squint unhappily at computer screens, or up to stare unhappily at one of the TV monitors.

  At the top of the stairs, Lowrey and I found a series of office doors. Again, a nostalgic tableaux of dark-stained wood and frosted window-glass. Above each door there was even the proverbial transom. It was like stepping back in time to the urban Pittsburgh of the early Fifties, when black soot coated the buildings, electric trolley cars rumbled down cobblestone streets, and everybody wore a hat.

  Lowrey knocked at the first door we came to.

  I smiled. “What’s this, the last actual smoke-filled room?”

  She wisely ignored me and we waited in silence. But only for a few moments. Then we heard Harry Polk’s gruff voice calling through the door.

  “If that’s you, Lowrey, come on in. And bring the doc with ya.”

  ***

  Leland Sinclair sat behind a small, cherrywood desk, elbows on the blotter as he listened to the murmured voices of the men arrayed in chairs
around him. This room also had a newly-installed window air conditioner, whose steady drone provided an almost lulling white noise.

  I did a quick head count. Lt. Biegler. Harry Polk. And a squat, powerfully-built man I remembered from one awful night during the Wingfield investigation. The SWAT commander, Sgt. Chester—I’d never gotten a first name—was still wearing his Kevlar from the crime scene. His narrow-eyed appraisal of me as Lowrey and I came in was a carbon copy of the one Biegler was giving me.

  The only face I didn’t know belonged to a tall, sharp-featured man in his late thirties. He gave me a look that tried very hard to be cursory, but didn’t quite succeed. Instead, I got the impression of a hawk-like intelligence that didn’t miss much. Dark hair, trimmed mustache. Silk tie, Windsor knot, long sleeved white shirt with gold cuffs. No jacket.

  “I’m Brian Fletcher,” he said with a tight smile, rising to shake hands. “Lee’s campaign manager. Welcome to the madhouse.”

  Hardly an apt description. Leland Sinclair’s campaign office was as spare and orderly as the main floor below was cluttered and chaotic. I wasn’t surprised. I remembered his office in the district attorney’s suite from my several visits there last year. Pristine, elegant furnishings. Appropriately-placed wall hangings, lighting fixtures, decorative items. Family photos on the desk, also appropriately placed.

  This office, though much smaller and more spartan, reflected similar qualities of judicious thought, banked emotions. The studied attempt at control.

  As did the man himself.

  “Dan Rinaldi. Nice to see you again.”

  Sinclair rose from behind his desk to grip my hand. Handsome, patrician face. Silver hair trimmed a bit shorter than I remembered. Tailored Armani suit. Manicured hands that belied the strength of his handshake, which he held firmly, and a beat too long.

  Reminded me of my opponents in my Golden Gloves days. Trying to intimidate you in the first round.

  “Congratulations, Lee. I hear you’re still three points ahead in the polls.”

  His smile was theatrically pained. “Never trust the polls, Danny. Just ask my pollster.”