Devil's Playground (17 page)

“Hurry. He’s dying.”

*

Sam sat in the bay window of her home, where sheet after sheet of wind driven rain flapped against the glass like an un-tethered sail. Winter had snatched the leaves from the two Arroyo Willows in her yard, leaving skeletal limbs that reached skyward as if beseeching God for a mild winter and an early spring.

She watched as rivulets cut through the sandy dirt, joining with one another to form larger rivulets, which further eroded the already scarred slope that fell away from the front of her house. They would continue this marrying into ever larger flows, swelling the typically dry creek beds and filling the washes and arroyos that excoriated the terrain, then succumb to the dictates of gravity and rush into Mercer’s Creek before racing to Lake Mercer some twenty miles to the south.

Several roads and low bridges would be rendered impassable before the rain ended. Cars and trucks would somehow find their way into the raging waters and a rescue or two was inevitable.

It was going to be a bitch of a day.

Scooter curled in her lap. She stroked his fur absently and sipped her second cup of coffee, while she mentally prepared for the day. Scooters soothing purr melted beneath the shrill ring of the telephone.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam turned onto the muddy road leading to Roberto Sanchez’s trailer. After pulling aside to let an ambulance pass, she rolled to a stop near where Charlie Walker stood and jumped out of her Jeep.

“What’s the story, Charlie?”

“Looks like our boy is back at it. Roberto’s in there,” he yanked his head toward the trailer, “Sliced and diced just like the others.”

“Shit.”

“They just took Walter Limpke to the hospital.”

“Walter?”

“Multiple stab wounds. With this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag, which contained a knife with a thick, curved blade.

“That’s Garrett’s knife. See the piece missing from the bone handle.”

“I know. The question is, who sliced up Roberto and left this in Walter’s gut.”

“What was Walter doing out here this time of the morning?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t had time to talk with Maria over there.” He nodded toward Maria Hidalgo who sat in her car, her face pale and tear streaked. “Maybe she can tell us. Or if Cat Roberts can pull off a miracle, we can ask Walter himself. He looked pretty bad though.”

Sam walked to the trailer and stepped inside. The stench struck her like a knotty pine two-by-four. The odor of blood, stomach and bowel contents, sour sweat, and fear blended into a discordance that numbed the senses, watered the eyes, and inverted the stomach. She retreated to the rain.

With great effort and several gulps of cold air, she managed to suppress the nausea and unwind her gut.

“You OK?” Charlie asked, tugging his hat down over his eyes, releasing the rain that had collected in the brim in a steady stream that splattered on his boots.

“Been better,” Sam said.

Ralph Klingler stepped out of the trailer. He had finished photographing the scene and collecting samples, which he carried in the tan canvas bag that hung off his shoulder. “I’m going to get back to the lab and begin processing this stuff. After you finish printing the knife, I’d like it for a few hours. It’ll help with wound comparisons.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll bring it by later.”

“I called Vince Gorman. He’ll pick up the body in about a half hour.” Ralph climbed in his pick-up, cranked it to life, and headed down the road toward the highway.

“Like at Roger and Miriam’s, the killer left prints all over the place,” Charlie said, nodding toward the trailer. “He sure ain’t very careful. Either he don’t care about getting caught or he thinks we’re damn fools. I’ll get started on lifting them. Why don’t you talk with Maria.”

As Sam approached the Cadillac, she could see that Maria was crying. Her head slumped forward and her shoulders jerked with each sob. Sam slipped into the passenger’s seat. The distraught woman clung to the steering wheel with white knuckles as if she believed if she let go she would be swept away.

“I’m so sorry, Maria,” Sam said, the words sounding hollow.

Maria looked up, staring at the rain drenched windshield, her face pale, her eyes glassy. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “I can’t believe this is real. I knew he should have come to live with us. Not out here alone. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But, if he had been with us, then...” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The kids. How can I explain this to them? They worshipped him.”

“Maria, do you know anyone who could have done this?”

“Anyone? I don’t even know
WHAT
could have done this. Did you see him?” She swallowed back another sob. “Whatever did this isn’t human.”

“Any idea why Walter Limpke was out here this morning?”

“No.”

“Were Roberto and Walter friends?”

“Not really. Papa would buy things from Walter’s hardware store from time to time, but I can’t say they were friends.”

“Maybe Walter was delivering something. Is that possible?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Maria stared ahead, blank faced, then said, “This is what happened to those kids and Roger and Miriam, isn’t it?”

“Looks that way.”

She turned and looked at Sam. “This has always been a good town. A safe place to live. But, now.” She sniffed back tears. “It’s like everything has gone to hell. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s completely crazy.”

They sat silently for a minute.

“Why don’t you go home?” Sam said. “Get away from here. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Maria lay her forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed.

Sam reached out and stroked her hair, then rested her hand on her shoulder. She could feel Maria’s pain and swallowed hard, attempting to purge the growing lump in her throat, fighting back her own tears.

“You OK to drive?” Sam asked. “I can take you home if you want.”

“I’ll be OK. I just need a minute.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam stepped from the car and walked to where Charlie leaned into his Jeep, replacing the radio handset in its cradle, shoving a toothpick back into the corner of his mouth.

“That was Thelma,” he said. “Margo Limpke just called to report Walter missing.”

“Jesus.”

“Seems he was gone when she woke up this morning. She thought he had just gone to work early, which he does from time to time. But, when she got to the store, he wasn't there.”

“Want me to talk with her?”

“No. I’ll do it,” he said, tugging the front brim of his hat down. “Why don’t you run over to the hospital and see about Walter?”

“I don’t understand, Charlie.” She released a deep sigh. “Connie Beeson, Roger and Miriam, this? That’s three of Garrett’s jurors that have died in three days. And both foremen. Connie, then Roberto. It’s like nothing makes sense.”

“It does. We just haven’t found the key yet.”

“Do you think Garrett’s involved?” she asked.

“Somehow.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“Any ideas?”

“Not right off hand,” he frowned. “But my gut tells me he’s in it up to his neck. How, I don’t know.”

*

Dr. Caitlin Roberts and emergency department head nurse Rosa Gomez met the ambulance transporting Walter Limpke on the ramp leading to the treatment area. As the ambulance, sirens blaring, slid to a stop, they yanked open the rear door and, with the help of the driver, lifted the stretcher to the ground.

They hurriedly rolled him to Trauma Room 1 where Cat began to assess his injuries. She examined and probed the stab wounds that gaped open in his belly, listened to his heart and lungs, and performed a cursory neurologic exam.

Rosa jammed a large bore needle into his right arm, attached a clear plastic IV tube, which lead to a bottle of Lactated Ringers Solution, and thumbed open the clamp to begin the flow of life saving fluid. Sue Tilden repeated the same process on the left side.

Rosa released the valve on the blood pressure cuff with a soft hiss. “BP is 50 over zip. Pulse 125. O2 sat is 88%.

Cat completed her exam. “Four stab wounds to the abdomen. He’s in shock. Let’s get him to the operating room STAT.”

She and Rosa wheeled the stretcher down the hall toward the operating suites.

Cat shouted over her shoulder as they turned the corner. “Sue. No time for type and cross match. Get me four units of type specific blood to the OR and tell the blood bank to step on it.”

The IV tubes tinkled against the metal support poles and one of the stretcher’s wheels wobbled and squealed in protest as they flew down the corridor and into OR 4. Cat disappeared to change into surgery scrubs while Tony Wang, the diminutive anesthesiologist, helped move Walter Limpke from the stretcher onto the operating table. Tony deftly slipped an endotracheal tube into the critically ill man’s throat and began to pump oxygen-enriched air into his lungs.

The OR crew moved with practiced fluidity.

Tony administered a combination of intravenous and inhaled anesthetic agents, which would propel Walter Limpke into that unreal world between wakefulness and sleep, life and death.

Joe Watts, the circulating nurse, cleaned Walter’s abdomen with Betadine scrub and draped it with surgical sheets.

Jackie Gorman, the scrub nurse, ripped open a tray of instruments and prepared them for Dr. Roberts.

Blood arrived and Tony immediately hung two of the bags, running them wide open to replace Walter’s massive blood loss as fast as possible.

Cat, wearing cap and mask, completed her pre-surgical scrub and donned gown and gloves. Jackie slapped the scalpel handle into her hand and Cat hurriedly made a long incision down the midline of the abdomen from the diaphragm to the pubis. This was no time for cosmetics; speed was all-important.

Bleeding was minimal, most of his blood having been dumped in the mud outside Roberto’s trailer. Using the scalpel, scissors, and her experienced fingers, she deepened the incision until she popped through the peritoneal lining, entering the abdominal cavity. A gush of dark blood and thick maroon clots greeted her.

“Suction.”

Jackie slipped the curved plastic nozzle into the abdomen. It gurgled and squealed as it removed the blood and clots, drawing them into a long clear tube, which lead to a suction bottle on the floor.

Cat insinuated her hand into the abdomen, probing first one way and then the other. She slid her hand upward, over the liver, testing its glistening surface and rubbery consistency for defects. She found none. Sliding right ward, her hand palpated the stomach, then carefully examined the pancreas and spleen. She took extra care with these tender organs, knowing they can be easily injured by overzealous manipulation. Again, everything appeared intact.

She lifted the bowel, her fingers playing along every inch, searching for injuries. She easily located two lacerations of the small bowel and its fan-like omentum. She then examined each kidney. The left showed no injury, but the right had been slashed nearly in two.

Jackie dabbed sweat from Cat’s face, tossing the towel in a bucket at her feet.

“Looks like he got the bowel, nicked the superior mesenteric artery, and trashed his right kidney.” She peered over her mask at Tony. “How’s he doing?”

“Better. BP is up to 90, pulse 100, and O2 sat is 98%. Two units of blood are in and I’m starting the other two now.”

“OK. Let’s get to work.”

When Sam arrived at the hospital, she stopped by the Emergency Department and chatted with Sue Tilden while Rosa Gomez called the OR to check on Walter.

Rosa hung up the phone. “Surgery is underway and Dr. Roberts said everything was going well.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “See you guys later.”

She went down the hall to the Pathology Department and Ralph Klingler’s office. Ralph sat behind his desk, which was strewn with Polaroids of Roberto and Walter. One caught her eye. It was Roberto, hanging by his ankles. From her perspective, he appeared to be standing on his toes as if performing some macabre ballet.

“Have a seat, Sam,” Ralph said.

Sam sat, facing him across his desk. “I just checked on Walter.”

“And?”

“So far so good.”

“Let’s hope it continues that way.” Ralph rocked back in his chair, brow knitted, and rubbed his chin. “Walter’s left-handed isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. Is it important?”

“Maybe.”

Sam recalled images of Walter: standing behind the counter in his store, wearing a navy blue work apron, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling and chatting with customers; sitting at Millie’s with Margo and friends; pitching softball at the last Fourth of July barbecue.

“Yeah. He is. At least he pitches lefty.”

“Hmmm.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I wasn’t sure in Roger and Miriam’s case, but after seeing Roberto this morning, it’s clearer.”

“What’s clearer?”

“The person that killed Roger, Miriam, and Roberto was left-handed.”

“You don’t think...”

“I examined Walter’s wounds this morning before they hauled him away to the hospital. They may have been self-inflicted.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“Come on, Ralph. You don’t really believe Walter killed three people and then tried to kill himself.”

Klingler shrugged. “I’m merely reporting the evidence, but it sure smells like that’s a possibility.”

“Why would he?”

"I don’t know.” Ralph took off his glasses and cleaned them with a piece of lens paper. “Maybe he’s Garrett’s partner.”

Walter? Garrett’s accomplice? She couldn’t believe that. Or wouldn’t believe it. Either way, it didn’t fly. “I just can’t believe that,” she said.

*

Ten minutes later, Sam walked into Charlie’s office and sank into the chair by his desk. Charlie looked tired and drained.

“You’re not going to believe what Ralph had to say.” She told him about her conversation with the pathologist.