Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (27 page)

He could hear the sound of sirens approaching as he collapsed in a heap. Neighbors were out staring. Andrade tried to announce himself as a police officer, but all he managed was a bloody gurgle.

“There’s the cops,” he heard a neighbor say as he lost consciousness.

Inside Collins managed a wet breath, exhaled and died.

* * *

Desk Sergeant Shamus McDonald answered the 911 call transfer and literally stood up in shock. The operator relayed several calls regarding shots fired and a man down on the front stoop at what appeared to be the home of Detective Michael Collins.

Another call reported a man with a gun and a possible hostage situation at the bookstore.

McDonald slammed down the phone and shouted the information to Yarrow and Bloom through the intercom. The two patrolmen swore and barreled out the door. Tires hissing on the icy asphalt, the engine growled as the two cops raced toward Collins’ address. McDonald then radioed out to officers Denny and Jorgenson on patrol.

“Shots fired, men reported down,” McDonald said. He gave them the address of the bookstore. “Code red.”

McDonald walked to the cage and stood with his hand slapped to his forehead.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said to Drake.

“What?”

McDonald gave him the details on both emergencies.

“You’ve gotta to be kidding me,” Drake said. “This town is going to shit.”

“You’re telling me. I better lock us down.”

McDonald ran back to set the auto lock, making entry into the station impossible unless buzzed in by the desk.

* * *

Officer Thomas Denny pulled into the bookstore parking lot and slid to a stop. Jorgenson racked the shotgun and Denny pulled his side arm as they threw open the doors for protection. From where they crouched they could see clearly through the front windows. Inside a man with a ponytail and glasses was waving a big revolver. He appeared to be shouting. Three hostages were cowering behind the coffee counter.

“Holy shit,” Denny hissed. “That looks like a .357 magnum.”

“Goddamn hand cannon.”

Jorgenson reached to his collar and pressed the button for the radio to the station.

“McDonald,” he said, “do we have a report of any shots fired at the bookstore?”

“Negative.”

“Who called this in?”

“The store manager.”

Jorgenson looked inside the store again. One of the hostages appeared to be holding a phone to his face.

“Is he still on the line?” he asked McDonald.

“Wait one second.” A pause, and then, “Yes, the 911 operator still has him.”

“Can you patch him through to me?”

“One second,” McDonald said, and then the level of hiss on the radio changed.

“Hello?” came a frightened voice.

“Sir my name is Officer Jorgenson. My partner and I are right outside your store. Who am I speaking to?”

“You’ve got to get us out of here!”

“Yes sir, we’ll do our best. Now what’s your name?”

“Matt. I’m the store manager.”

“All right Matt. Now can you tell me what’s going on in there?”

“He’s ranting and waving a gun,” Matt whispered. He sounded desperate. “His name is Sandy Alexander and he’s part of a writer’s group that meets here. He’s screaming nonsense.”

“Stay where you are, we’re moving closer.”

Denny and Jorgenson ran to either side of the double doors and froze with their weapons. The voice of the gunman was muffled but his rant sounded angry.

“I’ll open the door,” Denny hissed and Jorgenson gave a tight-lipped nod.

Denny counted down with his raised fingers. On three he jumped forward and pushed the door inward until it locked in position. He scrambled back and nearly fell on the icy walkway.

“Don’t do that,” Sandy screamed. He pointed the revolver at the open door.

* * *

The rear of the cruiser fishtailed as Bloom turned the corner from University to Mulberry. Yarrow supported himself on the dashboard. At the end of the block the residents were out in the cold and a woman in a pink bathrobe knelt next to a figure covered with a patchwork quilt. The car’s lights flared and the siren died as they came to a stop.

Yarrow ran to Collins’ front porch. His shoes slipped on the icy steps and he grabbed the railing to avoid falling on the prone figure.

“Ma’am, you need to move away,” Yarrow said.

“I’m a nurse,” she protested. “This man is severely injured. He’s been shot in the face.”

Yarrow gasped.

“Bloom,” he said, “the man down is the Captain.”

Bloom made his way up the steps.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

He slapped the radio on his shoulder.

“We have an officer down. It’s Andrade. We need medics.”

“Got it,” McDonald said through the radio. “Sending help now.”

Yarrow grimaced. Andrade’s face was a mess. His lips were shredded on one side and fragments of his teeth and jawbone were plastered to his jacket. Beneath his head a saturated towel was stiff with frozen blood.

“I put that towel under his head to help stop the bleeding,” the nurse said in a shaky voice. “The policeman in the apartment is dead. I checked his pulse.”

The two patrolmen looked at each other.

“I’ll look inside,” Bloom said.

After a moment his voice carried out to Yarrow. “Oh man, it’s Collins. He’s dead. Shot in the chest. What a mess.”

More sirens yowled as cops, paramedics and a fire truck came single file down the narrow street. The frozen tree branches and snow-patched ground reflected the urgently flashing lights, turning the dark lane into a garish festival. Patrolmen urged people to go back into their homes as the medics examined Andrade. Two firemen entered the house and came out seconds later to confirm Collins was dead.

“What the hell happened here?” Yarrow asked nobody in particular.

“Damned if I know,” Bloom said. “This one is for the Detectives. But this time they’re the ones who need detecting,”

Yarrow nervously laughed. “This is beyond fucked up.”

Detective Thibido showed up and spent his time gawking at the scene and looking distraught. He eventually joined the patrolmen and watched with an expression of pure fear. Twenty minutes later Andrade had been secured on a stretcher and was on his way to the hospital.

A plain sedan with a flashing red light on its dash rolled down the shoulder and stopped. Chief Smythe climbed the steps in front of Collins’ house.

“What’s the status?” he said to Thibido.

“They just took Andrade to the hospital and Collins is dead inside.”

Smythe sighed. “Okay, give it to me.”

Thibido licked his lips and looked to Bloom.

Bloom hesitated, but then started

“Not completely sure what happened,” he said.” The call came in that shots were fired and a man was down. We realized it was Collins place and when—”

Smythe cut him off. “I want to hear it from Detective Thibido.”

“Uh,” Thibido said. He had the wild-eyed look of a rabbit caught in a snare. “Like he said, we got the call and we saw it was Andrade.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Smythe said. “Who was here first?”

Yarrow raised his hand.

“Where were you, Thibido?”

“Off duty, sir,” he said. “I was asleep when the call came through to me.”

“Jesus. Okay, you.” The Chief pointed at Yarrow. “You tell me.”

“We hauled ass over here and found this. Andrade was laying on the porch with his face shot off and Collins was dead inside.”

“Did they shoot each other?”

“It looks that way but I couldn’t say for sure.”

“What about you?” Smythe asked Thibido. “Have you come to any conclusions?”

“Not yet sir.”

“Have you looked for shell casings? Missed shots? Any evidence that someone else might have been here?”

Thibido looked cornered. “I was waiting until they cleared the bodies and—”

“And what? You mean to tell me you haven’t even examined the scene?”

“Like I said, I thought they should look after the Captain first.”

“Please tell me,” Smythe said, glaring at Thibido now, “that you checked the snow out front for any unexplained tire tracks before this army of responders drove up.”

Thibido said nothing.

“What the hell kind of Detective are you?”

“Sorry sir.”

“You’re right. You are one sorry son of a bitch.”

Prichard’s van arrived and the driver carefully negotiated the snow on the shoulder to park behind Smythe’s car. The forensics team exited the van and began unloading equipment. Prichard looked tired while his crew created a barrier with crime scene tape.

“Doctor,” Smythe called and Prichard joined them by the steps. “This is quite a mess.”

“Any witnesses?” Prichard asked.

“Yes,” Yarrow said, “absolutely. The lady in the pink is a nurse who tended to Andrade and told us about Collins. Several other neighbors were gathered around too, so I bet they’ll have something to tell us.”

Prichard nodded.

“Good. My team will work the scene. You two officers make sure these people stay in their homes, and you can start canvassing the neighbors.”

“I’ll get to the hospital and check on Andrade,” Smythe said. “Thibido, you come with me.”

Smythe climbed back into his car with the Detective in tow.

“Hospital,” Smythe said to his driver.

As the car started moving, Smythe could see the team moving across the scene with machine-like efficiency, bagging and photographing every detail. Cameras flashed like lightning from inside the house. Smythe half expected to hear thunder to go along with it, especially since he knew he was in for a scandalous shit storm of public shock.

The Chief turned to Thibido.

“So, what can you tell me about this whole messed-up situation?”

Thibido shrugged.

“You know about as much as I do, Chief. Like I said, I showed up here and found them both shot.”

“What was going on between the two of them that would lead to something like this?”

Even in the semi-darkness Smythe could see that one struck a little too close for Thibido’s comfort. The Detective did his best, though, to maintain his composure.

“I’d have no idea.”

Smythe glared at him.

“I seriously doubt that. We’ll talk again when you find your testicles and get willing to tell the fucking truth.”

When they pulled up to the emergency entrance at the hospital, Smythe looked at Thibido.

“You stay right here. Driver, make sure he doesn’t move.”

The driver nodded and gave Thibido a stony look in the rear view mirror.

* * *

The ranting coming out of the bookstore door was laced with nonsense. Denny gestured for Jorgenson to pass over and join him on his side. Again they did a silent three count and Jorgenson jumped across the open door.

“Mr. Alexander,” Denny called through the open door.

“Who is that?”

“Mr. Alexander, my name is officer Denny. We want you to put down the gun and let these people go. You don’t really want to hurt anyone.”

“It’s what God wants me to do,” Sandy hollered. “I have blood on my hands and I’ve been asked to do it!”

“Jesus,” Jorgenson said. “He’s a fucking nut case.”

“Listen Sandy, God doesn’t want you to hurt these people. You want to put the gun down and let us take you someplace safe.”

“Safety is a myth,” Sandy cried out and waved the gun wildly. “The blood washed my hands clean and the darkness brings salvation. In the darkness the beast lives and he that denies it will be consumed!”

Jorgenson shivered. The initial adrenaline had worn off and now the biting cold seeped into his bones.

“We’re going to freeze out here,” he said.

“I know how you feel, Sandy,” Denny called out. “The world is a bad place sometimes and sin is everywhere. If you put the gun down we can—”

“Hands of God were upon me,” Sandy said. “The sin is washed away by the blood and the hands grope and comfort me. Those who betrayed us must know God’s punishment and we sinners must pay our own retribution.”

“You know what?” Jorgenson said. “What do you wanna bet he’s the literary killer? Has to be. The guy’s a writer and obviously pissed off.”

Denny shrugged and then nodded. “Yeah, sounds right.”

Jorgenson scuttled a little further away from the open doorway and hit his radio button.

“McDonald, we think we have the literary killer here.”

“Okay,” McDonald responded, “but I don’t know if I can get anybody there right now. I just got word Collins is dead and Andrade is down. Everybody is over there.”

“At least get us an ambulance, for Christ’s sake, in case this guy shoots somebody.”

“Copy that.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
F
IVE

PRICHARD WAS STANDING in the foyer of Collins’ place trying to wrap his head around the sequence of events when his lead investigator walked over.

“Almost done?” Prichard asked.

“We’re finished here for now. We’ll have to come back and make another sweep when the sun comes up.”

“What have we got for shots fired?”

“We have blood spatter and bullet strikes on the wall consistent with Collins lying on the floor when he shot at Andrade.”