He thrust an arm out in front of
himself as he flew at Walter, and Mimi thought it was a gun until it flashed.
It was a bright white light, like from a small LED, and Walter recoiled from
it. Mimi moved forward to intercept the attacker – there was no time to draw
her gun – and the man swung his arm towards her in response. She braced for an
impact, a reflex action after having been shot at so many times on the streets,
but instead there was just the silent flash again.
This
time, however, Doctor Ralph held his finger on the shutter button, snapping
dozens of pictures in rapid succession and turning the flash on his phone into
a strobe light.
Mimi
took a dozen strobes in both eyes before she could cover her face, but the
attack had worked – Mimi rocked back onto her heels blinking stars out of her
eyes, temporarily blinded.
Walter
stood up again, recovering quickly from the single flash he’d taken to the
face, and took a deep breath.
“WHAT
THE F—” he started to say, but Doctor Ralph spun around and drilled him in the
stomach with a forearm shiver, which doubled him over and caused Walter to
throw up all over the concrete patio of the picnic shelter before collapsing to
his knees, clutching his stomach and moaning.
Mimi’s
eyes cleared just in time for her to see Doctor Ralph swing a leg towards her
face. She put an arm up to block it, but the momentum of the kick still knocked
her sideways.
Riding
the swing of the kick, Doctor Ralph continued his spin and dropped to one knee
while pocketing his cell phone. His other hand swept up some of Walter’s vomit,
which he stuffed into his other jacket pocket before standing up again and
running like hell for the parking lot.
Mimi
got back up and took a few steps in chase, but hearing Walter moaning on the
ground behind her, she stopped and went back to him, drawing her own cell phone
from its holster on her belt and dialing 911.
While
she waited for a dispatcher to pick up, she knelt next to Walter and gave him a
cursory examination. He was hurt, obviously, but the way he was rocking back
and forth on the ground and moaning, she could tell he was still breathing,
wasn’t in shock (or going into shock), and it didn’t look like anything was
broken.
“911
dispatch, what is your emergency?” came the voice on the phone.
“This
is detective Mimi Spatchcock, badge number TK421, calling to report an assault
at Raven’s park, west end, in the picnic shelters. Victim is injured, but
conscious, breathing, and responsive. I’ll need EMTs on scene and put out an
APB on a white male estimated between the ages of 40 and 60, mostly bald,
wearing a dark grey suit jacket, white shirt, black tie. He fled the scene on
foot, but probably has a vehicle close by, possibly accomplices waiting. Do you
copy?”
“Copy
that, detective, patrol units are en-route to your location now, as well as EMT
responders. ETA, less than four minutes. Are you currently under threat?”
“Negative,”
said Mimi. “Assailant has fled, I stayed behind to tend to the victim.”
“Copy
that. Do you need me to stay on the line any further?”
Mimi
heard sirens approaching already, so she said, “Negative, patrol units are
close-by and I will secure the area until they arrive.”
“Thank
you, detective,” said the dispatcher. “I am terminating this call.”
Mimi
thumbed the phone off and slipped it into her pocket. Putting a hand on
Walter’s shoulder, she asked “You okay, champ?”
“Probably.”
His voice squelched. “You get a look at the guy who did this?”
“Breathe
first,” said Mimi, “Then you can worry about who did this.”
She
helped him into a sitting position and pulled his shoulders back, opening up
his airways while rubbing the back of his neck and shoulders. When he was
upright, he gasped a deep breath in, sucking air as best he could, and calming
down. When his breathing had gotten close to normal again, he asked, “So…now
can I ask who did this?”
She
looked up at the cop cars that were now pulling into the parking lot, lights
flashing while sirens wound down and petered out. She leaned her face close to
his ear and said, “Remember the weird guy from the drive-through when we got
breakfast?”
He
looked up at her, perplexed. “What?”
As
uniformed officers poured out of squad cars and ran towards them, she leaned in
again and said, “Just remember, though, as far as these guys need to know, you
have no idea who jumped us, got it?”
He
looked at her face and she drilled her eyes into his – her expression said
“Trust me,” and he nodded.
A
mile away already, Doctor Ralph focused all of his energy on driving three
miles an hour over the speed limit and keeping the car steady on the road. He’d
tossed his shirt and tie onto the floor of the back seat, so now he was down to
just an undershirt, and his suit jacket was on the seat next to him. He made
sure to keep the pocket of vomit on top with the hole facing out so as to not
lose any of it, but he had also rolled down the windows to try and keep the
smell out.
He
needed a place to run some tests, and he couldn’t go straight back to the
hotel. From the park, the town was back to the west, so he’d driven east. He
was certain that lady cop had gotten a halfway decent look at him, so any
street cops in the area would surely be looking for him. Driving exactly the
speed limit is suspicious, which is why he kept it at three over and ditched as
much of his clothes as he could without arousing suspicion from casual looks
from people driving by.
It
would take time to get back to town, but the GPS in his car was guiding him
west, then turned him north through endless rolling wheat fields fluttering in
the wind. After passing through a handful of small towns, he turned west again
for almost an hour, turning south again to follow a river, then east again on
the highway to come back to town from the opposite direction he left.
It
took almost two hours, but he finally made it back to his hotel, with his
luggage, clothing, and a field test kit.
He
stormed through the lobby of the hotel, ignoring the other guests who turned up
their noses at the stink of vomit enshrouding him and barreling past the front
desk clerk who tried to greet him.
The
car, he was sure, would never smell right again.
His
jacked was surely trash by now.
But
the specimen…the precious vomit containing Walter’s vital fluids, was safe and
sound here in the hotel room, and he scooped up as much as he could in a large
glass vial from his field test kit before crumpling up the jacket and stuffing
it into a trash bag and tying it shut.
After
carrying the test kit into the bathroom, he called the front desk, saying, “I’m
terribly sorry, I’ve caught a bit of a stomach bug and I’ve…ruined my suit jacket.
Could you send someone up to fetch it and throw it out? I don’t want it to
stink up the room.”
The
front desk clerk assured him someone would be up right away and, sure enough,
less than two minutes later a maid knocked on the door. He handed her the tied
up trash bag and said, “I’m sure you’ll want to just toss that in the dumpster
outside – it’s good and ruined, and there’s no point in saving it. Hell, you
should probably burn it.” He laughed, and she gave a weak smile in response,
holding the trash bag out at arms’ length.
When
she was gone, he stripped down to his underwear and pulled a clean set of
scrubs from his luggage. Putting them on, he even put on a skullcap, booties,
latex gloves and a surgeon’s mask, then went into the bathroom to analyze the
vomit.
Several
miles away another team of EMTs was sifting through the rubble of a house that
had exploded the previous night. They’d found the bodies of the two police
officers assigned to guard it, burned beyond recognition but identifiable by
the remains of their uniforms and badges, and were looking for the third victim
– the man who lived there.
His
name was Adam Martin.
He
worked for a rental car agency.
They
found his remains in what was left of the bathroom of the house. His clothes
had all but burned off of him, his skin was blackened from the soot, and, as
the EMTs discovered, he had shit himself when the house exploded. The reason
for the explosion was still a mystery, but the arson unit was on its way to
investigate.
The
youngest EMT on site was given the disgusting job of checking the body – it was
customary, even when they were obviously dead – and he felt for a pulse. First
he put two fingers against the victim’s neck and held them there for a
five-count.
Nothing.
Then
he placed two fingers on the inside of the victim’s wrist for a five-count.
Nothing.
He
looked at his colleagues and made a slashing motion across his neck with his
hand. “He’s gone,” he said.
The
other two EMTs who were cleaning up the site looked at each other. One said,
“How many body bags we got left in the bus?”
“None,”
said the other. “We bagged up the neighbors and the cops already. Wanna just
throw this one on the cart and wheel him to the morgue?”
“Yeah,
may as well.”
They
picked up Adam’s body and loaded him onto the gurney, strapping him down. When
they tightened the straps he grunted, and the youngest EMT jumped back.
“Relax,
rookie,” said one of the other two. “It’s just air leaving the body. Happens
all the time.”
They
rolled the gurney into the back of the ambulance and threw a sheet over it…
…so
none of them saw his hand move.
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