“If he lost all that blood in the shooting, how could he be out drinking at Schuster’s just a few days later?”
It was a good question, and he didn’t have the answer. It’s just that nothing else seemed to make sense. He was sorry he’d brought it up, and glad when the conversation shifted to other topics. It was only when he took her home after midnight that she said, “Forget that badge, Will. You’re not a cop. Leave it to them.”
On Thursday afternoon, he and Santos were working together in a West Side garage that had been used by a religious cult for the ritual slaughter of animals. “I would prefer a good clean gunshot victim to this,” Santos complained. “Isn’t that right, Dick Tracy?”
“I don’t like it any better than you do.”
They were wearing gloves and biohazard suits, but somehow, in digging up the animal remains, a hidden razor blade sliced through the arm of Santos’s suit. It wasn’t a deep cut, but he was bleeding, and Will worried about an infection. “You’d better see a doctor,” he said. “I’ll finish up here.”
“Hell, leave it till tomorrow. We’re only a block from Dr. Soloman’s office. That might be easier than going to emergency for a little thing like this.”
“I’ll go with you,” Will said. It seemed the least he could do.
They waited in the office for nearly an hour before the doctor could squeeze Santos in between other patients. Finally he came out with a small bandage and some pills to fight possible infection. “How you feeling?” Will asked.
“I’m fine. Let’s go have a beer.”
“Can you drink with that medication?”
Santos snorted. “I’ll drink first, before I start taking it.”
Will didn’t want to go to Schuster’s, so he steered them to a nearby neighborhood bar. Over beers, he said, “We’ll have to finish that job tomorrow.”
“There’s not much left, so long as we avoid razor blades.” He touched the bandage on his arm. “That Soloman is pretty good.”
Will took a sip of beer. “I’ve never been to him.”
“You know that woman who was killed by the hit-and-run? She worked in his office. They’re all pretty broken up about it.”
“Really?” Will downed the rest of his beer and said, “I’ve got to get going. See you in the morning.”
But he didn’t go anywhere. He spent an hour walking alone. This time he knew he could break the case, if only he could fit all the pieces together.
THEY FINISHED THE garage job early Friday afternoon, and Santos went off to see what was on tap for Monday. Will phoned Sadie to tell her he couldn’t see her till later. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“Are you still trying to play detective, Will?”
“I’m not playing. I think I’ve solved this case. I have to go back up to the loft where Hashid was killed.”
“If you won’t stop this right now, I’m calling Detective Press,” she told him. “Maybe he can knock some sense into you.” She hung up before he could reply.
He made his way across town to the loft on Chestnut Street. From the road, he could see lights and assumed that Palmeto’s people were sprucing up the place for the next tenant. He made his way up the two flights of stairs to the apartment. A painter was just leaving with his brushes and cans, and Carlos Palmeto himself was giving the job a final inspection.
“Hello,” he said when he saw Will. “You’re one of Santos’s crew, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Will Blackstone. I helped clean up after the murders.”
“Terrible thing! It might take me a year to rent this place again.”
Will moved a few steps closer. “I’ve taken a special interest in this case, especially since Glenda Briggs was killed.”
Palmeto frowned. “Is that a name I should know?”
“Let me tell you a story. A man named Samuel Gutman is convicted of stealing drugs from a nursing home and sent off to prison. When he gets out, he decides to start a new life and is quite successful at it, probably using a name off a cemetery tombstone to get a social security card and other false identification. But his former life still exists. He needs to kill off his former self, and he hits upon an ingenious method of doing just that. He wants Hashid out of here anyway because of his drug dealing, so he kills him and splashes around a couple of quarts of his own blood, knowing the police would have a DNA match to identify him. His Gutman identity vanishes completely, and the police are satisfied he’s dead even though they don’t have a body.”
“How would he get a couple of quarts of his own blood without killing himself?” Palmeto asked.
“Simple. He goes to the doctor’s office twice a week for a phlebotomy, removing a pint of blood each time because it contains too much iron. The procedure is performed by a nurse technician named Glenda Briggs, who gives him the blood instead of disposing of it in the usual manner. When I discovered she worked for your doctor, the whole thing fell into place.”
“You think you can prove a crazy story like that?”
“Of course I can. The blood at the murder scene will show a high concentration of iron, and your DNA will identify you as Samuel Gutman. You never looked Hispanic in the first place. The doctor’s record will show that Glenda Briggs performed your phlebotomy twice a week. And I suspect the police will find evidence on your car linking it to her hit-and-run death. Once she told you I’d traced the cell phone to her, you had to kill her before she talked to me again.”
“She said it was a detective who questioned her, and she was scared she’d be sent to prison.”
Will showed his badge. “I’m taking you in, Gutman. Maybe Hashid deserved to die, but not Glenda Briggs.”
He nodded. “I’ll get my jacket.”
It’s as easy as that, Will thought. He never saw the gun until Gutman fired and he felt the bullet tear into his chest.
HE DIDN’T KNOW how long he’d been unconscious. He awoke in a hospital room, with Tim Press and Sadie at his side. “You’re going to be all right,” Sadie assured him.
“She phoned to tell me you were going to the loft,” Press said. “I was coming up the stairs when I heard the shot. I got him before he could finish you off.”
“That badge – ”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
Sadie touched his arm where an IV tube was attached. “The doctor says the bullet went right through without hitting a vital organ. He says you were awfully lucky.”
Will tried to smile. “Maybe my Friday night luck is changing at last.”
The Fool by Laurie R. King
Sergeant Mendez, there’s some nutcase on line two. Can you figure out what he wants?”
Bonita Mendez did not reply, so deep in the maddening details of the Rivas/Escobedo case that she didn’t notice the uniformed officer in her doorway. For the twentieth time that morning, she read the note: 8:35 p.m., March 2, Mrs. Claudia Padilla (821 Pacific Circle) hears a bang and, a few minutes later, a car accelerating. She picked up the second page, torn from her notebook, to read: 8:49 p.m., 911 call. Young, panicky voice reporting shooting at 814 Pacific Circle (cell phone/Mrs. Adriana Torres/used by daughter, Jasmina, 13). Stuck on to this page were two Post-it notes with related information: Jasmina (Mina) says phone was lost the week before (phone records requested). Then, added the day before: Calls thru March 1 match usual pattern – ask? The two pages lay on either side of the laconic Patrol car arr 9:04 – Gloria Rivas (16) babysitter 814 Pacific, doa/gsw.