I put the patient-information sheet back on the table. “He gave us an address. We might as well shoot for a search warrant and see if we get lucky. Also, now that we have that sketch, and a name to go with it, I think we ought to publish both it and Truong’s photo in every newspaper that’ll run it, just to see what happens-but not until those stitches are due to be removed. Nguyen may go back to have them out, and I don’t want to discourage him. That’ll also give us a little time to run checks on him, get the warrant approved by a judge, and maybe figure out if he has any favorite hangouts.”
I turned to face Sammie. “We better send copies of that sketch to all the hospitals, clinics, and doctors’ offices we just alerted.”
She nodded and momentarily left the room to retrieve a folder from her desk. “I got something, too,” she said, extracting what I instantly recognized as an autopsy report. “It’s Hillstrom’s verdict on the John Doe without the tattoo-the one Mr. Leung said was called An.”
I opened the report and began scanning its pages-consisting largely of a running commentary on which bullets went where. An was the one Ron had shot several times.
Sammie, clearly impatient, reached over and turned to the page she wanted me to see. “She says he had a bruise running across his chest.”
I saw the reference. “‘Consistent with markings resulting from a rapid deceleration against a diagonally mounted, driver’s-side vehicle seat belt,’” I quoted. “I’ll be goddamned. Dan Flynn was just telling me about a two-car collision in Rutland four days ago that involved Asians.” I hunted through Sammie’s file and retrieved the portrait taken of An at the morgue. “Sol, find out which officer handled the complaint, fax him a copy of this photograph, and get all the information you can from him-everything on the driver, his passenger, the car… The works.”
Stennis snatched the picture from my hand and disappeared.
I could tell from Sammie’s expression that this was only half her good news. “Remember when Dennis came to you with the stats from California on Vu and Henry Lam, and you sent him to me? Well, I compared them to what I already had. The date of birth on Lam was different, and when I ran the new birth date through the computer, I got this.” She handed me a printout. “Henry Lam’s Massachusetts rap sheet as an adult. It didn’t click on the name alone earlier because the system is DOB-biased, and I didn’t think to challenge it.”
“So, the little turkey was operating nearby,” I murmured.
“Not only that,” she added, again directing me where to read. “But it says here: ‘Consult Montreal Urban Community Police for more info.’”
I smiled at her refreshing optimism. “Not bad, Sammie. If An did get sliced interrogating Benny, that gives us two of his killers, as well as two of the three who tried to kill Ron and me. Now we’re cooking.”
Our self-satisfaction was abruptly interrupted by Harriet’s voice, calling for me urgently. She was sitting at her desk, holding the phone out to me as I approached. “It’s the hospital ER. There’s an Asian male having stitches taken out of his hand right now.”
I ignored the phone. “They didn’t stall him?”
“They tried to, but one of the visiting doctors overheard them and made a big deal about rendering rapid service.”
“Shit. He’ll be out of there in no time.” I grabbed Sammie by the arm and propelled her toward the door, shouting to Harriet over my shoulder as I followed, “Mobilize what you can find of the SRT, and see if we can’t borrow Maxine’s van for a take-down team. Also, find out if this guy’s alone or with friends, and try to get a description of his car.” I paused at the door. “And make sure no patrol units stumble in there by mistake. I don’t want to lose control of this. Nobody’s to confront until I get to the scene.”
Sammie and I ran toward the parking lot to one of the department’s two unmarked cars. As Sammie slid in behind the wheel, I paused, noticing two people step out of one of the TV trucks, attracted by our obvious haste.
“Something up?” one of them asked.
“Ran out of donuts,” I shouted back. I made a big display of slowly taking my jacket off and draping it over my forearm before I leisurely opened the passenger door and got in, trying to ignore Sammie’s revving of the engine.
“Code three?” she asked testily before I’d even shut the door. “Not on your life-not till we clear the parking lot.” She looked over her shoulder to where I was staring. “Oh, Christ.”
“After we hit High Street, you can play all the sirens you want, but only to within a couple of blocks of the hospital. I don’t want Nguyen getting nervous.”
She did a credible job of starting out slowly, leaving our two spectators flatfooted, but once she reached Oak Street, she took off with tires squealing. I pulled the mike from its clip and began orchestrating a coordinated approach, occasionally holding onto the door frame to keep from falling into Sammie’s lap.
The setting outside Brattleboro Memorial Hospital’s emergency room had several advantages as a take-down spot, assuming we got there early enough to position ourselves.
The ER was tucked away around the east side of the building, its separate, dead-end parking lot perched between the hospital and the top of a steep grassy slope that fell away to Canal Street far below. To the lot’s south was the driveway connecting it to the main parking area around the corner; to its west was the ER’s ambulance loading dock, sliding glass doors, and the long window of the ER waiting room; and to its north was a short wing of the building, built mostly of windowless brick.
A few blocks from the hospital, Sammie slowed down and killed her lights and siren. I picked up the mobile phone lying on the seat between us and dialed the ER.
“ER-Elizabeth Pace.”
That helped. Nurse Pace, although a fairly recent arrival in town, was a friend. “Elizabeth, this is Joe Gunther.”
The relief in her voice was palpable. “Joe-thank God. Where are you?”
“About a block away. Is that man still with the doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Where-exactly?”
“Room 4, a little ways down the hall.”
“So there’s no way he can hear what you’re saying?”
“Yes. I mean, no, he can’t. I told the woman at the police department that, as far as I know, he is alone-at least he came in alone. But I don’t know what car he’s driving.”
Sammie pulled into Belmont Street, fronting the hospital.
“That’s okay. Is the ER full right now?”
“No. There’s a patient in room 2, and a couple of people in the waiting room. They just got here.”
“Fine. What’s this man wearing?”
“A bright-red windbreaker and a dark-blue baseball cap.”
“Great, thanks. Now, when he comes out, I don’t want you doing anything other than the usual. This is just a man we want to talk with, so I don’t want you all worked up. Just do whatever paperwork is necessary, and wish him a nice day, okay?”
“I don’t use that expression.”
“Give me a break, Elizabeth. Pat him on the ass, if that’s what you do, all right?”
She laughed, to my relief. “All right.”
“Talk to you later,” I said and disconnected.
Sammie had pulled into the main parking area by this time and now slowly drove around the gentle curve leading to the ER lot.
I unhooked the radio mike and held it below the window. “M-80 from O-3. Is the SRT rolling?”
“We’re rolling,” came the direct response. “We’re in Maxine’s van, coming up Estey Street. ETA about two minutes. Maxine says she’ll kill us if we put holes in this thing.”
“How many people do you have?”
“Three.”
“Okay-as far as we know, he’s alone.” I paused to check out the lot while Sammie, having parked, made a big show of pulling a map out and spreading it across the steering wheel. “I don’t see anyone in the ER parking area, either on foot or waiting in a vehicle. The subject is supposed to be wearing a bright-red windbreaker and a dark-blue baseball cap.”