Ringing …
… Why the hell is my phone ringing in the middle of the night? Behr wondered.
It wasn’t like he didn’t need the sleep. It was four in the morning on the third day since the community meeting and it was official now: after running all the plates, parking tickets, and traffic stops in the areas of the body drops, he’d come up bone-dry. His effort had been a complete waste of time, and a third of a bottle of Wild Turkey had been his only solace once he’d finished.
The phone rang again and his mind went to Susan, calling about something wrong with Trevor, and his heart raced as he reached out and grabbed his phone from his nightstand but saw that Gary Breslau, not Susan, was the caller.
“What’s up?” Behr asked.
“It’s Quinn,” Breslau said.
“What about him?”
“Someone got him. He’s at Eskenazi, in Smith Trauma. I’m on my way there now.”
“So am I,” Behr said, putting his feet on the floor.
Behr heard the wailing before he even turned the corner and saw the police officers in the hospital hallway standing guard.
“Frank Behr,” he said, as they squared to him.
“Lieutenant said he’s good,” one of them told the other, and they pushed the door open, causing the pained cry to grow louder as he entered.
The room was full of doctors and nurses, with Breslau and a few other cops in street clothes, but was dominated by Sheri Quinn, the source of the sound, her petite figure vibrating with anguish and fear. Behr’s eyes met Breslau’s, but before they could exchange a word, a doctor cleared from the bedside and Behr got a look at a battered and mutilated Quinn. His head was massively swollen and wrapped in white bandages that were stained through with seeping bright red blood. Quinn’s eyes were blackened and closed, his nose looked broken, and his jaw appeared to be wired in place. And that was the good news. Behr’s gaze traveled down Quinn’s body, where bloody bandaged stumps were all that remained at the end of his forearms. Quinn’s hands were gone.
That was when Sheri Quinn seemed to notice Behr’s presence. With a half scream she babbled something that sounded like “You …” and started swiping feeble blows at his chest. A female nurse and another woman, perhaps a relative, got hold of Sheri Quinn’s shoulders and pulled her away.
Breslau signaled, and he and Behr retreated to a far corner of the room.
“Some workmen on a paving crew found him wandering around by the railroad tracks west of the stadium. He was all fucked up, didn’t even know his own name, but he still had his wallet in his pocket …” Breslau said, his voice low.
Behr looked at Sheri Quinn, seated now, her small frame racked with sobs.
“Blunt-force trauma to the head. Fractured skull.”
“What the hell happened to his hands?” Behr asked.
“They’re gone. Amputated, with a blow torch, is the best guess.”
I had that prick Prilo in the room, Behr thought to himself, looking for someone to lash out at, and I let him leave before getting something out of him …
“Ah fuck,” Behr said. “Why is he still alive?” he asked about Quinn, as quietly as he could.
“He shouldn’t be,” Breslau whispered. “The theory is he was left for dead. Between the bludgeoning and the hands, he should’ve bled out and died in a matter of minutes, and he would’ve, but the torch cauterized as it cut and the bleeding stopped pretty quickly. Somehow the tough bastard came to and got up and started walking.”
“Fuck me,” Behr said again. “This is my fault. For using him …”
“Easy,” Breslau said. “We’re thinking the same thing, that you drew the guy out, that he saw the pictures, but no one knows for sure what happened, and it’s not on you.”
“Tell me you recovered some DNA this time at least.”
“They went over his body as best they could. No DNA, no evidence of rape or sodomy …”
Thank God for small miracles, Behr thought.
“No hits. They went over his clothes with a fine-tooth comb too and they’re still working on it.”
“And?”
“You’re not gonna believe this—they recovered hairs.”
“Belonging to the perp?” Behr practically jumped.
“Doubtful. Long. Blond. Female.”
“Are they—”
“They’re being crossed against recent victims right now. I called a guy in special to run it as we speak.”
“If they belong to a victim, then this is our guy,” Behr said. He’d struck a nerve. Despite himself Behr felt his adrenaline surge. Prilo had been there at the meeting, and it had incited him.
That’s when they heard some babbling come from the bed, from between the clenched lips of Quinn, and Behr heard his name.
“Tell Behr …” the babbling came again, and the nurses and doctors made room for Behr and Breslau to approach the bedside.
“I’m here, Quinn,” he said, “it’s Behr.” Even Sheri Quinn stopped crying and went quiet.
“I’m sorry, Quinn, for what happened.” Behr moved close and Quinn’s eyes flickered. “Was it him?” Behr asked, but before he could say the name “Prilo,” Quinn babbled, “Hydroxyl … hydrox … benz …”
“What?”
“Smells like benz … benzy …”
“Smells like benzene?” Behr asked.
It wasn’t a nod, but some movement in the affirmative came from Quinn.
“What does? Where?”
“Where I was … Where he put …”
“Hydroxylated benzene,” Sheri Quinn said. “It’s a chemical used in developing film. He’s been going on about it since he came to. It’s all he’ll say. That you were right …”
The lead doctor, a man with steel-rimmed spectacles, thin red hair pressed to his temples, and an air of extreme competence, stepped forward and made himself noticed for the first time.
“We’ve got to do the procedure now,” the doctor said.
Breslau nodded and stepped back. Behr looked to him.
“He might have brain damage,” Breslau said low, pulling Behr away from the bedside. “They want to induce a coma. They need to try and control the swelling to his brain or he could end up a fucking cauliflower.”
“Shit,” Behr said, sick to his stomach. “Shit … What kind of a fucking asshole am I?”
Behr blasted the door open with a kick and stormed out to the hallway between the surprised police guards. He saw a steel medical rolling cart and picked it up, ready to smash it through a plate-glass window, when he felt hands that possessed real strength gripping his biceps, holding him back.
“What the fuck are you doing? Huh?” It was Breslau.
“I did that, in there,” Behr said, raw emotion in his voice. “I got that guy mutilated, maybe killed. He’s got kids, the wife. She could end up feeding him with a spoon. I—”
“Whoa, man. Come on. Who the fuck are you?” Breslau said. “Who are you that you think you can control everything?”
It stopped Behr cold.
“Put it down,” Breslau said. And Behr dropped the rolling tray back onto its wheels with a clang. The cops cleared a little way down the hall, giving them some space.
“I learned it by my second year on patrol same as you must’ve: we’re out there in the middle of it, but we’re not in charge of anything. You open the chute and try and ride the bull. You might think you can dictate where it’s gonna go a little, guide it once in a while. But the truth is: that beast is gonna go and do wherever and whatever the fuck he wants to and the best you can hope for is to hang on for the ride,” Breslau said.
Behr stood there staring.
“And you did. You got something going. You opened the chute. So now ride this fucker. Wait until we get back the match on those hairs, then chase down whatever it is you got.”
All Behr could do was nod.