CHAPTER 70

 

Richter pressed his erect penis hard against Rita’s vulva, trying to force the engorged organ between the dry outer lips of her vagina. The female detective had regained consciousness, and squeezed her thighs together as tightly as she could, denying him access to her genitals. She squirmed with all her might, but it was no use. Seconds later she felt Richter enter her. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to feel anything. Richter began thrusting deeper and deeper, grunting and straining toward his inevitable climax.

What if he has AIDS? What difference does it make? When she heard the doorbell ring, she thought, Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I’m not making it easy for you. With every ounce of strength she possessed, Rita bucked her hips hard against her intruder. He momentarily lost his balance, and as he swung his arms out to the side to right himself, he knocked the lamp to the floor. It made a loud crash, and the room was plunged into darkness. Now, she heard the unmistakable sound of her partner’s voice calling her name. In here, Chris—I’m in here.

Through the haze surrounding her senses, Rita heard Chris’s voice call out again. He must have heard the lamp, she thought. Oh God, Chris, please—please help me! She had always said she didn’t believe in mental telepathy, yet here she was desperately trying to communicate by the very method she had previously decried. I’m in here, Chris, her mind screamed – but to no avail. Help me! Help me!

Matt drew his revolver from beneath his jacket. He stepped back from the entryway, and with one efficient kick of his right leg, separated the cheap wooden door from its hinges. The apartment was pitch black. He called out into the darkness, “Rita? Are you alright?”

Valdez heard his voice. In here, Matt—I’m in the bedroom, she screamed inside her head. Richter rolled off Rita’s body, his erection shrinking immediately. He pulled his pants up from around his knees, and buckled his belt. He needed to find the knife, he thought. But it was dark. Desperately, he groped for the lamp on the table. He lost his balance, and stumbled forward making contact with the piece of furniture. “Shit!” he yelled, pain radiating throughout his lower leg. Using his left hand to steady himself, he leaned his chest on the top of the nightstand, and carefully reached down to the floor below. Feeling around with his right hand, he finally located the little knife.

“Stay here,” whispered Matt to Freitag, “in case he gets past me.” He crouched low, feeling his way along the perimeter of the apartment’s living room, one hand tracing the cool surface of the wall, as he made his way toward the noise coming from the bedroom. He didn’t want to risk turning on a light in case Richter had a gun. Holding his breath, Matt sensed, rather than felt the opening to the bedroom. He could hear Rita moaning, and decided he had to make a move. Slipping his hand inside the doorway, he found the wall switch for the ceiling light, and flipped it on, dropping immediately to his knees as the room erupted in light.

Richter turned around, saw the detective crouched on the floor, and swung his right foot hard, separating the revolver from Matt’s hand. As Davis tried to get back to his feet, the priest slashed wildly with his left hand, and caught Matt firmly on the neck with the blade of the knife. The pain was incredible, and as Matt reached up to his neck in response, Richter tried to get past him the bedroom door.

“Watch it, Chris!” shouted Matt. “He’s got a knife!” At the same time, he felt warm blood begin to spurt from the cut on his neck. “Shit!” he yelled. He was losing blood fast, and could already feel himself growing lightheaded. He reached out and grabbed one of Richter’s legs, pulling him to the floor. The two men struggled briefly, but Matt was losing blood rapidly, and with one final effort, Richter managed to free himself. With his head swimming wildly, Matt reached down to his ankle holster for his gun. As he did, Richter rose from the floor and rushed out of the bedroom, towards the living room. Sitting in a pool of his own blood, Davis raised his weapon and fired blindly at the retreating figure. He continued to fire, until he was out of bullets. Then, everything went black, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

When Freitag heard the shots, he crouched low, and leveled his service revolver toward the bedroom. Richter came charging out, catching him by surprise, and knocked him to the floor. In the blink of an eye Richter was out the door. Knowing Foster was covering the downstairs entrance, Chris got up and rushed into the bedroom, nearly tripping over Matt’s unconscious form. He saw Rita on the bed, and thought, Oh my god, she’s dead. He turned back to his partner on the floor. Blood spurted freely from a huge gash along the side of Matt’s neck. Freitag kneeled down, yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it against his partner’s neck. With his free hand, he felt for a pulse. A faint, rapid beating told him that his partner was still alive, but barely. He reached for his radio. “Officers down. Need medical assistance immediately. 225 East Twenty-Third. Make it fast!”

Valdez lay on the bed, just clinging to life. All Chris could do was pray.

 

Outside, Foster heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. He immediately reached for the two-way radio on his belt. He scanned the front of the building for its address. “225 East Twenty-Third Street! Shots fired!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Officers need assistance!” He jumped out of the car, and started up the stairs, revolver drawn. Halfway up the stairs, he saw a man race out of the apartment, a knife held in his left hand. Foster aimed and fired once. The bullet slammed into the wall, just inches from the man’s head. The man whirled and started up the stairs toward the rooftop.

Foster hesitated at the top of the landing, then made a right, and rushed into the open apartment. He felt along the wall by the door and found the light switch. He flipped it on, and was surprised to find no one there. Fearing the worst, he shouted, “Freitag? Davis? Valdez?”

“In here!” shouted Chris. “It’s Matt. He’s hurt bad!” Foster hurried through the apartment, and into the bedroom. Freitag continued applying pressure against the wound on his partner’s neck. Blood was everywhere.

“It’s really bad,” said Chris, when he saw Foster. “If we don’t get him to the hospital fast, I don’t think he’s gonna make it. I already called the paramedics.”

Foster untied Valdez’s hands and feet from the bed, then gently removed the sock from her mouth. “Are you okay?” he asked the semi-conscious woman.

Rita’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded her head up and down weakly in response. Her voice was barely audible as she asked, “Did you get him?”

“He’s on the roof,” said Foster. “Chris’ll stay here with you and Matt until the paramedics get here. I’m going after Richter.”

“Be careful,” whispered Rita.

 

On the rooftop, Richter ran wildly about, searching in vain for a way out. A low concrete wall about three feet high encircled the perimeter of the rooftop. He was trapped. What should I do, Jack? He looked up at the sky for guidance. There was none. He opened his mouth and howled like a wounded animal in the jungle.

Foster heard the noise just as he was opening the steel door to the rooftop. He stopped dead in his tracks, and cocked his gun. Then, slowly, his revolver held tightly in his hand, he slipped through the doorway, and peered into the blackness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the figure of the man with his back to him, silhouetted against the night sky. Foster took a step forward, his feet crunching on the gravel and tar roof. Richter turned toward the noise, and spotted the detective.

“Give it up, Father,” said Foster, in a voice as cold as ice. “It’s all over.”

Richter saw Foster, and raised his hands, dropping the knife. “Don’t shoot me, please,” he said timidly.

Foster kept his gun leveled at the suspect’s chest, approaching him cautiously. “Down on the ground!” he shouted. “Down on the ground! Now! Arms where I can see them!”

Richter did as he was told. Foster reached behind his back for his handcuffs, all the while keeping his revolver aimed at the suspect. “Okay,” he said. “Put your hands behind your back, nice and slow.” Richter obeyed, and Foster quickly secured the handcuffs to his wrists. “Okay. On your feet,” he commanded.

Foster yanked hard on the man’s left arm in an effort to force him to stand, and as Richter stood, the detective relaxed his grip for just an instant. Instantly, Richter swiveled around and drove his shoulder into Foster’s midsection, knocking him off his feet. The police captain landed hard on the rooftop, losing his grip on his gun, which fell to the ground, landing between the suspect and him. Realizing that the weapon was useless to him with his hands cuffed behind his back, Richter kicked hard, and sent the gun tumbling across the rooftop. Foster turned, and when he did, the priest sprinted into the darkness, disappearing behind a maze of chimneys and vent pipes. Foster cursed to himself, and strained his eyes in an effort to adjust his sight to the blackness of the night—but he couldn’t see a thing. His heart pounded a steady stream of blood against his eardrums, the noise all but drowning out any sound that might have revealed Richter’s location. Then, a scraping sound to his right caught Foster’s attention. Was it a shoe brushing the rooftop gravel or, perhaps, just a rat? He crouched even lower, and crept slowly toward the sound, feeling with his hand along the roof’s surface for his gun, while never taking his eyes off his invisible target.

There was a gap between the building he was on and the adjacent tenement. It was only about ten feet wide, but he figured that if a man took a good running leap he could probably make it across. Just as Foster’s hand found the revolver, and his fingers closed around its grip, he heard a sound to his right that caused him to turn. Richter came flying past him from out of the darkness, actually brushing his arm as he ran by. Foster raised his gun and fired at the receding shadow, but apparently missed. The man continued running, sprinting toward the low wall. Foster stood up, and charged after him, shouting “Halt!” as he struggled to aim his gun.

With a loud scream, Richter pushed hard off the surface of the rooftop, and vaulted through the night air like an Olympic broad jumper—his legs pumping furiously in an effort to assist his improbable journey to the other side. At that moment, Foster slipped on the gravel surface, and his gun discharged with a loud roar and a flash of light as he tumbled to the ground. He felt the flesh on the palms of his hands tear, and his face smashed into the rough surface of the tar and gravel roof. He swore to himself and retrieved his gun, before scrambling to his feet. He stared into the darkness, across to the other rooftop, hoping to see the man. There was no one there. Maybe he’d hit him? He couldn’t be sure. Foster hurried over to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. Below him was Richter’s body, impaled, face up, on a wrought-iron fence, several sharp pieces of metal protruding through his chest as he lay staring up at the detective with unseeing eyes.

A shudder coursed through Foster’s body. He knelt down on the asphalt surface and vomited. A crunching noise behind him made him turn. It was one of the responding uniformed officers. Wiping his mouth with one hand, and motioning toward the edge of the roof with the other, Foster said, “He’s down there.”

“Are you okay?” asked the cop.

“Yeah, just great,” said Foster. “How’s Davis?”

“They’re taking the Lieutenant to the ER. It doesn’t look good.”

“Did they leave yet?”

“No, but, if you want to go with them, you better hurry.”

Foster pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth, raising himself to his feet. “How’s the woman?” he asked.

“She’s banged up pretty bad; it’s probably fifty-fifty that she makes it.”

Foster hurried across the rooftop and down the stairs to the street to find the paramedics carefully placing the stretcher with Davis’s unconscious body on it, into the ambulance. “I’ll ride with Matt,” he told Chris.

Another ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics carefully loaded Valdez aboard. Several uniformed officers were busy placing yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter of the building. Freitag glanced down the alleyway and saw Richter’s lifeless form still suspended in mid-air atop the fence in the alley between the two apartment buildings. No one seemed to be paying much attention to it. That suited Chris just fine.

“Come on, let’s get a move on!” shouted Freitag to the EMT inside the ambulance. “I’ll ride with her.”

He clambered aboard the ambulance, and seated himself alongside Rita’s semi-conscious body. The other paramedic got in, and slammed the door behind them. Instantly, the ambulance lurched forward, lights flashing, and sirens blaring, headed toward the hospital.