“PARTIALLY DISEMBOWELED. WE had to remove seven and a half centimeters of his large intestine.” Female voice. “He should make a full recovery, although he may not be able to speak for a couple weeks.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Leah. “You saved his life.”
“The paramedics deserve most of the credit, but even they couldn’t have saved him if that woman hadn’t seen him when she did. If she’d been even a minute or two later, he probably wouldn’t have survived.” A quick exhale. “Although, I may be selling Mr. Cahill short. He already had quite a few scars on his body. I checked his medical records after surgery. They show he’s been treated for bullet wounds twice, but the scar on his left bicep looks like he might have been shot there, too. He’s led a dangerous life. I hope he slows down after this.”
“So do I.” Leah.
My quest for the truth had put me in the hospital, near death, three times. I followed my own sense of justice. Every action I’d taken had led me to where I was today.
I’d survived, but Turk was still in jail.
“Mr. Cahill, it’s Detective Denton from the La Jolla Police Department.” I recognized her voice without the introduction. Even in my opioid haze. “Can you tell me what happened last Saturday night?”
Moira had kept me up to date on the investigation of my attacker. No one had gotten a good look at him. The woman who wanted to see the ocean and screamed and saved my life saw the Invisible Man as he leaned over me and tried to slit my throat. But she only saw the top of his head, then he was gone up the enclosed staircase. No one in the bar that night could remember the man sitting to the left of the entrance around ten o’clock. He truly was an invisible man.
“He’s not supposed to talk, Detective.” Moira, a machine-gun volley. She and Leah took turns watching over me. Unfortunately for Detective Denton, this was Moira’s watch. “And he probably can’t yet, anyway. The son of a bitch sliced his throat open and nicked his vocal cord.”
The nurses had given me a whiteboard to write on in lieu of speech, but I was usually too doped up to make much sense. I tried to write “Invisible Man, Keenan Powell, and Benson/Baxter killed Shay,” but I’m not sure if any of it was legible.
Moira interpreted, now fully onboard with my theory.
“Mr. Cahill’s attack looks like a violent robbery.” Denton. “I’m afraid nothing else.”
“Someone’s going to try to disembowel a man and slit his throat for a wallet?”
“His phone was stolen, too.” Denton, unwilling to give an inch. As usual.
“Which LJPD pinged and found it in a dumpster a block away, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why steal the phone then dump it?”
“Be—”
“Because he wanted to get information off the phone.” Moira cut Denton off. “See who Rick had contacted, what he texted. Then he dumped the phone. This was attempted murder by someone working for Keenan Powell and Colt Benson, aka Chuck Baxter. I told Detective Sheets Saturday night that he needed to talk to them and get Baxter’s DNA. The same night I told him Rick needed twenty-four-hour police protection, which LJPD refuses to provide. Powell and Baxter are the key to everything. Shay Sommers’ murder and Rick’s assault.”
“Keenan Powell was murdered in his home. His housekeeper found him yesterday.”
“When? Was he stabbed?” Moira asked the same questions that were in my head.
“We’re not sure when he was killed, yet. Last Sunday or Monday. He was shot once in the chest and once in the face. Looks like a home invasion-type robbery.”
“More likely Saturday night after Rick was attacked.” Moira spat the words out.
I scrawled “Invisible Man Benson clean up” on the whiteboard and tapped my hand on it.
“We’re not handling the case. That’s the San Diego Police Department’s jurisdiction, but they think it was a robbery.”
I held up the whiteboard and pounded on it. Moira continued to explain what Denton refused to acknowledge.
After five minutes, both sides gave up.
“If you can think of anything else, let us know.” Denton dropped something on the nightstand next to my bed. Probably a business card. “I’ll check back in a few days when you’re feeling better.”
I pounded the whiteboard a couple more times, but she left without another word.
The next few days passed like a strobe light hallucination. In and out of opioid sleep. I tried to communicate on the whiteboard, but most of the time I was too drugged out to make any sense. Leah and Moira took turns holding my hand. Bandage changes, sponge baths, and doctor check-ins.
I gradually eased back on the medication, and my head started to clear after six or seven days, maybe ten. The days all ran together. I began to walk the halls. Each time a nurse insisted on holding my arm even though I had my cane and improving vision. I could make out Leah’s eyes when she leaned in for a kiss. Sea blue. I’d missed being dazzled by their beauty.
During my recovery in the hospital, a neurosurgeon and my ophthalmologist confirmed what I already knew. My vision was coming back. Neither could tell me how much of it I’d permanently regain.
For once, I had more faith than the experts.
Finally, my discharge day arrived. Leah was outside with her car waiting to pick me up after I got my wheelchair chauffeured ride to exit the hospital. Moira went out looking for an orderly to expedite the process. She knew I had cabin fever and could barely wait another minute to be set free. I looked out the window and saw the outlines of medical buildings on the hospital campus. Sharp rectangle outlines, against the steel gray sky.
The world outside my sunglasses was coming into tighter focus.
I finally sat in the visitor chair next to the bed I was ready to burn and pretended to wait patiently.
A figure came into my room. Male. Blue clothes. Probably a suit. Calvin Klein cologne. Elk Fenton. I was surprised, but not surprised. Elk had jettisoned me from the defense team, but the grudge didn’t go any deeper.
“Rick! I’m so glad you’re getting out today.” He moved toward me.
I eased myself up out of the chair. Pain and stitches grabbed at my stomach.
“Thanks for coming by.” I stuck out a hand to cut off any attempt at a painful and awkward hug. He shook it.
“I visited you once, but you were under a lot of pain medication, understandably. How are you feeling now?”
I heard his last question, but didn’t register it. Because I heard something else. Step, thunk, drag. Step, thunk, drag. Then a hulking figure appeared.
“Turk?” I strode to him and banged into a hug. We squeezed and held on. My wound screamed, but the pain made me feel alive.
A gasp behind Turk and a whiff of spicy citrus. Kris.
“He’s free! He got out of jail this morning!”
Turk and I released, but kept our hands on each other’s shoulders.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The DA dropped the charges without prejudice,” Fenton piped up over my shoulder.
“Which means they can arrest me again if they want to.” Turk, his red Brillo pad of hair smudged but visible to me. His eyes, dark circles.
“True, but very unlikely.” Fenton. “The without prejudice is an attempt at face saving by LJPD and the DA’s office.”
“What happened? Why did they drop the charges?”
“We had Shay’s fingernail scrapings sent to a private lab and the epithelial cells were mixed with a trace amount of cornstarch under a single fingernail that had unknown male DNA that they ran through CODIS and got a hit.”
“Cornstarch?”
“Yes. Cornstarch has replaced talcum powder as a lubricant in some latex gloves.” Counselor Fenton at his most comfortable. “Shay must have fought at the end and torn a hole in one of the latex gloves of the murderer.”
“The fight in her kept me from spending the rest of my life in prison.” Turk, emotion caught in his throat.
I patted him on the shoulder. “Did they arrest the guy? Who is he?”
“Well, no.” Fenton’s head tilted to the left. “The DNA belonged to Doug Breslin from Modesto, California. Born November 2, 1983. Died October 24, 2009.”
“What? A dead man’s DNA?”
“Yes. The district attorney knew that the DNA information, coupled with what you and Moira learned about Shay, her mother, Keenan Powell, and Chuck Baxter, would be, at the very least, too much reasonable doubt for any jury to convict. So, your unsanctioned investigation actually helped set Turk free.” No bitterness or irony in Elk’s voice.
“Wait a second. Somebody finally believes that Colt Benson and Chuck Baxter are the same person?”
“Yes, but we may never be able to prove it. Benson disappeared. Completely vanished. Left his wife, his business, everything behind.”
“He’s done that before,” I said. “He had Powell killed so he couldn’t finger him. Benson will show up again somewhere. His appearance will be altered again and he’ll have another name, but he’ll be wealthy and content spending other people’s money. What do you know about the other dead guy who’s alive, Doug Breslin?”
“He served in the Army for four years. Honorably discharged. Bounced around from job to job in central California. Was arrested twice. Once for shoplifting and then did time for felony assault. That’s when he was swabbed for DNA. Did four years in Folsom State Prison and moved to Alaska in 2009. Worked on a crab boat where he was lost at sea later that year.”
“Except he wasn’t,” I said. “Now he’s someone else. He’s murdered at least two people and he’s still out there.”