What Have You Done(7)

“Cutter, get those hands up!” Sean screamed.

As Sean made it to the end of the hall, he kicked at the bedroom door to keep it open. Drapes swayed in a breeze brought in by the only window in the room. Their suspect was gone.

“He’s heading out back! He went out the window! Get to the back!” Sean grabbed for his radio to alert the officer at the rear of the house, but before he could lift it from his belt, the crackle of gunfire popped in the alley behind him, and he froze in place.

Don ran to the window. He grabbed his radio. “Officer down! We have an officer down at three-fifty-two North Broad Street. Suspect is fleeing on foot. Black male, six foot two, white tank top and jeans. Running east toward North Twelfth Street.” He turned to Sean. “Let’s go!”

As his partner ran past him and retreated back down the stairs, Sean threw himself out the open window onto a small overhanging roof. He scurried to the edge and used a gutter pipe to shimmy to the ground. When he landed, he could see the sergeant already outside, tending to the officer who’d been shot somewhere near his head and neck. The blood looked unnaturally bright in the early-morning sunlight.

“You stick with him,” Sean said to the sergeant as he ran by. He read the name tag on the young officer’s uniform. Samson. “Backup and an ambulance are on the way.”

The sergeant ignored him, instead cradling his officer in his arms and applying pressure to the wound as his other men finished sweeping the house. He kept whispering in the young man’s ear. “Hang in there. Hang in there. Hang in there.”

Sean could hear Don behind him but stayed focused on the suspect running up ahead. Cutter was still a good distance away. “Stop! Police!”

As Cutter ran, he turned back and fired twice. Sean covered up when he saw the flashes from the muzzle but never broke stride. He watched as Cutter hopped a small fence and slipped to the ground when he landed. He was almost out of the alley. If he got onto a busy street, they could lose him among the population and other side streets and cut throughs.

Sean stopped and raised his Beretta, carefully aiming at his fleeing target. A steady finger pulled the trigger, and in an instant, he saw Cutter fall to the ground. “Stay down,” he commanded.

Cutter was thrashing about, crying aloud, clutching the back of his leg. Sean approached with caution, his weapon aimed. He climbed the fence and landed on the other side. Cutter’s muscles bulged and tensed through his tank top as he rolled around. The oversized watch on his left wrist had cracked when he’d fallen. The diamond-encrusted jewelry around his neck jingled with every motion.

“Where’s your gun?” Sean asked.

“Up your ass!” Cutter screamed. His eyes found the detective’s for a moment, and then he turned away.

“Give me your weapon, or I end you right here.”

Cutter grunted as he pushed his Glock from underneath his chest and slid it across the alley. “Call an ambulance, man. I’m hit!”

Don caught up, climbed the fence, and landed next to his partner. “Nice shot,” he said.

“Thanks. Had to get him before he made it to the street. I didn’t want to lose him.”

“I didn’t do nuthin’,” Cutter spat. “Get me a doctor, man. I need a doctor. I’m shot. You shot me!”

“Yeah, looks like I caught you in the knee,” Sean replied. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“Screw you, man!”

Sean kept his gun aimed on his suspect and motioned toward his partner. “Cuff him, and I’ll search him,” he said. “We’ll ride with him to the hospital, and I’ll sit outside his room until he’s ready for transport to Booking. I’m not letting this son of a bitch out of my sight.”

Don nodded. “Ten-four.”





5

Yellow crime scene tape stretched around the perimeter of the Tiger Hotel, trapping the two patrol cars that had responded to the scene inside the parking lot while keeping all unauthorized personnel at bay. An ambulance and a Forensics van were parked diagonally across from the hotel’s entrance. Two officers stationed by sawhorses closed the street in both directions.

There was a particular smell to the Tiger. Liam paused to identify it, but the best he could come up with was an overabundance of Lysol and the stench of wet dog. He held his hand over his mouth and walked to the foot of the stairs with the rest of his team. Sergeant McMullen, the officer in charge, was waiting.

“Ah, Forensics,” McMullen said. “We were wondering when you guys were going to show.”

“What’s up?”

“We got a girl up in B11, hanged with an extension cord, then split open at the gut. Gory, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Some of the other guys are having a rough time with it. We’re interviewing the owner, trying to get a list of guests or workers who might’ve seen something. We took a few pictures and cordoned off the area. Other than that, we’ve pretty much been waiting for you guys to do your thing.”

“Okay, we’re on it.”

McMullen shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Whoever did this isn’t playing with a full deck,” he said. “Sick bastard left paper flowers at her feet.”

Liam stopped. “Paper flowers?”

“Yeah, you know, those flowers made out of tissue paper or construction paper or whatever? Friggin’ guy makes like a bouquet of them and leaves them under the body. Weird.”