Page 4 of The Drowned Woman
“Are you serious? Why the hell—” He took a breath.
Harper side-stepped his question. “Krichek wanted to know if you want to give ERT the green light to go in.”
“The neighbor is barricaded inside with the EDP?” Incidents involving emotionally disturbed persons were unpredictable, but calling in the Emergency Response Team was usually a last resort. For McKinley, the ERT leader, every option began with lethal force. Having a mental health issue shouldn’t condemn someone to die, and it didn’t sound like the uniforms had even tried to calm the situation down before making the call. If anything, it seemed as if they had exacerbated things.
“No. I talked the husband into opening the door and she’s out. The neighbor and I are now standing just outside it, close enough so she can talk to him, but he’s beyond reasoning with at this moment. Neighbor said before we got here, when she was still inside, she almost had him calmed down but then a uniform barged in, ready to Taser him. That’s when things escalated.”
“Escalated how? Weapons involved?”
“None that I’ve seen. Uniforms said the guy became violent and they had no choice but to call ERT. But the neighbor is saying the husband didn’t become violent until after the uniforms grabbed her and threatened to Taser him.”
The truth probably lay somewhere in the middle. But either way, there was bound to be hell to pay. Either patrol had been too aggressive, or the husband truly did pose a threat that the neighbor was blind to—although she seemed ready to tell anyone who listened that the uniforms had mishandled the situation. “Tell McKinley to hold until I get there. Make sure everyone knows the husband has medical issues—which means no Tasers. We need to de-escalate.” Then he had another thought. “What’s the husband’s diagnosis? Anyone know?”
“Not sure. Manager says some kind of dementia. We found prescriptions with the husband’s name on them scattered near the wife’s body, but we haven’t been able to get ahold of the doctor yet.”
A physician’s input would be valuable—and subduing the man might require medication beyond what paramedics could offer. Exactly what the new crisis intervention program was designed for. “Call Leah Wright.”
“Boss?” Harper’s voice upticked not only with a question but also with disapproval. She and Leah had clashed during Leah’s husband’s murder investigation. It didn’t help that Harper had been convinced Leah was behind her husband’s death.
“Call her, Harper. Tell the neighbor to keep talking to the guy—as long as you both are safe. And keep the ERT cowboys from killing anyone before I get there. I’ll be there in ten.” He hung up.
He’d driven his private vehicle over the mountain to Lewisburg this morning, anticipating exchanging it for an unmarked one after he arrived at police headquarters. But since Luka was basically on call 24/7, his truck had wig-wags installed behind the grill. He flicked the emergency lights on and sped up as he rounded the final curve leading down the mountain.
Usually he loved this view of his city carved into the side of the mountain and stretching out to the river and beyond. Even today with the glooming clouds, the morning sun still managed to filter through, turning the soot-stained peaked roofs, wet brick and stone masonry into something out of a painting. A fantasy, to be sure, because in reality, Cambria City was a down-and-out rustbelt town hanging on purely through audacity and stubborn pride.
As Luka drove, he called the ERT leader, McKinley, and got a situation report from his more tactical perspective. Definitely more gloom and doom and portents of bloodshed than what Harper had given him. Luka drove over the final hill leading into the heart of the city and turned down Second Avenue. A few minutes later he was being waved through a police barricade, parking in front of the Falconer, a brick pre-war building, five stories high. At least McKinley hadn’t brought the armored vehicle—that damn thing always attracted attention.
As Luka sprinted past puddles on the street, hood up against the rain, he assessed the crowd gathered beyond the barricade. Mostly men, working age, a few college students, almost everyone with cell phones at the ready, sharing the buzz of anticipation, hoping for a show. Anything to kill the dreary monotony of the endless days of rain.
Luka grimaced. He hoped he could resolve the situation upstairs calmly, leave the crowd feeling like they’d wasted their time. Krichek spotted him and opened the first set of two ornate-leaded glass doors leading into the building’s lobby, waving Luka inside.
“Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho, Violent Crime Unit,” Luka told the recording officer stationed at the inside door. He unzipped his parka and glanced around.
There was a security camera inside the small entrance formed by the two sets of glass doors and a keypad below it, requiring visitors to be buzzed in if they didn’t have a key. The foyer had a marble floor and columns enhanced with art deco-style embellishments. There was an elevator bank directly across from the front doors, a walnut reception desk on the left, and to the right, a wide staircase with intricate wrought-iron railings circled the lobby’s perimeter to create a spacious atrium.
And near the foot of the stairs sprawled a woman’s bloody corpse.
Four
Other than discovering her husband’s body, Leah had never been to a crime scene before. As she drove up to the Falconer Apartments, she wasn’t certain if the tightness in her belly was from excitement, anticipation, or anxiety. It felt different than the usual rush she had when heading into a fresh trauma in the ER. Maybe because here, she was trespassing on someone else’s territory, subject to their rules.
She gave her name to the officer at the barricade and showed him her ID, then parked the Subaru where he pointed. Her new job at the Crisis Intervention Center included what her boss termed “call-outs,” aiding the police in interviewing upset or fragile witnesses and using her medical expertise to help with volatile subjects, like drug users or people with psychiatric diagnoses. The program was part of a federal grant her boss had received that allowed the CIC to keep its doors open, but it was uncharted territory, this forced collaboration, for both the medical center and the police.
As she ran through the rain, trying to look like she knew what she was doing, Leah hugged a knapsack containing her trauma kit. Last month she’d been forced to treat a gunshot wound with nothing more than a kitchen towel and a belt for a tourniquet. Even though she’d saved the detective’s life, she vowed never to be caught off guard like that again.
Another officer stopped her inside the doors to the apartment building and she gave him her name, even as her attention was riveted by the sight of the woman sprawled face down on the marble floor. Blood had pooled beneath her broken body and, even if Leah hadn’t spotted Maggie Chen attending to her, it was obvious she was dead.
“I’m hoping that’s not my patient.” The joke was born of nervous anxiety and she regretted it as soon as it left her lips, felt her cheeks warm with a blush.
The officer didn’t answer, merely jerked his chin to the reception desk along the other wall of the lobby. Not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, Leah edged along the perimeter. Luka Jericho and one of his team members, a young detective named Krichek, stood at the desk, along with an older uniformed officer wearing body armor and carrying an assault rifle. Luka wasn’t dressed in his usual suit and tie; instead he had on muddy hiking boots, jeans, a button-down shirt, and a parka. Was something about this case so important that they’d called him in from home? A thrill of anticipation shot through her, not unlike the feeling she had in the ER when greeting a fresh trauma. But then she quickly sobered. Unlike her old life in the ER, where each new case brought with it the chance to save a life, Luka’s team calling her in meant a fragile or vulnerable witness, either the victim of a crime or a family member left bereft by violence. Just like she’d been when she first met Luka herself.
The older man spotted her. “And now he goes and brings in the welfare lady,” he said in a tone of disdain. “Gonna try to tell me that talking and listening works better than a bullet to the brain stem.” The man had a severe case of rosacea that left his face florid red. Probably why he worked on the SWAT team instead of undercover or investigations, Leah thought. Every emotion flashed like neon across his features.
“Dr. Leah Wright,” she introduced herself and held out a hand, which the other man ignored.
“This is Sergeant McKinley. Leader of the Emergency Response Team,” Luka told her. “Don’t mind him. He’s never happy unless he gets a chance to bust in a door or use his toys to ruin someone’s day. Which I’m hoping won’t be necessary.”
“He had a hostage—” McKinley protested.
