“This is what we need you to find out from Jaime Avanti. Five days ago, he walked through the front doors of the Pentagon and turned himself in. He gave us just enough information to prove credible, most of which I’ve shared with you. However, he won’t say anymore until he talks with you.” Simpson closed his briefcase. “Buckle your seatbelt. We’ll be landing in just a couple of minutes.”
Chapter 18
Rodney Patton started for the door the instant he heard the shots. It always amazed him that every time he faced potentially lethal situations he had the most unusual thoughts. Instead of worrying about his own safety, or the safety of his men, he was struck by how gunshots sounded more like firecrackers than the sharp, echoing reports Hollywood was so fond of. The.44, now that sounds like a real gunshot, no mistaking that baby, he thought while yanking on the handle of the glass doors. It rattled on its hinges, but didn’t open. He pulled and pushed, but the door remained locked. Johnson was already outside, having gone through the revolving door. Patton watched him streak across the parking lot to the crumpled form that could only be Yaeger. Patton squeezed himself around the rotating door and followed the younger man to the fallen cop.
Yaeger looked bad. His right leg was broken high up in the thigh, and it lay twisted at an unnatural angle. His face was as pale as the snow he lay in, which meant that his pelvis was probably also fractured and that he was bleeding internally.
“I didn’t see it coming, Chief,” he babbled. “I was helping this guy who had a stroke, and the next thing I know he’s trying to kill me.” His voice was strong and his eyes were clear. Johnson was standing over the two of them, screaming at dispatch to get an ambulance down there right away.
“Was that him in the BMW that just drove outta here?” Patton asked, while doing a trauma survey.
“Yeah, that was him. Six feet six inches. Black overcoat, black pants. Medium to light build. Walked with a limp, and couldn’t use his right arm. I’m pretty sure I hit him with one of the shots.” He began to rush his words.
“So you fired before he hit you? How was a guy who couldn’t walk well or use his arm trying to kill you? Was he armed?” Patton’s questions became somewhat accusatory.
“No, he wasn’t armed. It’s hard to explain, but he sort of reached into my head and started to squeeze my brain. I could tell he was trying to kill me, because I could hear him. . in. . inside,” Yaeger stammered. “It doesn’t make sense, I know, but that’s what happened. I woke up under that truck, and he was trying to get away. I fired into the glass, and then he ran me down. I know I hit him. I felt it in his arm.”
“Yaeger, you’re not making sense—” Patton said with a good deal of frustration, but Yaeger interrupted him.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” the young man said, grabbing Patton’s arm. “His name is Reisch, Klaus Reisch. He’s German, and he killed Mr. Van Der this morning, just as he tried to kill me, only he couldn’t because someone named Amanda stopped him. She hurt him, that’s why he couldn’t move his arm.” The words rushed from Yaeger’s mouth, and his eyes pleaded with Patton to believe him. An ambulance siren began to screech nearby.
“All right, Yaeger,” Patton said while trying to pry the young man’s grip off his arm. “The ambulance is right around the corner, and we’re gonna get you to the hospital.”
“Chief, you’ve got to believe me. I’m trying to be as clear as I can. He’s different from everyone else. I’m not even sure he’s human.” Yaeger began to cry. The ambulance pulled up and the motor almost obscured the last thing he said: “Don’t let him get her, Chief.”
The EMTs pushed Patton aside, and he watched only for a moment longer before turning to find his other charge. Johnson was standing in front of a gathering crowd, openly crying as his friend was loaded into the ambulance. “Pull yourself together, or take off the uniform,” Patton whispered in his ear. Johnson wiped his face and followed his new boss inside the hotel lobby. “Did you see the vehicle that drove outta here as we were running outside?”
“Black BMW. Windshield was starred, and one of the passenger windows was shot out,” Johnson said with growing vigor. “A Taurus was also parked nine cars from where Officer Yaeger was injured. I’ve already called in for an APB and a forensic team.”
Patton stopped and regarded Johnson. “Good work, Johnson. Did you get a look at the driver?”
“All I saw was a blur of black, sorry.”
“Don’t be. You saw more than I did, and you handled yourself well. Don’t be ashamed of crying, just don’t do it in public,” Patton said gently. These men had potential, and for better or worse, he had accepted the responsibility to shepherd them and develop that potential. Even Yaeger had kept enough of his head to give a reasonable description of his assailant. Patton still didn’t understand what had happened, but it was clear that Yaeger had fired his weapon before he had been run down. The question was, why? He stopped for a moment and focused on what Yaeger had told him: he had been helping a man who had had a stroke, and then that man had tried to kill Yaeger by reaching into his head and squeezing his brain. At face value, it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t unusual for someone with a head injury to come up with a distorted, but nearly accurate, account of events. Patton guessed that the dark man had spotted Yaeger watching the Taurus, and then feigned a disability to lure the cop out of his car, where he had hit him over the head. Yaeger must have come to just as the man was driving away, which was why he shot into the car. It was a believable story, and probably enough to keep Internal Affairs happy. The last thing he needed right now was an officer-involved shooting investigation. Johnson shifted nervously as Patton thought about the situation. Then Patton said, “Okay, we need to find out who owned that Taurus, and the BMW. I’m fairly certain at least one of them is missing.”
Johnson’s lapel microphone squeaked into life. “Johnson, are you still with the chief?” The young policeman winced at the lack of radio protocol. “This is Officer Johnson, please identify yourself.”
“This is Detective Mayer. Please inform the chief that we have a gentleman here who claims his car was just stolen. He says it was a dark green BMW. He says that he saw the guy who stole it and what happened to Yaeger.”
Patton bent down to Johnson’s mike. “Hold him there. I’ll be right out.” Patton straightened back up and looked at Johnson, shaking his head. “This shit just doesn’t happen in real life. Come on, Johnson. Let’s go talk with our witness. Is Johnson your first name or last?” he asked as he went through the revolving door.
“Last, sir. I’m Henry Jackson Johnson,” he said with more pride than Patton thought he should have for such a name.
“Did your parents hate you, son?” He chuckled while walking over to a group of plainclothes detectives.
“Chief, this is James Michener,” Mayer said as Patton got close.
“No shit,” he answered.
“I’m only a nephew,” the balding, middle-aged man said. “I saw the man who stole my car, and what he did to the other police officer. I was getting ready about a half hour ago when I happened to glance outside at my car. A very tall man, dressed all in black, was sweeping the snow off the roof when your cop came over and began to help him. I thought that they had just made a mistake, and once they figured it out, they would move over to the right car. Only the cop suddenly grabs his head and starts screaming, and this tall guy just stands over him, watching. His eyes were bugging out—”
“Whose eyes?” Patton asked.
Johnson was busy writing everything down.