Not that it would mean a lot to Tyler in his current state. Jones had the horrible feeling that his partner would not survive the night, let alone live to regret it in the coming days.
Tyler had been loaded on to a gurney and whisked off to emergency surgery. The medics who had arrived on the scene had worked furiously to stem the bleeding, and had stabilised him, but that was all they could do outside of an operating theatre. Jones recalled the last time he’d watched another ambulance tear away with sirens flashing, and things had not ended well then. Yoshida Takumi hadn’t made it to the hospital, and he doubted that Tyler would either.
Jones looked down at the blood that drenched his clothing, and he studied his hands. They looked as if he was wearing crimson gloves. He had done all he could to assist his friend, compressing the wound in his throat to stop him bleeding out, but it was almost hopeless. At first the blood had jetted out, then slowed to a milder pulse, but not because the bleeding was under control, only that there remained little to be squeezed out of Tyler’s failing body. He checked his own wound, and was thankful for the ballistic vest he’d worn under his shirt. When the suspect shot him, the bullet had flattened against the vest, knocking him down with the force, but it had not punctured his flesh. He had a major haematoma due to grow on his chest, judging by the pain, but for now he could live with that. The suspect had shot him again as he’d crouched behind the shrubbery, this time nicking his left leg, and the burning sensation of his wound was little more than a distraction. A medic had patched him up, but he’d refused further treatment and had stayed to secure the crime scene and the incriminating evidence discovered within the house.
It was almost two hours since the shoot-out and the house and surrounding neighbourhood of Clarendon Heights had taken on the look of a carnival. Lights flashed everywhere, vehicles came and went in processions, and people had risen from their beds to watch the excitement. Uniformed officers held back the ghoulish crowd of onlookers, who stood beyond the crime-scene tape in their PJs and dressing gowns. Journalists and TV crews were also in attendance, and more than once Jones had brushed away a microphone that had been thrust under his chin.
What would he say to their demands for a quote anyway? That the SFPD’s hunt for their multiple-murder suspect was a complete screw-up? It was as far as he was concerned. It had taken two vigilantes to do more than the SFPD had achieved, and despite everything he even owed them for both his and Tyler’s lives. There was no doubt about it: the killer would have murdered Tyler outright if they hadn’t grabbed him as he was about to execute the injured detective. Jones wasn’t even sure that he would have survived the next shots fired at him as he’d taken ineffective cover behind the bushes, if it hadn’t been for Hunter’s and Rington’s judicious actions.
Jones was a cop through and through. But he was also a man who laid much faith in the goodness of others’ hearts, and he was grateful that good men had come to his aid. It was his reason for keeping the two men’s names quiet when other officers arrived at the scene. Maybe his decision would come back to haunt him at a later date, but right then and there, he’d kept their secret. He had said that Charles Peterson had shot them then made off. The officers tasked with hunting down the fugitive were at a loss as to where he’d gone, but were currently checking CCTV footage from all the major routes out of the city. In his colleagues there was an overriding sense of urgency to catch Peterson, but Jones wasn’t fearful that he would continue his killing spree. In fact, he had the sense that the elderly residents of his city were safe from the beast now. Aiding that assumption was the cellphone message he’d received minutes ago.
He had been surprised to hear the phone ringing from his pocket, and had plucked it out, trying not to smear Tyler’s blood over the screen as he fumbled it up to his ear.
‘You might be surprised to hear from me,’ Joe Hunter said. ‘But you gave me your phone number that time I met with you at the station.’
‘I’m surprised, all right,’ Jones said, as he’d glanced about, checking he wasn’t in earshot of any of his colleagues. ‘But not because you remembered my number.’
‘You’re surprised I’d call you at all.’
‘Have to admit it, Joe. I thought that you and your buddy would disappear and that would be it.’
‘There’s some unfinished business we need your assistance with.’
‘Yeah, I had that impression the second you called. Where is he, Joe? Where’s Charles Peterson?’
‘Markus Colby,’ Hunter corrected him. ‘That’s the killer’s real name, but he has been using his dead father’s name. Don’t ask me why, or what his motives for the murders were, because I won’t tell you. Only understand that he was misguided and chose to attack people for his own demented reason.’
‘It was to do with something that happened at Rohwer, wasn’t it?’
‘Like I said, I’m not telling. The thing is, if the truth ever comes out then good people will be harmed.’
‘And that’s why you’ve chosen to silence him.’
Hunter didn’t reply.
‘Where is he?’ Jones didn’t expect to ever find out. The cop part of him was disappointed, but the man who owed Hunter his life wasn’t so sorry.
‘Can we trust you to be discreet?’
‘I’ve covered your asses this long,’ Jones said.
Hunter had laughed. Then he’d given Jones a location to meet him, and express instructions to come alone.
‘Can I trust you?’ Jones countered. ‘For all I know you’re leading me to a trap. After all, if my buddy, Tyler, doesn’t make it through the night, I’m the only man who knows what really happened here.’
‘Despite our differences in approach,’ Hunter said, ‘we’re on the same side.’
Hunter had then disconnected the call and Jones had stared at the phone for a few seconds before placing it back in his pocket. That was when he’d noticed the copious amount of his partner’s blood on his clothes and hands.
He turned away from the house and the hive of activity within and walked away, brushing off a question from a uniformed sergeant. ‘I’ve got to go get cleaned up,’ Jones said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
In his car he pulled off his jacket and slung it on the back seat. Under the dashboard light his homicide detective’s badge winked back at him from where it was fixed to his belt. He pulled it off too and placed it on the back seat and covered it with his soiled clothing, but his service firearm stayed put on his hip. Then he’d driven away from the scene, heading out towards the reservoir beyond Chabot Lake. His in-car set was tuned to the hubbub of radio chatter between the crime scene and SFPD headquarters. As he was crossing the Bay Bridge he heard a coded announcement that sent a wedge of ice into his heart. He could barely breathe for seconds afterwards, and tears misted his vision, causing the tail lights of the vehicles in front to blur. He dashed the tears from his eyes, heedless that he smeared blood across his cheeks.
The journey was completed in a daze, but he finally found he had to concentrate as he moved off the hillside road on to a steeply descending track that wound its way down to a promontory overlooking the still waters of the reservoir. As he drove on to a turning circle his headlights picked out a group of vehicles, and a man leaning against the trunk of a tan-coloured sedan. Joe Hunter was bare-chested, and myriad cuts decorated his arms and body. He’d made an effort to clean off the blood but he still looked like a savage.