Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

He convinced himself, however, not to question further, not to draw his Minx, not to call out to the police officers roaming among the congestion of cars and angry drivers hanging out their windows and doors. It was a combustible situation: there might be gunfire. Get off the bridge first.

Whistles blew. Lanes moved. Officers waved their arms. Finally, on the New Jersey side of the bridge, at the edge of Fort Lee, cars fanned out and resumed the speed of the highway.

"Pull over, Dr. Brooks," Robert said, baring his canines.

In the rush of traffic, David caught only a glimpse of Robert, but it was sufficient to behold a pistol aimed at his head. David's eyes darted about wildly as he tried to maintain the wheel. He felt his foot tremble when he eased up on the accelerator and, changing to the far right lane, his eyes met the glinting pistol head-on. Even in semi-darkness, he recognized the gold grip and stainless steel barrel of a Kimber.45, the same model missing from Spritz's collection and the same model used in his murder.

"Hurry it up," Robert said, menacingly.

"Put the gun away, Robert," David said, galvanizing the same composure he'd shown in medical emergencies.

"Just do like I say, Dr. Brooks."

David slowed further and spotted a boarded up factory set back from the highway, two-hundred yards ahead. He decided he must act swiftly and knew that the maneuver he had in mind hinged on a precise synchrony of reflexes, on certain movements he hoped were engraved in his muscles. The factory's sprawling vacant lot was exactly what was required to execute it.

He coasted into the lot, floored the accelerator for a count of two and slammed on the brakes. Quick as a spark, before Robert's whiplash sequence was completed, David unleashed a karate-chop to his wrist. The pistol squirted to the floor. Robert clutched the wrist, groaning and writhing in his seat.

"You broke my arm!" he screamed.

David's intention had been to stun, not to shatter, and the trick was to deliver the blow with the speed of a chop but without its force. "I didn't break it, Robert, but believe me, if I'd wanted to, I could have."

David used his Minx to wave Robert out of the car and to lean over the hood. As he frisked him, two cars screeched in beside the Mercedes. Nick and Kathy piled out of one, Detective Johnson out of the other.

"Forget Bernie," David said with finality. "Here's your killer."

During the return to Connecticut, David decided to drive with the top down. Robert sat handcuffed in the passenger seat, Kathy in back with her new Beratta Cougar at her side. The others followed close behind.

At the factory lot, David had capsulized what had happened, and Kathy had phoned back to headquarters to have Bernie seized on suspicion of major narcotics trafficking. In a brief verbal exchange out of earshot of Robert, Nick joined her in claiming that jurisdiction of the suspect belonged to the state of New Jersey. But David argued that if there were no arrest and Robert agreed, they simply had embarked on a joyride and could then turn around and head home. Robert agreed, and at the border in Greenwich, Connecticut, Kathy arrested him.

Midway on the Merritt, Robert continued to massage his wrist and, for the first time since he'd complained Nick resorted to police brutality in applying handcuffs, he spoke. "Dad would have been proud of me," he said, mawkishly. "I got the guy who cut him up." Neither David nor Kathy responded.

"He was a good dad. He gave me the motorcycle, you know. He was the boss and he was tough, but that was no reason to kill him like that. He was a sick man, too. That there pancreas. Those bastards-they were doin' good but Spritzy wanted more."

David wished he had a tape recorder turned on.

"Bernie!" Robert shouted, "that son-of-bitch, he hated my father."

David had not anticipated such an effusive suspect and decided to milk the opportunity. He began gently.

"Robert, you said your father-who incidentally was a friend of mine at the hospital-you said he gave you the motorcycle. Is that the red one?"

"Yep. It's a 1969 Honda. Only two more like it all over the world. His friend in Japan gave it to him four years ago and Dad gave it to me on my birthday." Robert brushed an eye with his cuffed bands. "He told me not to drive it where people could see me because Japan wouldn't like it. So I only used it out in the country, except when I went back to get Spritzy. He wanted to kill me, you know, but I took care of him."

"So that was you with the rifle at the cemetery?"

"Yep."

"Where did you get it?"

"Spritzy gave it to me. He told me to shoot you with it, but you were looking at me."

"I see. And where did you keep the motorcycle?"

"In my Dodge Caravan." He spoke like a child.

David reached further. "And you say that Victor Spritz killed your father. How do you know that?"

"Bernie told me. And Spritzy killed those doctors, too."

"Do you remember that one of the doctors was killed with a dagger?"

"Yep."

"Where did the dagger come from? Do you know?"

"That was Bernie's. Well, not really. It was Spritzy's. He had two of 'em and gave one to Bernie."

David was sure of the answer to the next question. "I suppose that was you who fired the shot at Detective Dupre and me?"

"I'm sorry I did, Dr. Brooks. I'm sorry now."

The air had chilled during the night. In the morning, David noticed the single birch outside police headquarters was not as white as the thin snow cover.

He ambled into Kathy's barren office. It was nine-fifteen. She stood near a makeshift serving table, fixing coffee.

"You want some?" she said, her voice husky. He nodded.

"Who wrote up the report last night?" he asked.

"I did. Robert would still be talking if I hadn't started turning my lights out."

"When was that?"

"Oh, about three."

"When did you get here this morning?"

"Seven-thirty. I overslept. And when I arrived, the parking lot was crawling with media. Nick went out and had a nice little press conference right on the front steps. He gave you all the credit."

He looked at her solemnly. "How many coffees have you had?"

"Three. Did you know that Robert once helped coordinate drug shipments to Florida?"

"Robert?"

"Yes. And I'd have to say, David-the longer he talked, the more I realized he's no dummy. His father knew that."

"What do you mean?"

"Read the report." Kathy carried two coffees to her desk, sat and pulled a folder from the top drawer. She handed it to David who leafed through several of its pages.

"Here," she said, getting up, "park yourself here, and take your time. I just remembered. I'll be in Nick's office checking on what's happening with Bernie in New Jersey." She gulped down her coffee, waited for David to sit, kissed his forehead and left.

He scanned the report and was impressed with its question and answer layout, an easy read. His sleep had been shallow and, despite his closeness to the case, he would have been in no mood yet to suffer through the usual soporific narrative. He parodied an archetypical beginning: "The alleged perpetrator took a swing at the alleged victim-blah-blah-blah-blah."

David read that Charlie Bugles was the kingpin of an international narcotics ring with cohorts in Istanbul, Tokyo and Cartagena. Spritz and Bernie were lesser but equal cogs in the operation and shuttled between the United States and foreign drug territories in South America, Europe and the Far East. But Spritz had become "too damn greedy" and "Dad wanted to cut him out and have me take his place. He changed his sources in Istanbul and gave me the list. So Spritzy cracks my safe and steals the names."

David spilled a drop of his coffee, whisking aside the report as if it were the Magna Carta. He skipped ahead.