Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

Dart weaved his way through the standing tree trunks and hissed once more, this time close enough, loudly enough, to be heard. Again, Zeller refused to acknowledge him in any way. So typically arrogant. Dart felt angry at the man-he would go to any length to remind Dart of the hierarchy of their relationship. He would sit by a phone and allow it to ring until Dart answered it. It infuriated Dart. He finally reached the man-Zeller was leaning against a small evergreen that bent away from him with his weight, a pair of white-bark birches in front of him as a screen. He held his gun in both hands, resting on the ground between his legs. His knee looked badly hit.

It was the position of Zeller’s gun that sent alarm shivering through Dart-the arm was slack, the barrel of the weapon planted into the wet snow and mud. Zeller revered his weapons, preached the code of proper care and handling. Treating the weapon like this was unthinkable.

Dart took another few cautious steps, coming to within an arm’s reach. He smelled blood. He leaned forward in the dim light. “Sarge,” he whispered anxiously, glancing over his shoulder, all the while expecting the laser’s searching dot. “Sarge,” he repeated.

The man didn’t move.

Dart looked into Zeller’s face. The hole was quite small, immediately below the left eye. He gasped. “Sarge!” he blurted out, the knot tightening in his throat, his chest burning, his eyes filling with tears. He didn’t reach out to touch him, to disturb him, only to check for a pulse. He gripped the man’s warm wrist, realizing in a flood of memory that the two had rarely touched, even to shake hands, realizing that, had Zeller had even a single heartbeat of life left within him, he would have broken Dart’s grip instantly and told him to keep his hands to himself.

Walter Zeller was dead.

Forgetting himself, forgetting all training, placing himself at serious jeopardy, Joe Dartelli raised his face to the sullen sky and shrieked, “No!” so loudly and for so long that to hear it from a suburban home one would have imagined a wounded animal. He stood then, weapon in hand, not thinking of lasers or semiautomatic weapons, but only of revenge. He ducked and moved deftly and quickly through the trees, as smoothly as water over rock. He ran across the clearing, his feet slipping on the wet snow, and entered the opposing woods. Tree by tree, he worked his way across the front of this copse, knowing the shooter could not have been too far into the trees during the attack.

At his feet, brass casings lay scattered about. Warm when first ejected, they had melted small tunnels into the snow. The ground was scuffed and muddy from the shooter’s frantic movements.

The path of mud indicated that the shooter may have dragged himself off into the woods, back toward Zeller’s former home. Whether he had followed one of them here, or had been keeping the place under surveillance and had overheard them, Dart couldn’t know.

The prints were not clean, and the snow was discolored with either blood or mud or both.

Neglecting concern for his own safety, Dart quickly cut his way through the trees and shrubs, leaving the hum of electricity behind him. The track left by the shooter grew heavier and more labored until it became apparent to Dart that the man had been wounded, had crawled his way through the trees. He pressed ahead, knowing that he must be gaining on the man.

Through the woods came the plaintive cry of sirens-at least two, perhaps three or more. The shots had been heard and reported. Dart suddenly had to contend with the pressure of time-he could not afford to be brought downtown for an officer-involved shooting investigation. The key to dealing with Martinson would be speed, timing.

He heard groaning before he saw the man. He passed the black shape of the man’s discarded weapon and kicked it aside. The shooter lay on his side, curled in a fetal position, clutching his bleeding stomach with both hands, ignoring his wounded shoulder. It was too dark to see much of his face, but his fingers were spread open, his hands clearly empty. He was a tall, lanky man- not the same build as the man in the laundry.

Zeller had hit him twice-a serious gut shot and a minor bleeder in the shoulder. The gut shot was final. Even with an ambulance, he didn’t look as if he’d survive.

The sirens quickly drew closer. Dart heard one of the cars come to a stop up on the highway rest area where Dart had parked.

Dart leveled his handgun, sighting down the short barrel at the man’s head. The shooter cowered, curling up tighter. Dart’s arm began to shake. A voice from inside him demanded he pull the trigger. Do it! this voice pleaded. Dart’s finger found the trigger guard and then the trigger itself. His thumb tripped the safety, allowing the gun to be fired. He stared down the dark tube at the man’s head.

The man shook with fear.

He couldn’t do it. Dart lowered the weapon, securing the safety, and walked silently off into the woods.

He knew well what hell Zeller’s murder would create-three, perhaps as many as five, investigators would be assigned. The forensics work would be exhaustive, the meetings endless. When the second dead man proved to be a hired killer from out of state, the governor and the FBI would be brought in. The press would get wind of it and the story would take off like wildfire, stealing headlines and news radio leads from Greenwich to Putnam, perhaps as far as Boston and Providence. And in the process, Dart knew, the opportunity to sink Roxin would disappear quickly. The cover-ups would begin, the fictitious stories welded in place, the connections quickly distanced. Within a few short hours following the first news leak of Zeller’s death, any and all hope of exposing Roxin could be lost, all Zeller’s efforts defeated.

Zeller’s methods had ultimately killed him-Dart could not escape this thought. Despite his good intentions, the man had chosen the wrong solution. By violating the very laws he had once upheld, he had dug himself into isolation and desperation, convincing himself, no doubt, that he was engaged in noble self-sacrifice. The truth, it seemed to Dart, was more that Lucky’s death had pushed him over the edge. And it felt sad to Dart that such a man could become so lost. So maybe I am a Boy Scout , Dart thought.

Dart went off, first at a walk, then at a run, in the opposite direction from the arriving police who were already crowding into the woods. As shouts raised behind him, he felt filled with an overwhelming wish that Zeller’s death would not be in vain.

Martinson had not destroyed the files. Dart felt certain of it.

Haite glanced up from his desk at the detective standing in his office doorway and said, “Jesus H. Christ.” Dart was all mud, blood, and wet clothes. “Shut the door,” were Haite’s next words, closely followed by, “You were there! ” Dart nodded. “What the hell happened?”

“I won’t be dragged into the investigation,” Dart said.

“The hell you won’t.” Haite glanced over at the wall clock-it was one in the morning. “I’ve got a dozen patrol and four detectives out there.” The CAPers office area was empty. “What the hell happened?”

“The shooter?”

“Died in transit. DOA at HH,” he said, referring to Hartford Hospital.

Dart looked Haite directly in the eyes and said, “I was wrong about the suicides. They weren’t murders.”

“Is that right?” Haite asked, not believing Dart for a moment but not questioning him either. This was what Haite wanted to hear.

“I misread the evidence, Sergeant. It’s my fault,” Dart said.

“Did you?”

“Yes. I may be able to prove that Roxin Laboratories is involved in a cover-up concerning a gene therapy treatment they are testing. The drug apparently has severe psychological side effects, resulting, I assume, in some of these suicides. It’s a terrible thing.”