Chapter Forty
Johnny pushed the button and waited for Kyle Miller’s voice to flow from the metal grille. But nothing happened; he tried again, but still there was no answer. He was about to pull out his mobile when he noticed that the front door was slightly open.
Johnny pushed the door open and looked up the stairs. He noticed that Miller’s glass door was also open, so he climbed the stairs.
Knocking on the door, he shouted: “Mr Miller! Hullo, it’s John Duncan.” After receiving no reply he walked into the hallway and looked around, then headed into the living room.
He froze because before him, by the large coffee table was the body of Kyle Miller lying on its side in a pool of blood. Then stars and darkness descended over him.
The disk of light at the end of the tunnel became larger and larger until he gained consciousness. His head thumped and nauseousness shook his body. He was lying on the laminated floor of Kyle Miller.
Johnny sat up; the body of the PI was on its back and a large knife handle protruded from the chest. Dollar bills lay scattered about the floor, some in the widened deep red pool of blood. Thunder rolled in the distance and became louder and louder until, suddenly, four uniformed police officers burst into the flat.
“Don’t touch anything!” shouted Sergeant Duane Ellis, as he surveyed the living room. He then pulled on a pair of investigation gloves and, crouching by the body, he felt for a pulse. “This ones a goner.”
He then moved over to Johnny. “What’s your name, sir?”
“John Duncan.”
“McLeod, get an ambulance here, and you’d better alert forensics,” the Sergeant said to an officer. “Lowkowski, get a cordon set up downstairs–no one without authority in or out,” he said to another.
Johnny felt the thumping in his head intensify as he tried to focus on the dead body of Kyle Miller. “Jeez, I don’t feel too well.”
“Let’s help you up sir,” said Ellis, as he crouched behind Johnny and put an arm under each armpit and pulled him up.
Johnny felt the blood rush from his head and thought for a moment he would pass out. He put a hand on his forehead. “Christ, I feel dizzy. The body… it was on its side when I came in Sergeant; someone must have rolled it over while I was unconscious.”
“We’ll get you outside for some fresh air,” said the cop as he helped Johnny out of the house.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs a red and white ambulance screeched to a halt next to the area cordoned off with yellow and black tape. A tall African/American paramedic in blue overalls came running up to the pair.
“Here you go son,” said Ellis leaving the paramedic to take Johnny to the ambulance where the other paramedic, a short well-made female Hispanic, opened the rear door.
“Lowkowski!” Ellis shouted.
When he had the young officer’s attention he nodded toward the ambulance. Realising what he meant the officer headed toward the vehicle as three men in green overalls and one in blue coveralls passed him and presented themselves to the Sergeant.
“Up there guys; the victim’s in the living room.”
Heb Dewar was on his fourth cup of coffee when the call came in. He had spent the previous evening at his local bowling alley losing at ten-pin and drinking beer–heavily in both cases.
“Suspected murder down in Georgetown Heb,” said Chris Gaft, a fellow lieutenant twelve years Heb’s junior.
“Jeez, just as well the coffee’s doing the trick.”
“Come on pal, I’ll drive.”
The address sounded familiar, but Heb couldn’t place it–not in his delicate state. He felt butterflies in his stomach, however, as they turned into North West Street, and he saw the white squad cars sitting outside Kyle Miller’s front door.
Chris parked his Mercury across from the taped cordon, and Heb jumped out and strode toward Sergeant Ellis. “Duane! What’s happened here?”
“Oh right, Heb. There’s a body up in that apartment with a knife in the chest; no real signs of a struggle - some cash lyin' around.”
“To whom does the apartment belong?” Heb asked with a sinking feeling.
“A Kyle Miller.”
“Yeah.” Heb said nodding.
“Do you know him?”
“I used to work with him–he was a cop. Don’t you remember him; he used to rub the CIA and the FBI up the wrong way.”
“Yeah, come to think of it I recognise the name. There was another guy up there claims he saw the body in a different position before being clobbered.”
“Where is he?”
“Getting treated in the ambulance. He’s in bad shape. His names John Duncan–he’s a Brit.”
“I know,” mumbled Heb as he headed toward the vehicle.
Johnny sat on the gurney and watched with one eye as Lieutenant Dewar walked toward the ambulance - the tall paramedic was shining a small torch in the other.
Heb knocked on the open door with his warrant card in hand. “I’m Lieutenant Dewar. How’s Mr Duncan?”
“In poor shape. We’re going to transfer him to hospital. He’s suffered several blows to the head.”
“He was in a bad car accident a week ago.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Which hospital?”
“GUH.”
Heb went over to where Sergeant Ellis and Chris Gaft were standing. “Could you send a unit with the ambulance Duane? Duncan doesn’t leave his room, and no one other than medical staff and police allowed in.”
“Okay,” said Ellis, as he moved off.
“Well Chris let’s have a look.”
Heb knocked on the glass door at the top of the stairs and shouted: “Lieutenant Dewar and Lieutenant Gaft, can we come in?”
A suited forensic officer complete with mask appeared at the front door. “Sure, as long as you put on gloves if you’re going to touch anything.”
They walked through to the living room where another suited officer was taking pictures of the body and another was searching over a rug by the coffee table. A man in a white suit who had been examining the body stood up when he saw the two detectives.
“I’m Doctor Weller–the pathologist.”
“Well doc what was the time of death?” Chris asked.
“Around ten-thirty this morning.”
“Anything apart from the obvious?”
“Not from an initial examination. I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him back to the centre.”
“Well, I can identify the body; that’s definitely Kyle Miller,” said Heb shaking his head.
“What was he doing now?” Chris asked as the two detectives moved away from the body.
“He was a PI, and doing pretty well,” answered Heb, as he looked around the room.
“It looks as if they had an argument over money and Duncan stabbed him.”
“Yeah, but how do you explain Duncan being unconscious?”
“He must have been hit with this,” said the forensics officer who allowed them in, as he held up a baseball bat in a sealed clear plastic bag. “We found it under the desk, it must have rolled there.”
“So, Kyle hits Duncan with the baseball bat and Duncan responds by stabbing him.”
“Hmm, or so we’re led to believe.”
“You reckon there’s more to this?”
“Let’s wait until we get the reports.”
As they left the apartment Heb asked the uniformed cop at the top of the stairs about the neighbours.
“Nobody in sir. We’ve knocked on the door a few times, but there’s never been a reply.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Dewar, as he and Gaft descended the stairs.
The next morning Heb strolled toward his desk with his customary coffee cup in one hand and newspaper in the other.
“Coroners and forensics reports are in for the Miller case Heb,” said Gaft who was sitting at his desk studying the sheets.
“What are they saying?” Dewar grunted.
“Pretty much what we assumed: Miller’s fingerprints only on the bat, but also traces of Duncan’s skin and hair on the business end. Duncan’s fingerprints, as requested, only on the knife. Time of death: ten-thirty am. Knife pierced the right ventricle of the heart.”
“So, we know when the fatal stab wound happened, but we don’t know if that was before or after John Duncan was hit over the head. And wouldn’t a blow to the head knock Duncan out?”
“Well he claims he was knocked out, but the uniform guys found him conscious.”
“We’ll need to talk to the doctor who’s treating him I suppose.”
“I’ll go over; we need an official statement from John Duncan, anyway.”
The morning sun spilled over the red blocks of Georgetown University Hospital as Heb turned into the parking lot. The hospital as the name suggested was part of the college and, as a consequence, was at the forefront of some great medical advances.
Heb found, from a disinterested receptionist, that Johnny was being treated in Neurology, which was on the seventh floor of the PHC Building.
As he walked through the corridors Heb remembered why he hated hospitals: the odours of disinfectant, polish and other things.
There was a uniformed officer outside the room where Johnny was being treated.
“Hello son, I’m Lieutenant Dewar,” said Heb showing the young cop his warrant card.
Johnny pointed the remote control at the television set high on the wall next to the door and switched off a mind-numbing game show as Lieutenant Dewar entered the room. He then pushed a button on another remote control and the head of the bed rose a few inches.
“How are you Mr Duncan?”
“Lieutenant! Better, thank you.”
“Good. Look, if you’re up to it, I need a statement.”
The sun cast thin, horizontal shadows on the wall to Johnny’s right as it shone through the standard hospital blinds. Johnny related what he could remember to the detective, who sat on a chair at the left of the bed.
When he had finished Heb Dewar looked at his notes and asked: “Did you see anyone leave the house as you approached.”
“No.”
“And, was there anything peculiar in the apartment to suggest that someone else was there, like a noise or a movement now that you’ve had time to think over the events.”
“No–I was in shock at seeing the body, and the next thing I remember was coming round and the police showing up.”
“Okay, now how do you account for your fingerprints on the knife?”
“Lieutenant, I never consciously touched that knife. I’m being framed. They tried to kill me in that car crash along with Erin Rodgers, and now, because they failed, this is their next throw of the dice so to speak.”
“Who are they?”
“Rogue elements within the CIA.”
“So you’ve said before, but why are they after you?”
Johnny told Heb a shortened version of the whole story.
“Jeez! That’s some story,” said the detective, as he stood up and ran a hand over his scalp. “Okay, I need to talk to the doctor who’s dealing with you. Don’t leave the country.”
“I can hardly stand up to go for a pee!” Johnny said with a grin.