Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [118]
“Let me talk to him,” Mary Hall said.
“He’s armed,” Kloss said.
“Let me try,” she said. “I’ll watch myself.”
“No,” Jackson said.
Mary headed for the side lawn that separated the house from the neighbor’s home. Jackson followed closely, with Kloss and the IA not far behind.
“He’s in a bad way,” Jackson told her. “He’s liable to do anything.”
They reached the corner of the house and paused. “Hatch?” Mary called. “It’s Mary Hall. Feel like company?”
There was no response.
Her second call also went unanswered.
She took a few steps forward, which allowed her to peer around the house and into the backyard. “Hi, Hatch,” she said, further separating herself from the others.
Hatcher was seated in a green metal outdoor chair with a colorful yellow-and-blue cushion. Jackson moved closer so he, too, could see. The veteran cop wore khaki knee-length shorts on this warm day, a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt open to the navel, exposing his sizable gut, and sandals. But it wasn’t his clothing that captured their attention. The left side of his face had slid down slightly, like heated paraffin. His left eye was rendered larger than usual, and the corner of his lips had parted into a crooked smile. And he held his department-issued Glock automatic.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said in a raspy voice. “Little Miss Sunshine. Your Oreo-cookie friend with you?”
Jackson stood up to Hatcher. “Yeah, I’m here, Hatch. You look like you could use some help.”
“No, I don’t need any help, especially from a punk like you.”
Jackson let it pass and said, “Hatch, your wife’s out front with the EMTs. They want to get you to a hospital. That’s what’s important, to get you well.”
“You think I buy that?” Hatcher snarled, shifting in the chair and groaning, his free hand going to his forehead.
“Your wife’s worried,” Mary said. “She wants you to get help.”
Jackson noticed that a neighbor now stood in his yard watching what transpired.
“What do you say, Hatch?” Jackson said, taking a few tentative steps toward Hatcher.
Hatcher raised the Glock and pointed it at Jackson. “You come any closer, punk, and you’re dead meat.” His words were slurred; drool came from the sagging corner of his mouth.
Jackson raised his hands in mock defense, and backed away. “Okay,” he said. “Take it easy. Nobody’s here to hurt you. We just want you to get medical help and—”
“And take away everything I’ve worked for,” Hatcher said. He waved the Glock in a circle, slumped back, and again pressed fingertips to his forehead and temple. Jackson thought he might be able to move on the hulking detective, but Hatch quickly straightened in the chair and raised the weapon again, this time to his mouth.
“That’s no answer, Hatch,” Mary said, unable to keep the panic from her voice. “Don’t do it!”
Kloss and the IA stood behind Jackson and Hall, sharing in their helplessness. They watched as Hatcher, the Glock still pressed against his mouth, pulled himself up to full height in the chair. Then he went into a spasm, his right hand, which held the gun, going into gyrations, his finger involuntarily pulling on the trigger, one shot after the other, nine in all, sprayed over the yard. Jackson and the others ducked as one of the bullets passed over them. The neighbor threw himself on the ground. As Hatcher went into a tremor, the Glock flew from his hand and landed on the stone patio with a metallic thud.
The EMTs, who’d been just out of Hatcher’s sight, rushed around the corner of the house and immediately went to work on him. He struggled against them. “He’s like a damn bull,” an EMT said as he and his partner tried to restrain the big detective. Jackson and the IA went to their aid, and between them they managed to contain him and deliver sedation through a well-placed shot in his arm.
He was still now, his chest heaving, his mouth more fully open.
“Where are you taking him?” Kloss asked an EMT. He was given the name of the nearest hospital.
“We’ll have people assigned to his room,” the IA said.
Hatcher