Without remorse - Tom Clancy [55]
'Shit!' Monroe looked at the blood on his fingertips and unconsciously rubbed it off on his blue uniform trousers. Just then he heard the banshee-wail of a Fire Department ambulance approaching from the east, and the officer whispered a quiet prayer of thanks that people who knew what they were doing would shortly relieve him of this problem.
The ambulance turned the corner a few seconds later. The large, boxy, red-and-white vehicle halted just past the radio car, and its two occupants came at once to the officer.
'What d'we got.' Strangely, it didn't come out like a question. The senior fireman-paramedic hardly needed to ask in any case. In this part of town at this time of night, it wouldn't be a traffic accident. It would be 'penetrating trauma' in the dry lexicon of his profession. 'Jesus!'
The other crewman was already moving back to the ambulance when another police car arrived on the scene.
'What gives?' the watch supervisor asked.
'Shotgun, close range, and the guy's still alive!' Monroe reported.
'I don't like the neck hits,' the first ambulance guy observed tersely.
'Collar?' the other paramedic called from an equipment bay.
'Yeah, if he moves his head ... damn.' The senior firefighter placed his hands on the victim's head to secure it in place.
'ID?' the sergeant asked.
'No wallet. I haven't had a chance to look around yet.'
'Did you run the tags?'
Monroe nodded. 'Called 'em in; it takes a little while.'
The sergeant played his flashlight on the inside of the car to help the firemen. A lot of blood, otherwise empty. Some kind of cooler in the backseat. 'What else?' he asked Monroe.
'The block was empty when I got here.' Monroe checked his watch. 'Eleven minutes ago.' Both officers stood back to give the paramedics room to work.
'You ever seen him before?'
'No, Sarge.'
'Check the sidewalks.'
'Right.' Monroe started quartering the area around the car.
'I wonder what this was all about,' the sergeant asked nobody in particular. Looking at the body and all the blood, his next thought was that they might never find out. So many crimes committed in this area were never really solved. That was not something pleasing to the sergeant. He looked at the paramedics. 'How is he, Mike?'
'Damned near bled out, Bert. Definite shotgun,' the man answered, affixing the cervical collar. 'A bunch of pellets in the neck, some near the spine. I don't like this at all.'
'Where you taking him?' the police sergeant asked. 'University's full up,' the junior paramedic advised. 'Bus accident on the Beltway. We have to take him to Hopkins.'
'That's an extra ten minutes.' Mike swore. 'You drive, Phil, tell them we have a major trauma and we need a neurosurgeon standing by.'
'You got it.' Both men lifted him onto the gurney. The body reacted to the movement, and the two police officers - three more radio cars had just arrived - helped hold him in place while the firefighters applied restraints.
'You're a real sick puppy, my friend, but we'll have you in the hospital real quick now,' Phil told the body, which might or might not still be alive enough to hear the words. 'Time to roll, Mike.'
They loaded the body in the back of the ambulance. Mike Eaton, the senior paramedic, was already setting up an IV bottle of blood-expanders. Getting the intravenous line was difficult with the man face down, but he managed it just as the ambulance started moving. The sixteen-minute trip to Johns Hopkins Hospital was occupied with taking vital signs - the blood pressure was perilously low - and doing some preliminary paperwork.
Who are you? Eaton asked silently. Good physical shape, he noted, twenty-six or -seven. Odd for a probable drug user. They guy would have looked pretty tough standing up, but not now.