Free Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

Innes.
    Another shot. McGuire sensed the bullet strike Crawford, felt Crawford’s body jerk against him even as they struck the ground together, chained like links in a bracelet. McGuire squeezed himself against the grass behind Crawford as more bullets struck the prisoner’s body and Innes screamed in pain and fired, again and again, into the dark shrubbery where the sniper had waited. McGuire tried to burrow below the surface of the ground as the fear solidified within him, like plaster setting.
    There were more screams, hysterical sobs and cries of panic. But the shooting ceased. No longer did bullets enter the body of Bunker Crawford, McGuire’s shield of flesh and bone.
    McGuire lifted his head and saw traffic gliding past on Palm Canyon Drive, saw Ralph Innes rolling on the grass in agony, saw the gaping hole in Crawford’s skull where the first bullet had shattered bone and scalp and brains, hurling them into the soft evening air like stones tossed by young children.

Chapter Five
    The horizon was aflame.
    On the far side the street, the low lines of the Palm Springs Municipal Building began to emerge from darkness. Shrubs and lawns faded from grey to green.
    McGuire watched the dawn arrive, seated on a bench near the manicured walk leading across the lawn to Palm Springs Police Headquarters.
    He had been staring into the darkness for the past hour, refusing to sleep and willing the sun to rise, remembering the chaos at the motel. The hysterical screams of women and children. Ralph Innes squeezing his eyes against the pain and repeating “It hurts. Christ, it hurts.” The arrival of squad cars and ambulances, unfamiliar faces performing familiar, reassuring activities; professional calm washing away chaos.
    Riding with Ralph in the ambulance as it howled its way to the hospital, he had watched as paramedics injected fluids into the wounded police officer and cursed his wounds, their equipment and themselves.
    â€œIt’ll be a few hours before he stabilizes,” the doctors told McGuire at the hospital. “Why not wait outside?” they suggested.
    â€œYes,” McGuire replied.
    Instead, he returned to the motel, where the murder site had been secured by uniformed police officers and broad yellow tape. With daylight, the grounds would be scoured for evidence, but nothing could be learned in darkness. Nothing more than what was already known: four 38-calibre bullets struck Bunker Crawford, three more than necessary; another two had entered the body of Ralph Innes, one passing through his abdomen, the other shattering his left forearm.
    McGuire’s instincts had been dulled by disuse and derailed by his anger at Bonnar. Another McGuire, a younger one perhaps, would have recognized that the motel’s setting provided the killer with a choice of several escape routes. Down the path to a car in the parking lot, shielded all the way by shrubbery. Straight ahead to the lighted pool area and into shadows beneath the balconies of the motel. Up the stairs to the open second-floor walkway, to become just another horrified spectator attracted by the screams and hysteria.
    At the murder site, McGuire gave his statement and eavesdropped on the witness interviews. Finally he hitched a ride in a marked police car returning to Palm Springs Police Headquarters, where he poured himself a coffee and wandered outside to sit alone in the warm desert evening.
    The same questions repeated themselves over and over, riding circular paths through his mind like carved horses on an endless carousel. Had he done the right thing, taking custody of Crawford from the Palm Springs police? Could he have found a way to secure the motel area? What choices did he have, attached to a dying man, unarmed, exposed?
    McGuire pictured himself shielded by Crawford’s still-warm corpse as the restaurant patrons watched. Praying for the shooting to end. And counting the shots. Two into Crawford. One into Ralph.