Free Fever Dream by Dennis Palumbo Page A

was still winded from his climb up the stairs to Sinclair’s campaign office. Or else it was the unending heat, his generally poor physical condition. Maybe just the booze. But he wasn’t looking too good, that’s for sure.
    He tossed his notebook at his partner, who expertly caught it. Cover flipped back, it was opened at a page covered with Polk’s scrawl.
    “Check that out,” he said. “If you can read my notes. I was drivin’ and writin’ at the same time.”
    As Eleanor quickly scanned it, Polk gave me a grim smile. “Not a banner day for law enforcement, Doc.”
    “What’s going on? I thought you were heading over to Crawford Street. The crash site.”
    “I was, till I got a call from Biegler. Prints came back from our dead perp. The gunman at the bank. Only guess what?”
    “He wasn’t the perp,” Eleanor said evenly. She looked up from the notebook.
    “Bingo. His prints were in a database, all right,” Polk explained. “But not VICAP. Not the FBI database, either. We finally found ’em because all security guards at private firms are fingerprinted.”
    I stared, as comprehension dawned.
    “That’s right, boys and girls,” Polk said. “The dead perp isn’t the perp. He wasn’t the gunman who tried to rob the bank. He’s George Vickers, the security guard.”
    “Jesus.” Eleanor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That means we just let the real guy get away.”
    Polk laughed. “Get away? Hell, we escorted him from the crime scene in a city vehicle.”

Chapter Fourteen
    Harry Polk, unable to hide the disgust in his voice, collapsed into one of the cushioned chairs.
    “Shit, I’m gettin’ too old for this job.”
    Eleanor and I each took seats facing his.
    “I think I can guess what happened,” I said, though neither of them seemed interested at the moment. “Remember, Treva knew what George Vickers looked like. She saw the security guard every day at the bank. So on the drive to the hospital, Treva comes to and sees that there’s another guy in the ambulance with her. Wounded, bandaged up. And wearing Vickers’ uniform. She takes one look at the guy and knows something’s wrong. Maybe she screamed, or said something to Karp, who was at the wheel.”
    Eleanor found her voice. “That must’ve been how it went down. The perp had no choice but to knock her out. Then, using his good arm, he grabs Karp around the neck from behind. Ambulance goes out of control, off the road and into a tree. Whether he meant to kill him or not, our guy realizes Karp is dead. So he takes off…”
    “Maybe he planned to run as soon as he’d been treated at the hospital,” I said. “Even though he’d switched clothes with Vickers, he had to know he’d only be able to pull off the stunt for a short while. So he probably hoped to get patched up before making his escape. At least he’d been willing to take that chance.”
    Eleanor said, “So now he’s on the loose, somewhere in the vicinity of Crawford Street.”
    “But he can’t get far. Not with that bullet wound I saw. Bergmann said it himself—that bandage was makeshift at best. If he doesn’t get serious medical attention soon, he will bleed to death.”
    Polk finally managed to rouse himself, his police instincts overcoming his disheartened lethargy.
    “I bet he’s tryin’ to get to his partner, the chicken-shit who ran outta the bank when the alarm went off.”
    Eleanor’s look was doubtful. “That only makes sense if he and the partner had a place in town, or a predetermined rendezvous point somewhere. In case they got separated. Typical for a bank job with multiple perps.”
    “If I were our guy,” I said, “I’d try to find the nearest hospital or urgent care facility.”
    “I hope he does ,” Polk said. “Since we got calls in to all the possibles in a ten-mile radius. Hospitals, clinics, doctors’ offices. Whatever. Which a guy this smart would figure out, by the way.”
    “Maybe,” I agreed. “But it’s a risk he’d