Cat and Mouse
By: Terri D. Thomas
Part 8
Tom rubbed his overly tired eyes and then glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. The lab was working overtime analyzing the two letters addressed to Cassy and promised to call him as soon as they had finished.
The detective clicked on his computer screen and typed in Ollie Murdock's name. Instantly, a report on the man's past was displayed. He read the information, obtaining the basic history of the crazed prison escapee.
There was not much in the file about Murdock's history prior to his sentencing in the Tallahassee prison. The man had worked for the Department of Defense, doing God only knew what. Apparently his life during that time was classified. Tom sighed. He wished he were more surprised that someone as psychotic as Murdock was handling the nation's defense.
The man had been sentenced to the maximum security penitentiary after having pled insanity for the murder of a Defense Department co-worker. The file on that incident was sketchy as well. However, if the murderer could go postal on Cassy over a parking space, one could only imagine what incident had occurred for him to kill a co-worker.
Tom shook his head as he shut the computer file. Leave it to Cassy to piss off a homicidal maniac.
He picked up the file on Sara McCarthy that had been placed in the stack of papers on his desk. He read the ME's report. It had been updated to indicate that Jason McCarthy had identified his wife's body, at least what was left of it.
Tom leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He must have unknowingly dozed off because he didn't hear Harry approach his desk. "Anything?" Harry's voice shocked the young detective, causing him to be thrown forward in the chair.
"Uh. . .no," Tom stuttered.
Harry looked at the tired hazel eyes of his detective. "Go home, Thomas. You're dead on your feet."
"I wanted to wait until the lab was done."
"Home. . .that's an order," Harry repeated with more force. "I'll wait here for the report and call you."
Tom started to protest once again, but then was overtaken by a large yawn. The protest died. Nodding to his captain, he pushed himself wearily from the chair and grabbed his jacket. "See you in the morning, Skipper."
"Not too early," Harry warned. "Why don't you check on Cassy first before coming in."
Tom pushed through the door. "Gotcha. Thanks, Harry."
Tom pulled the Mustang into his apartment building parking lot. The area was quiet and dark. His senses went on automatic alert as he walked up the sidewalk to his home.
He slipped his house key into the lock and turned, hearing the sliding bolt move back. Pushing the door open he walked into the darkness of his apartment and shut it behind him. He reached for the light switch with his left hand.
A cold claw of a gloved hand clamped over his and stopped his movement. Tom couldn't help the intake of breath. Before he could react, he was spun around, his face and body pressed into the wall by the larger weight of the man behind him. His right arm had been trapped across his body, pressing uncomfortably into his abdomen. He instinctively attempted to reach for his side arm with his right hand, but realized the motion was impossible. He felt his attacker's other arm slip around his throat in a chokehold. Tom struggled in the binding grasp, but with his body trapped against the wall, there was no room to gain leverage, or even to move.
"Don't," the voice whispered. "Your are not to be disciplined."
Tom was confused by the mumbled words. They made no sense. The voice continued. "You are not looking in the right place. Her actions will be punished, but not this way. Now is not the time."
"Who. . .?" Tom started to respond but his words were cut off when the man's chokehold tightened. For a moment, Tom was irrationally certain that his attacker intended to break his neck. Panic set in. He fiercely began fighting against the arms which entrapped him, but knew his efforts were in vain. The man only squeezed his throat more. The effects of oxygen deprivation were beginning to take over as Tom felt blackness consume his vision.
He prepared himself for one last valiant escape attempt, but was sidetracked when he realized his left hand was now free. He reached for his gun, knowing that the movement was sloppy and slow. As expected, the motion was futile. He felt the gloved hand that had trapped his gun hand slip around the back of his neck. His head was suddenly thrust forward into the wall with a thud.
Stars exploded in Tom's vision. He felt the other arm, which had been squeezing his neck, release his body. His weak knees could no longer support his own weight and he slid to the floor.
He heard the apartment door open and close. Fighting to regain his senses, he struggled to his feet, pulled out his weapon and followed. The street was deserted. His attacker had escaped.
Tom closed his eyes for a moment to regain control over his rapidly beating heart. His right hand rubbed at the growing lump on his forehead. He couldn't feel the dampness of blood, thankfully. Moving his hand to his throat, he could already feel the bruising. He took a step back towards the apartment and stumbled slightly. He knew he should be calling for backup, but his body wouldn't cooperate. Instead, he felt his legs give away again as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
Harry pulled the Taurus into the parking lot. He immediately identified one police cruiser pulled into the parking space next to Tom's Mustang.
"No ambulance," Harry muttered to himself. "Thank God for that."
He climbed out of the car and made his way to Tom's apartment. The door was cracked open with lights from the interior shining on the darkened front step. Harry pushed the door open and did an immediate inventory of the room.
Tom was sitting on the couch, slightly hunched over. One uniformed officer was taking notes while the other was listening. The room itself was not disturbed.
The sound of the door opening drew the attention of the officers. Recognition played on their faces, even though Harry knew neither of them.
Tom turned, grimaced slightly, readjusted the ice pack he was pressing against his forehead and then gave his Captain a half-hearted smile. "Hey, Harry."
"Don't 'hey' me, Ryan," Harry responded flatly. "What happened here?"
Tom shook his head, clearly confused. "I'm not really sure."
"It wasn't a robbery attempt, Captain," one of the officer's offered.
"Then what was it?"
"A warning, it sounds like," the other said.
"No, not a warning," Tom corrected. "More like advice."
Harry moved in front of his detective. His hand slipped under Tom's chin and he lifted Tom's head to the light, pushing the cold compress away with the other hand. He whistled when he saw the bruising around Tom's neck and the lump on the forehead.
"It looks like more than advice. . .it looks like a murder attempt."
Tom shook his head. "No. He could have killed me. . .easily. . .at any time. But he didn't."
"Who's 'he'," Harry asked, even though he was certain he already knew the answer.
Tom shrugged. "I couldn't make a positive ID if you asked, but I'm pretty sure it was Murdock."
Harry shook his head. His hand rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the headache which was only getting worse as the night wore on. "Damn," he mumbled. "Why do you think that?"
"He told me that I wasn't looking in the right place."
"That's it?" Harry's responded, mystified. "You think that alone says it was Murdock?"
"No, not just that." Tom leaned back on the couch, resting his head against the back. "He said something like 'her actions would be punished, but not now.'"
Harry let a small exhale of air escape. "Cassy?"
Tom nodded. "I think he was trying to tell me that he didn't kill Sara McCarthy."
Harry shook his head. "Or his father?"
"Well, if you operate on the presumption that the fire wasn't an accident, then yeah, I think he was trying to tell me that we're not on the right trail."
Harry felt a small flicker of rage beginning to build inside. "So he breaks into your home and attacks you to get the message through to you?"
"Well, he couldn't really stop by the station and tell me over a cup of coffee, could he?" Tom didn't mean for the words to sound as sarcastic as they did, but he was tired, he hurt and his patience was running thin.
The two uniformed officers watched the exchange between the two men as if they were watching a tennis match. Finally one of the men spoke up. "Uh. . .Captain?"
"What?" Harry spat and then gave the man an apologetic look.
"The man wore gloves, so no fingerprints. And I've searched the place. There's no sign of a break in."
"The door wasn't jimmied?"
"No, Sir."
Tom sighed. "Then he had a key?"
"That's what it looks like."
"Wonderful. So this psychotic murderer just waltzed into your apartment, waited for you to come home and then attacked you?" Harry muttered.
Tom shrugged. He knew it was useless to try to temper the harsh description with the fact that Murdock, if it was Murdock, clearly didn't intend to kill him.
"Okay, Ryan, I guess it's time your partner had a roommate. Pack your bags," Harry ordered.
End Part 8
To Part 9