“Bloody unlikely,” Townsend remarked. He turned toward the back of the room and saw Bruno Reingruber watching the television screens. He was writing something down on a piece of paper. “Was ist es, Major?”
“McLanahan,” Reingruber read from the paper, then went on in German: “The TV has identified the police officer who wounded my men with his car. McLanahan. He is still in the hospital, alive. Not dead, as Sergeant Chernenkov reported. He survived.”
“And his brother was in the bar seeking revenge on his attacker. How touching,” Townsend answered him. “Never mind him, Major. This is not important. We concentrate on setting up delivery of the hydrogenators.”
“I lost four men in the robbery-during your robbery,” Reingruber protested. “You hired Mullins, and he turned on us. Two of my men were killed and two have been under arrest. It says on the TV they are being freed from jail, but what if this McLanahan can identify Corporal Schneider and they arrest him again? To kill a policeman is an automatic death penalty in this state. This is unacceptable. McLanahan must be killed immediately!”
Though Bennie did not understand German, there was no mistaking the sense of that fierce “sofort!” Townsend chose to ignore it. “Major, we are not going to expend our energy and talent on making war against one or two insignificant individuals,” he said. “Forget about McLanahan.”
“Please consider my request, Herr Oberst,” Reingruber answered. “We pledged together to begin a reign of terror in this country not seen since Henri Cazaux, your former commander and mentor. Let us begin that reign of terror now. Our target must be McLanahan. The police officer injured two of our soldiers. His brother dared to track us down, pursue us, and even threaten us. We cannot be seen to tolerate this. My men will fight to the death to avenge their own.”
Townsend considered Reingruber’s proposal. He had not planned on a full frontal assault in this city. Eventually, he knew, the police would be augmented by stronger and stronger forces, too much even for Reingruber’s well-trained and fierce troops. By that time, they had to have this state in a firm grip of terror if they had any hope of surviving. But he also knew that Reingruber was right about his men’s total commitment to vengeance.
“Very well, Major,” Townsend said. “Present a plan of action for me, including complete surveillance and intelligence reports, and we shall see. But this operation had better be much more than just a killing, Major. If it does not advance our plans to dominate this state, then it will not happen.”
“Ich verstehe, Herr Oberst. Vielen Dank,” Reingruber said with a satisfied smile, clicking his heels together and bowing his head in thanks. “You will not be disappointed.”
UC-Davis Medical Center,
Stockton Boulevard and Forty-Second Street,
Sacramento, California
Friday, 6 March 1998, 1027 FT
A police sketch artist can usually tell when the composite drawing begins to match the witness’s recollection. The witness’s eyes narrow, the lips pinch, the body tenses, and the skin turns pale when that critical nuance appears on the sketch. Finally, and usually suddenly, the sketch seems to leap to life, bringing suppressed memories to the fore, painting images of the incident across the face of the witness. And that was what the Sacramento Police Department’s sketch artist saw as he put the finishing touches on the computerized composite drawing.
“That’s him,” Paul McLanahan said. “That’s the guy I hit with the shotgun.”
SID Captain Thomas Chandler got up from his seat in the corner of the hospital room and took a look at the laptop computer screen. Patrick McLanahan came closer to take a look too, hoping that the sketch matched one of the men he had seen in the Bobby John Club. It did not, and he moved away. Chandler scowled at him. He didn’t like Paul McLanahan’s brother, and he disliked him even more today. “You sure, Officer McLanahan?”
“Positive,” Paul replied. “He was illuminated perfectly in the streetlight.” Chandler nodded-his investigators had been out to the scene of the shooting several times, and the positioning of the lights along the K Street Mall would have made them shine directly on the attacker.
“Any chance at all you can identify any of the assailants you hit with your car, or the one who shot you?” Chandler asked.
“Sorry, Captain,” Paul replied. “They all had gas masks. I might be able to estimate height and weight, but not enough to make an arrest. A good defense attorney could blast me off the witness stand with ease.”
“You let us worry about the trial-let’s get as many of these creeps as possible behind bars first,” Chandler said. He remembered that Paul McLanahan was an attorney as well as a policeman, and he was now thinking more like a lawyer. “But you’re absolutely positive about the guy in this sketch?”
“Yes, sir,” Paul said. “Absolutely positive.”
“Good,” Chandler said, nodding to the sketch artist. “We’ll circulate the composite and send it to the FBI and Interpol. We’ll also bring in more mug books for you to look at. We might get lucky.” He turned to Patrick to include him in the discussion. “Now explain to me where you’re going again?”
“A private hospital on Coronado,” Patrick responded, “near San Diego…”
“I know where the hell Coronado is,” Chandler snapped. “Explain why.”
“I already did,” Patrick said. “My company is going to do reconstructive surgery on Paul’s left shoulder…”
“You mean he’s going to get an artificial arm, a prosthesis?”
“Yes.”
“Now explain why that can’t be done in Sacramento, where he stays under protective custody.”
“Because our medical facility is standing by ready for Paul,” Patrick said. “It would take too long, be too expensive, and not help Paul one bit for us to move our surgical staff and facilities up here.”
“You realize the danger you’re placing your brother in, don’t you?” Chandler asked. “He’s under twenty-four-hour guard here.”
“He’ll be under careful guard down there too,” Patrick said. “I’ll see to that personally.”
“The city won’t pay for this surgery. Paul has to accept all the risks involved-and that means he’s in danger of losing his survivor’s benefits and medical retirement if something goes wrong.”
“I know that, Captain,” Paul said.
“The city has made Paul, me, and almost every employee of my company sign affidavits agreeing to all that,” Patrick said. “My company is accepting all the responsibility.” He paused, looking carefully at Chandler, then asked, “What’s the real reason you’re bringing all this up again, Captain? You getting a little pressure from the chief?”
Chandler scowled again at Patrick. This was certainly not the same whining Milquetoast that had come into his office a blubbering wreck back after the shooting. Maybe the shooting shook this guy up, made him get off the sauce and take some responsibility for his family. But it was also possible he hadn’t changed, and that he was giving Paul some bad advice by taking him out of Sacramento. Chandler took a deep breath in resignation and said, “It would look real bad if Paul was hurt…”
“Look bad for the city and the chief, you mean.”
“It would look like we weren’t there to protect him,” Chandler said. “The chief is already under pressure for what these gangs have been doing in Sacramento. If we leave Paul’s safety in the hands of a private, non-law-enforcement company and they get to Paul, everybody loses.”
“The chief gets embarrassed, the city looks bad-but Paul gets dead,” Patrick said. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”
“I could get a judge to order Paul to stay in protective custody,” Chandler said angrily. “It would be for his own safety. If there was an arrest and a trial, Paul would be a key witness, and it would be up to the city to protect him so he could testify. We can compel Paul to stay…”