Goddess of Justice by Dwayne Clayden (mobi ebook reader TXT) 📕

beanie over her frizzy light brown hair and grabbed the kits while Sharma keyed his radio. “Dispatch, Medic 2 on scene with police.”

“Roger, Medic 2.”

Sharma and Cook started up the sidewalk to the main door of the apartment building as Robson and Rossi caught up.

Cook glanced over at them. “Who was driving?”

Rossi stared at her boots. “That would be me.”

“Don’t worry,” Cook said. “Sharma almost did the same thing.”

“Almost is the key word,” Sharma replied.

A squat man with bulging biceps held the building door open. “I’m the manager. I’m tired of the noise. I want them out.”

“Have you served an eviction notice?” Robson asked.

“Sure. It don’t matter. They no leave. You come before. Take him away. Next day, he’s back. It’s worse than before.”

“What happened tonight?” Robson asked.

“Half hour ago, they start again. Yelling. Then sounds like place is being wrecked. Screaming, shouting. I take no more. I call.” He marched to the stairs. “Tonight, you make go.”

Robson pushed in front of the paramedics and took the stairs two at a time. Rossi brought up the rear. When they stepped into the corridor, there were no sounds. Robson waved the paramedics behind him and, hand resting on the butt of his gun, he stepped down the hall. The apartment door was ajar.

He waved Rossi to the other side of the door, then said, “You two wait here.”

Robson nodded to Rossi, nudging the door open with his foot. “Police. We’re coming in.” Silence. “Police, coming in.” No answer. Robson stepped into the apartment, Rossi on his heels.

Cook and Sharma followed cautiously behind.

Robson continued left into the tiny bedroom, Rossi headed to the combined living room and kitchen. “Clear.”

“You’d better come here,” Robson said.

Cook entered the room and stopped short in the doorway. A barely recognizable male lay on the floor, legs splayed at weird angles poking out of the bathroom. His upper body lay in a pool of blood, his face smashed beyond recognition. Cook stepped over his legs and knelt at his head. Blood bubbled from his mouth and nose. “We’ve gotta move quick.”

“Dispatch, 424. We will need detectives and Crime Scene Unit here.”

“Roger, 424. We will notify,” dispatch said.

Cook glanced up at Robson. “Can you and your partner grab our stretcher?”

“Better than that.” Robson spoke into his mic again. “Two cruisers just pulled up. They’ll bring the stretcher in. We need to stay until the detectives arrive.”

“Hey, where’s his girlfriend?” Cook opened her paramedic kit and pulled out the airway pack.

“Her name is Sylvia,” Robson said. “Another cruiser found her running down the street. She wasn’t wearing a coat, was freezing and talking about a guy that beat Vinnie with a bat. The cops took her to a women’s shelter.”

Cook swept the blood away from the patient’s face with gauze, then slipped in an airway. Blood bubbled out of the airway. She grabbed the suction, slid a tube into the airway and suctioned. The canister filled with blood.

Sharma had secured the patient’s neck with a cervical collar and tied his legs together.

A loud noise came from the hallway—swearing, clanking of metal and something hitting the walls. Then four cops pushed the stretcher, at full height, into the room.

“You know that collapses, right?” Robson asked.

An exhausted cop leaned against the wall. “Thanks for the heads up on that.”

Sharma lowered the stretcher. “We’ll need a hand lifting him.”

Robson glanced at the cop by the wall, who mouthed, “Screw you.”

Robson nodded to his partner. They knelt with Sharma and Cook, then lifted the patient.

Sharma wrapped the patient in a blanket, then connected the straps. He pulled the stretcher out of the apartment to the stairwell. Robson and Rossi stayed in the apartment. With the help of the cops, they carried the stretcher down to the main level and rolled it out to the ambulance.

Robson and Rossi were sitting on the carpet outside the apartment, issue parkas across their laps, when Griffin and Sturgeon arrived. As they stood, Robson arched his back and groaned.

“Sorry for the wait,” Griffin said. “It’s not the night you get anywhere fast.”

“He drives like my grandmother.” Sturgeon pretended to hold a steering wheel close to his chest, then strained his neck forward and squinted.

“It could be worse,” Robson said. “You could have been driving on the sidewalk.” He glanced at his partner, who reddened.

“Bring us up to date.” Griffin brushed snow off his blue parka and stomped his feet, snow falling off his black boots.

Robson filled them in. “There are a few things you need to see. Follow me.” He led them to the bathroom door and pointed. “There’s a baseball bat in the tub. The weapon of choice, if you go by the blood and hair. Might belong to the victim and used in the struggle.” He glanced at Sturgeon. “But then, that’s above my paygrade.”

Sturgeon unbuttoned his brown overcoat and slid off his gloves. He peeked his head into the bathroom, then glanced over his shoulder.

“No, we didn’t touch them,” Robson said.

“We’ve been here before,” Griffin said.

Robson nodded. “The paramedics, as well. But it was for the girlfriend.”

Griffin stepped toward the living room. “But she’s not here.”

“Nope,” Robson said. “A cruiser found her and took her to the Women’s Shelter. They’ll get a statement from her.”

Most of the time, Sharma would have asked a cop to drive the ambulance. But with the snow- and ice-covered roads and after witnessing the cruiser careen onto the sidewalk, he decided it was best if he drove. That left Cook in the back alone with the patient, but there wasn’t a lot she could do. This guy needed an emergency physician and a surgeon.

He pulled into the ambulance bay at the Foothills Medical Centre. A few paramedics hustled over and assisted lifting the stretcher out of the ambulance. Cook jumped out and they hauled the stretcher to the triage desk.

Cook stepped to the counter. “Approximately thirty- to thirty-five-year-old male, severely beaten, likely with a baseball bat. Unconscious, unresponsive. Pulse 130, weak. Blood pressure 140/86. Respirations shallow