Backfire
Page 47
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“Yes, but it didn’t last all that long, maybe four hours; then I hurt again.”
Savich said, “This is very important, Mr. Gordon. While you were lying in your hospital bed did any hospital technicians come in to draw your blood?”
That roused Boozer. “Oh, man, did that torturer accuse me of having bad blood? Did the hospital send you over because I’ve got that avian virus?”
“No, your blood is splendid,” Sherlock said. “No viruses. We need you to tell us about the torturer.”
Boozer looked from one to the other. “Why should I? You’re cops, like those other yahoos who hauled my butt to lockup for no good reason. My manager had to bail me out, and he was yelling at me, too, and there I was, hurting since I was the one that got knocked crazy, not those four other bozos who ganged up on me. At least the cops sent me to the hospital. Why should I tell you anything?”
Savich said, “We think the person who drew your blood has tried to murder Judge Dredd twice.”
Boozer blinked raccoon eyes at them. “Judge Dredd? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, they used to have a poster of Judge Dredd at the martial arts school since he used to work out there. You’re telling me the dude who took my blood is the one who tried to shoot him in the elevator yesterday?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Judge Dredd is okay, for the moment, but we want to find the shooter before he tries again. You called the man who drew your blood a torturer. Tell us about it.”
The front door opened, and a very beautiful woman strolled in. She was wearing a black pantsuit and low-heeled shoes, and she was as blond, porcelain-skinned and fine-boned as a storybook princess. She was carrying a bag of groceries under her left arm with what looked like a pair of folded boxers sticking out of the huge tote in her right hand.
“What is going on here, Paul? Who are these people? You’re not one of those missionary groups, are you? If you are, you’re out of luck. Paul’s a devout Catholic.”
“Oh, hi, Mom. These here guys aren’t Christians, they’re FBI agents, and they need my help to find the guy who’s trying to kill Judge Dredd.”
Now it was her turn to stare. “Goodness me,” she said finally, and accepted their hands to shake and their introductions and creds.
Boozer said, “Oh, yeah, this is my Mom, Cynthia Howell. She doesn’t have my name because she divorced my pa for being a mean drunk and married Daniel, my stepdad. He gave me that black Ford One-fifty last Christmas. You saw it in the driveway, didn’t you?”
Savich said, “A fine machine.”
“Well, that about sums it up,” Mrs. Howell said. “My Paul can help you? Really?”
“Mom, it turns out I saw the guy who shot Judge Dredd in the hospital. He drew my blood.”
“I see. Paul, you tell these agents everything you know about this man while I get you another pain pill. Oh, I brought over two homemade pizzas, with lots of pepperoni, the way you like it. I know you’re hungry, but let me warm them in the oven for about ten minutes.” And she walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.
His mother made him pizza? Pepperoni? Sherlock felt her mouth water.
Mrs. Howell came right back with a glass of water with three ice cubes and a slice of lemon wedged on the side of the glass. Boozer took the pill, drank the water, and gave a sweet smile to his mother. She gently cupped his face. “It doesn’t look as bad this morning. I’ll get your pizza in the oven now, sweetie. Don’t wait for me. You can tell me everything later.”
Sherlock said, “The tech who came to draw your blood?”
Boozer leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. “He was a little guy.”
Savich said, “Being as how you’re on the tall side, what do you mean, exactly, by little?”
“I don’t know, shorter than you, lots less than six feet. Kind of scrawny, not all that much to him, you know what I mean?”
You’re a behemoth. Even Dillon looks scrawny to you. Sherlock said, “Tell us about his face. What did he look like?”
“I can’t tell you much about his face because he was wearing one of those surgical masks, you know, like he needed protection from me, like I was contagious or something. That’s why I thought when you showed up the hospital had found something was bad.”
Savich said, “No, Mr. Gordon, there’s nothing wrong with your blood. How about his hair? What color?”
“He had a green scrub hat on his head.”
“Could you see his hair at all?”
Savich said, “This is very important, Mr. Gordon. While you were lying in your hospital bed did any hospital technicians come in to draw your blood?”
That roused Boozer. “Oh, man, did that torturer accuse me of having bad blood? Did the hospital send you over because I’ve got that avian virus?”
“No, your blood is splendid,” Sherlock said. “No viruses. We need you to tell us about the torturer.”
Boozer looked from one to the other. “Why should I? You’re cops, like those other yahoos who hauled my butt to lockup for no good reason. My manager had to bail me out, and he was yelling at me, too, and there I was, hurting since I was the one that got knocked crazy, not those four other bozos who ganged up on me. At least the cops sent me to the hospital. Why should I tell you anything?”
Savich said, “We think the person who drew your blood has tried to murder Judge Dredd twice.”
Boozer blinked raccoon eyes at them. “Judge Dredd? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, they used to have a poster of Judge Dredd at the martial arts school since he used to work out there. You’re telling me the dude who took my blood is the one who tried to shoot him in the elevator yesterday?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Judge Dredd is okay, for the moment, but we want to find the shooter before he tries again. You called the man who drew your blood a torturer. Tell us about it.”
The front door opened, and a very beautiful woman strolled in. She was wearing a black pantsuit and low-heeled shoes, and she was as blond, porcelain-skinned and fine-boned as a storybook princess. She was carrying a bag of groceries under her left arm with what looked like a pair of folded boxers sticking out of the huge tote in her right hand.
“What is going on here, Paul? Who are these people? You’re not one of those missionary groups, are you? If you are, you’re out of luck. Paul’s a devout Catholic.”
“Oh, hi, Mom. These here guys aren’t Christians, they’re FBI agents, and they need my help to find the guy who’s trying to kill Judge Dredd.”
Now it was her turn to stare. “Goodness me,” she said finally, and accepted their hands to shake and their introductions and creds.
Boozer said, “Oh, yeah, this is my Mom, Cynthia Howell. She doesn’t have my name because she divorced my pa for being a mean drunk and married Daniel, my stepdad. He gave me that black Ford One-fifty last Christmas. You saw it in the driveway, didn’t you?”
Savich said, “A fine machine.”
“Well, that about sums it up,” Mrs. Howell said. “My Paul can help you? Really?”
“Mom, it turns out I saw the guy who shot Judge Dredd in the hospital. He drew my blood.”
“I see. Paul, you tell these agents everything you know about this man while I get you another pain pill. Oh, I brought over two homemade pizzas, with lots of pepperoni, the way you like it. I know you’re hungry, but let me warm them in the oven for about ten minutes.” And she walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.
His mother made him pizza? Pepperoni? Sherlock felt her mouth water.
Mrs. Howell came right back with a glass of water with three ice cubes and a slice of lemon wedged on the side of the glass. Boozer took the pill, drank the water, and gave a sweet smile to his mother. She gently cupped his face. “It doesn’t look as bad this morning. I’ll get your pizza in the oven now, sweetie. Don’t wait for me. You can tell me everything later.”
Sherlock said, “The tech who came to draw your blood?”
Boozer leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. “He was a little guy.”
Savich said, “Being as how you’re on the tall side, what do you mean, exactly, by little?”
“I don’t know, shorter than you, lots less than six feet. Kind of scrawny, not all that much to him, you know what I mean?”
You’re a behemoth. Even Dillon looks scrawny to you. Sherlock said, “Tell us about his face. What did he look like?”
“I can’t tell you much about his face because he was wearing one of those surgical masks, you know, like he needed protection from me, like I was contagious or something. That’s why I thought when you showed up the hospital had found something was bad.”
Savich said, “No, Mr. Gordon, there’s nothing wrong with your blood. How about his hair? What color?”
“He had a green scrub hat on his head.”
“Could you see his hair at all?”
