Insidious
Page 12
They heard sirens.
Savich leaned over him. “And then Mrs. Rasmussen stepped out of the house and into her car and you decided it was your chance. You didn’t count on her driver protecting her, did you? He nearly drove right over you. Who paid you to kill Venus Rasmussen?”
The shooter could hardly focus, his eyes rolling in his head. “I saw you leave. You were gone.”
Four Metro cops came running down the narrow service road toward them, guns drawn. Savich and Sherlock put their Glocks on the ground, rose, and held their creds above their heads. They shouted together, “FBI!”
8
* * *
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
Vincent Willig was in surgery for more than two hours to repair the shattered bones in his wrist and fix a rod in his broken left arm. He would mend, the orthopedic surgeon told them, didn’t even mind the feds talking to his patient right away, once he found out what the man had done. He gave them a salute and wished them good luck.
Willig had no ID on him, but there was no problem identifying him, his prints had popped up in minutes. Willig, Vincent Carl, born in Brammerton, Massachusetts, thirty-four years ago. He had an impressive sheet that included armed robbery and an attempted murder charge in New York that had sent him to Attica on his twenty-first birthday for a thirteen-year term. He was something of a hard-ass in prison, but managed to keep out of trouble enough to be released only weeks before.
Detective Ben Raven’s captain at Metro let Sherlock and Savich take the lead, even though it hadn’t been declared a federal case. Ben stood beside them as they looked through the window at Willig. Both his arms were thickly bandaged, immobilized and propped up on pillows, his IV line tethered to his chest. Before they stepped into the room, Ben said, “Mr. Willig isn’t up to making a break for it anytime soon. But the person who hired him might be concerned enough to try to kill him, so we’ll keep a guard on him while he’s here. Hope that morphine he’s on helps you guys.”
Sherlock said, “He threw me off him and pulled a knife on me. That was humiliating, but it might help us, since I saw how much he dislikes women. I’ll rile him up in no time what with me being the bitch who shot him. It’s unlikely, but I’m hoping, like you, Ben, that the morphine takes enough of an edge off that we can get him singing Kumbaya before he realizes it.”
The three of them surrounded the hospital bed and looked down at Willig, who was lying still as a stone, his eyes closed. His face was a bit sunburned, and Sherlock thought that was odd, until she realized he’d been in jail for a decade, had probably come out pasty-white, and headed straight for a beach or a tanning bed.
Willig’s eyes flew open and stared up at Sherlock. His gray eyes were light as scattered smoke. Then they turned opaque and empty, and Sherlock would swear she could feel the black behind them. She knew all of them had seen eyes like that before. Willig was a seriously bad man.
Savich leaned over his bed, said quietly, “Your surgeon says your arm will heal. Your wrist will, too, assuming you get proper physical therapy, that is. If not, you’ll be as helpless as a toothless dog.”
Willig’s voice was low, scratchy with the effort of talking. “You. Feel safe, don’t you, since I’m all bandaged up? I’ll use my arms again, you’ll see, and come for you. I’ll kill you, kill you hard.” He looked toward Sherlock. “As for you, bitch, I’ll have even more fun killing you.”
Sherlock said, “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Hey, nice tats. Would you look at your left wrist—the one I didn’t shoot. I like the snake wrapped around the man’s neck, quite a statement.
“I have to wonder though, Mr. Willig, how much physical therapy you’ll get in prison. You any good with your left hand?”
He didn’t react, only stared up at her, his eyes filled with mean. “Wait a minute. I recognize you. You’re that FBI agent who brought down that big-shot English terrorist. You think that makes you some kind of hero, don’t you?”
She leaned close. “He was harder to take down than you, Mr. Willig. But I’d give you the nod for being more stupid. Whoever hired you to murder Venus Rasmussen didn’t know how incompetent you are. Or was it because you came that cheap?”
Willig tried to jerk up but fell back, breathing hard, trying not to groan. “I’m not stupid. You shouldn’t have been there, you and this bozo shouldn’t have even been there.”
She leaned in close. “Personally, I don’t think it would have mattered. Ms. Rasmussen’s driver nearly ran you down. Like I said, you’re incompetent.”
Willig didn’t move, but his eyes were hot now, with rage at her and his own helplessness. “If I’d had you at Attica—”
“You just proved my point. I mean, trying to murder Ms. Rasmussen in her car, in the driveway, with two FBI agents twenty feet away and a smart driver in the car who laid it on the line for her. Do you see the idiot in this picture? Now, tell me about the other idiot, the one who hired you.”
Willig tried to curse but it was swallowed on a moan of pain.
Savich laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm, drew her back. “Mr. Willig, we’ll see you get more morphine if you give us the name of the person who hired you to kill Ms. Rasmussen. We can also see to it you don’t go back to state prison for the rest of your life. We’ll talk to the prosecutor, get him to cut you a deal, but only if you tell us the name. Otherwise, you’re going back for the rest of your life.”
Willig sneered, or tried to, and turned his head away from Savich.
Sherlock elbowed Savich out of the way, leaned close again. “You’re thirty-four and you’re supposedly tough, or at least you know how to act tough. Maybe you’d last into your seventies, even in a place like Attica. You’ve already been there long enough to see the young bucks coming in. How long before you can’t keep them off you? You’ll be one of those older guys who survive as their personal slaves. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll shove a bar of soap down your throat in the shower.”
Even though the pain had to be riding him hard, Willig didn’t react. There was no give in him at all, certainly no mercy, and he didn’t expect any in return. Sherlock was impressed despite herself—clearly Attica had taught him well. The only way to survive there was to keep your mouth shut. But this wasn’t Attica.
Savich leaned over him. “And then Mrs. Rasmussen stepped out of the house and into her car and you decided it was your chance. You didn’t count on her driver protecting her, did you? He nearly drove right over you. Who paid you to kill Venus Rasmussen?”
The shooter could hardly focus, his eyes rolling in his head. “I saw you leave. You were gone.”
Four Metro cops came running down the narrow service road toward them, guns drawn. Savich and Sherlock put their Glocks on the ground, rose, and held their creds above their heads. They shouted together, “FBI!”
8
* * *
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
Vincent Willig was in surgery for more than two hours to repair the shattered bones in his wrist and fix a rod in his broken left arm. He would mend, the orthopedic surgeon told them, didn’t even mind the feds talking to his patient right away, once he found out what the man had done. He gave them a salute and wished them good luck.
Willig had no ID on him, but there was no problem identifying him, his prints had popped up in minutes. Willig, Vincent Carl, born in Brammerton, Massachusetts, thirty-four years ago. He had an impressive sheet that included armed robbery and an attempted murder charge in New York that had sent him to Attica on his twenty-first birthday for a thirteen-year term. He was something of a hard-ass in prison, but managed to keep out of trouble enough to be released only weeks before.
Detective Ben Raven’s captain at Metro let Sherlock and Savich take the lead, even though it hadn’t been declared a federal case. Ben stood beside them as they looked through the window at Willig. Both his arms were thickly bandaged, immobilized and propped up on pillows, his IV line tethered to his chest. Before they stepped into the room, Ben said, “Mr. Willig isn’t up to making a break for it anytime soon. But the person who hired him might be concerned enough to try to kill him, so we’ll keep a guard on him while he’s here. Hope that morphine he’s on helps you guys.”
Sherlock said, “He threw me off him and pulled a knife on me. That was humiliating, but it might help us, since I saw how much he dislikes women. I’ll rile him up in no time what with me being the bitch who shot him. It’s unlikely, but I’m hoping, like you, Ben, that the morphine takes enough of an edge off that we can get him singing Kumbaya before he realizes it.”
The three of them surrounded the hospital bed and looked down at Willig, who was lying still as a stone, his eyes closed. His face was a bit sunburned, and Sherlock thought that was odd, until she realized he’d been in jail for a decade, had probably come out pasty-white, and headed straight for a beach or a tanning bed.
Willig’s eyes flew open and stared up at Sherlock. His gray eyes were light as scattered smoke. Then they turned opaque and empty, and Sherlock would swear she could feel the black behind them. She knew all of them had seen eyes like that before. Willig was a seriously bad man.
Savich leaned over his bed, said quietly, “Your surgeon says your arm will heal. Your wrist will, too, assuming you get proper physical therapy, that is. If not, you’ll be as helpless as a toothless dog.”
Willig’s voice was low, scratchy with the effort of talking. “You. Feel safe, don’t you, since I’m all bandaged up? I’ll use my arms again, you’ll see, and come for you. I’ll kill you, kill you hard.” He looked toward Sherlock. “As for you, bitch, I’ll have even more fun killing you.”
Sherlock said, “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Hey, nice tats. Would you look at your left wrist—the one I didn’t shoot. I like the snake wrapped around the man’s neck, quite a statement.
“I have to wonder though, Mr. Willig, how much physical therapy you’ll get in prison. You any good with your left hand?”
He didn’t react, only stared up at her, his eyes filled with mean. “Wait a minute. I recognize you. You’re that FBI agent who brought down that big-shot English terrorist. You think that makes you some kind of hero, don’t you?”
She leaned close. “He was harder to take down than you, Mr. Willig. But I’d give you the nod for being more stupid. Whoever hired you to murder Venus Rasmussen didn’t know how incompetent you are. Or was it because you came that cheap?”
Willig tried to jerk up but fell back, breathing hard, trying not to groan. “I’m not stupid. You shouldn’t have been there, you and this bozo shouldn’t have even been there.”
She leaned in close. “Personally, I don’t think it would have mattered. Ms. Rasmussen’s driver nearly ran you down. Like I said, you’re incompetent.”
Willig didn’t move, but his eyes were hot now, with rage at her and his own helplessness. “If I’d had you at Attica—”
“You just proved my point. I mean, trying to murder Ms. Rasmussen in her car, in the driveway, with two FBI agents twenty feet away and a smart driver in the car who laid it on the line for her. Do you see the idiot in this picture? Now, tell me about the other idiot, the one who hired you.”
Willig tried to curse but it was swallowed on a moan of pain.
Savich laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm, drew her back. “Mr. Willig, we’ll see you get more morphine if you give us the name of the person who hired you to kill Ms. Rasmussen. We can also see to it you don’t go back to state prison for the rest of your life. We’ll talk to the prosecutor, get him to cut you a deal, but only if you tell us the name. Otherwise, you’re going back for the rest of your life.”
Willig sneered, or tried to, and turned his head away from Savich.
Sherlock elbowed Savich out of the way, leaned close again. “You’re thirty-four and you’re supposedly tough, or at least you know how to act tough. Maybe you’d last into your seventies, even in a place like Attica. You’ve already been there long enough to see the young bucks coming in. How long before you can’t keep them off you? You’ll be one of those older guys who survive as their personal slaves. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll shove a bar of soap down your throat in the shower.”
Even though the pain had to be riding him hard, Willig didn’t react. There was no give in him at all, certainly no mercy, and he didn’t expect any in return. Sherlock was impressed despite herself—clearly Attica had taught him well. The only way to survive there was to keep your mouth shut. But this wasn’t Attica.
