Trial By Fury

I dropped back out of earshot, trying to make myself small and inconspicuous. I didn't want to hear more. The paramedic's words had confirmed my own worst fears. They didn't think Peters would make it.

I didn't, either.

I retreated to the curb and sat down a few feet away from where the woman in the flowered dress was being treated for cuts and bruises. I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. I kept telling myself that Seattle 's Medic One was the best in the country, that if anyone could save Peters' life, they could. My feeble reassurances fell flat.

Peters was still trapped. How could they save his life if they couldn't even get him out of the van?

I forced myself to sit there. While the paramedics worked furiously to save Peters' life, they didn't need someone like me looking over their shoulders, getting in the way, and screwing up the works.

Detectives are ill-suited to doing nothing. It goes against their training and mind-set. Sitting there, staying out of the way, took tremendous effort, a conscious, separate act of will for every moment of inactivity. Watching the paramedics and the firemen on and in the van was like watching an anthill. Everyone seemed to be doing some mysterious specialized task without any observable direction or plan.

Then, suddenly, the anthill of activity changed. There was a new urgency as firemen moved forward, bringing with them the heavy metal shears they call the jaws of life. Without a wasted motion, they attacked the side of the van. Within minutes, they had cut a hole a yard wide in the heap of scrap metal. Leaning into the hole, they began to ease something out through it. They worked it out gradually, with maddening slowness, but also with incredible care.

Peters lay on a narrow wooden backboard with a cervical collar stabilizing his head and neck. Blood oozed from his legs, arms, and face. Carefully, they placed him on a waiting stretcher and wrapped his legs in what looked like a pressurized space suit, then carried him ever so gently toward a waiting medic unit. A trail of IVs dragged along behind them.

I was grateful to see that. The IVs meant Peters was still alive, at least right then.

As the medic unit moved away, its siren begi

Chilled to the bone, I straightened my stiffened legs and walked to where the paramedics were busy reassembling and packing up their equipment. I buttonholed one I had seen crawl out of the van just before they brought Peters out.

"Is he going to make it?" I demanded.

"Who are you?" the paramedic returned without answering my question. "Do you know him?"

I nodded. "He's my partner."

"Do you know anything about his medical background? Allergies? Blood type?"

"No."

"We couldn't locate any identification. What's his name so I can call it ahead to Harborview."

"Peters," I said quietly. "Detective Ron Peters, Seattle P.D."

Just then a uniformed officer caught sight of me. " Beaumont! There you are. We were responding to your distress call when this happened. We heard you were here, but we couldn't find you."

I didn't tell him that I had been hiding out, that I hadn't wanted to be found. I shook my head. The paramedic I had been talking to moved toward me with an air of concern. I must have looked like hell.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm okay," I muttered.

A uniformed female patrol officer with an accident report form in her hand stepped forward and addressed the paramedics in general. "You found no ID of any kind? Any idea how the accident happened?"

"Nope." The paramedic pointed toward me. "He says the guy is a detective with Seattle P.D."

She turned to me, looking for verification. Sudden anger overwhelmed me, anger at myself mostly, but I focused it on her. She was handy. She was there.

"It wasn't an accident, stupid. Call Homicide. Get 'em down here right away."

I turned on my heel and stalked away. She followed, trotting to keep up.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Detective Beaumont, Homicide, and that's Ron Peters, my partner, in that medic unit."

"You know that for sure?"

"Yes, I know it for sure! Now call Homicide like I told you."

"If you know something about this, I've got to talk to you," she snapped back.

She was right and I was wrong, but I kept walking. "They're taking him to the trauma unit at Harborview. If you need to talk to me, that's where I'll be."

My Porsche was parked at a crazy angle half on and half off the sidewalk. The flashers were still flashing. The woman followed me to the car and persisted in asking questions until I slammed the door in her face and drove off.

When I reached Harborview, Peters' empty medic unit sat under the emergency awning with its doors still open and its red lights flashing. The hospital's glass doors slid silently open and the two paramedics wheeled their stretcher back outside.

"Is he going to be all right?" I asked as they came past me.

"Who?" the one asked. "The guy we just brought in?"

"Yeah," I replied gruffly. "Him."

"Talk to the doctor. We're not allowed to answer any questions."

Talking to the doctor turned out to be far easier said than done. I waited for what seemed like hours. I didn't want to call Kirkland and talk to Ames until I had some idea of what to tell him, until I had some idea of what we were up against.

Word traveled through the law enforcement community on an invisible grapevine. The room gradually filled with people, cops keeping the vigil over one of their own. Captain Powell and Sergeant Watkins were two of the first to arrive. Shaking his head, the captain took hold of the top of my arm and gripped it tightly. He said nothing aloud. I felt the same way.

Margie, our clerk, came in a few minutes later, along with several other detectives from the fifth floor. It wasn't long before the officer from the scene showed up, still packing her blank report. Watty sent her away. I think we all figured there'd be plenty of time for filling out forms later.

At last a doctor emerged through swinging doors beside the nurses' station. A nurse directed him to me. He beckoned for me to follow him. I did. So did Watty and Captain Powell. He took us down a polished hallway to a tiny room. A conference room. A bad news room.

The doctor motioned us into chairs. "I understand Detective Peters is your partner?" the doctor said, turning to me.

I nodded.

"What about his family?"

"A couple of kids."

"How old?"

"Six and seven."

"No wife?"

"No." I took a deep breath. "Should someone go get the kids? Bring them to the hospital?"

The doctor shook his head. "No. He's in surgery now. It'll be several hours. If he makes it through that…" His voice trailed off.

"Look, doc. How bad is it?"

He looked me straight in the eye. "Bad," he said quietly. "His neck's broken. He has lost a tremendous amount of blood."

His words zinged around in my head like wildly ricocheting bullets. "But will he make it?" I demanded.

The doctor shrugged. "Maybe," he said. The doctor spoke quietly, but his words washed over me with the crushing roar of breaking surf.

Stu

Powell caught me by the arm before I reached the door. "Beau, where are you going?"

"To Kirkland. To talk to his kids."