Chain of Evidence

Dart glanced toward the wall, wondering if he could roll fast enough….

“You so much as twitch,” Zeller declared, “and Doc Ray is going to need a sponge mop to bring you home.”

“They’re trying to help,” Dart said. If he was going to be accused of being overly righteous, then he was going to speak his mind.

“Martinson?” Zeller asked. He smiled. Dart knew that smile-it was Zeller’s unforgiving smile, the one that gave way to the anger and fury. “You’re going to tell me about Arielle Martinson? You were always so fucking naive. I thought we broke you of that.” He blinked rapidly. Maybe he had lost enough blood to pass out. “Righteous and naive. You shoulda been a fucking minister, you know that?” Moving the weapon back toward Dart’s eyes, he said dryly, “And no fucking sense of humor either.”

“The suicides were meant to make them scrub the testing,” Dart said, trying to buy himself some time, to find some way out of this. He was not going to shoot Zeller; he was determined to bring him up on charges.

“Gold fucking star, Ivy.” He blinked rapidly again. “And why the fuck would I want to do that?”

If Zeller blinked repeatedly like that again, Dart thought he might manage to knock the shotgun barrel toward the wall. But far enough? he wondered. The spray pattern of a shotgun was far wider than its small barrel opening.

“I know what you’re thinking, because I know you, Ivy. You’re so fucking predictable. That’s your problem. You’re thinking I flipped out; you’re thinking it’s for Lucky-God rest her sweet soul.” This last bit was said in the true voice of Walter Zeller-the Zeller who Dart knew and respected. “But you don’t know shit.” He offered Dart a look of disappointment and said, “Martinson was raped while at the university. Cut up bad.”

Dart recalled the ugly scar behind her ear. Victims everywhere-and he knew by the man’s tone of voice where Zeller was going with it. Dart didn’t want to hear this.

“It took her over a year to recover. After that, she made it her life’s work to do something about sex offense. It became a passion, and from there, an obsession. She became consumed by it. She made mistakes-bad business decisions-based on the conviction that gene therapy was the answer. An unproven technology, mind you! She devoted funds that she shouldn’t have-got herself into trouble. She had to make it work-that’s the hole she dug for herself.” He blinked repeatedly like a man about to lose consciousness. “They’ve conducted three different trials in five years-all to shitty results. Nesbit-the Ice Man-was in the first group. They paroled him early to be part of that trial. That was the only reason he was out and able to kill Lucky-”

The fire door at the top of the stairs cried out over the top of the roar-the door by which they had entered. Dart felt paralyzed by what Zeller had told him-his mind swimming. The cop in both of them knew from the distinct, prolonged sound that it was not a squeak caused by wind. It was not the door settling all of its own.

Someone had come through that door, had entered.

They both lifted their heads at once to listen more clearly, the threats of only seconds before gone.

Footsteps coming down the first set of stairs that lead to the balcony.

Dart wanted the rest of Zeller’s explanation.

Staring up into the darkness, Zeller hissed, “You stupid shit, Dartelli. You led him here.” He whispered incredulously, “You let yourself be followed? Jesus Christ!”

Dart felt himself shrink. He had not checked for someone following him, too preoccupied with the dangers of Park Street.

Zeller’s hand came off the weapon, drew a zipper across his lips, and signaled first to Dart and then to himself-he wanted Dart to follow him. Adversaries, they were suddenly partners.

Again.

The transition felt natural. Dart didn’t question it. Zeller rocked up onto his knees, grabbed the shotgun, checked over his shoulder for Dart, and stood in a crouch, moving along the line of groaning dryers, keeping close to the machines. He lifted his hand and stopped Dart short of the very end. He pointed to a depression in the corner of the floor where a large mesh grate covered a manhole. He signaled that Dart should cover with his weapon as he would go first and lift the grate for Dart who was to follow and enter the hole ahead of Zeller. Dart signaled back that he would hold the grate for Zeller instead, but the Sergeant flashed his middle finger at his former protege. Then he raised his index finger as if to say, Ready?

Dart nodded. He pushed past Zeller, for the first time offering him his back. He edged slowly toward the corner of this last dryer and sneaked his face out just far enough to see around the corner so that he could defend their position.

Zeller’s breath was hot on Dart’s neck. The detective jumped, not expecting it. Zeller placed a hand firmly on Dart’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. “His name is Alverez. You met him at the fire. He was the one in the car. The reason we don’t kill the bastard is that they’ll only replace him. And we don’t want that. Got it?”

Dart nodded.

Zeller glanced around the corner of the roaring machine and gently eased himself away. He went back to hand signals-he had seen someone-and then hurried into the corner with the grate.

His heart aching, Dart edged his left eye around the dryer. The man pursuing them was looking lost, standing motionless in the center of the aisle. He was carrying what looked like an Uzi.

Zeller managed to open the grate without being heard over the rumbling of the dryers. He signaled Dart, and Dart limped over to him, pocketed his sidearm, and slipped quietly down the steel tube, using hand and foot grips welded into its wall, his ankle screaming. Zeller passed him the shotgun and followed, easing the grate down into place above him. Flashing sparks indicated that Alverez had seen them. A spray of bullets skimmed off the grate throwing fireworks overhead.

Zeller winced and buckled on his way down the ladder, and though Dart did not see the man’s blood spilling from his shoulder, when Zeller reached out and accepted the shotgun, Dart knew that he’d been hit. Zeller switched on a small penlight as he came off the last rung and pointed down the storm sewer-a cement pipe perhaps four feet high. He signaled for Dart to defend their backside, then crouched and lead the way into the claustrophobic tunnel. The bottom of the pipe was dry. After only a few feet, when a spray of bullets echoed back at the base of entrance tube, Zeller switched off the light. Alverez had fired a volley down through the grate in defense.

The grate banged on the cement floor, above and far behind them.

Alverez was inside.

Zeller allowed Dart to run fully into him, stopping him. He grabbed for the detective’s hand and pulled it down to a cold metal grip. Dart tested his toe forward and felt it slip out into nothingness. This pipe ended here. He crouched and began to descend, using the ladder of grips that Zeller had indicated. At the last rung, he stepped off into water so cold that it caught his breath. The sergeant flashed his penlight only once, aiming it down a large, arching stone ceiling that was dripping water and coated in a green slime. The water in which they stood was pitch black. Dart heard the distinct sound of scurrying rats but ignored it-he didn’t want to think about being in a storm sewer with a few hundred irritated rats at his feet. Zeller pulled on Dart, and led the way.

From behind them came the unmistakable sound of shoes scraping on cement.

With his left hand held out against the tunnel’s wall as a guide, Dart followed the sound of Zeller’s splashing. The sergeant had clearly practiced this escape, for he moved knowingly in the darkness. Dart’s ankle, chilled by the water, felt a little better.

When they were a good twenty yards down this tunnel, Dart heard Alverez spit out the single word “Shit!” followed by the sound of a falling man landing hard-he had gone off the end of the pipe into the larger tunnel. The man fired off a stream of semiautomatic weapon fire in anger, made apparent to Dart only by a terrifying whistling in the air around him.

Alverez was coming after them with a vengeance. Dart’s hope that he might be too injured to follow were dashed.

Dart’s left hand went into space as the wall ran out.

“Sssst!” Zeller said, to his immediate left.

Dart blindly negotiated the turn into a similar tunnel, and they started off again. He realized that the intersection was yet another of Zeller’s ploys. Alverez would be forced to make a choice-hopefully the wrong one.

He and Zeller stayed in this connecting tunnel for several minutes before taking a right; they were following