Rinaldi lay still, long spider limbs arrayed terribly wrong.
22
SCRABBLING TO MY FEET, I RAN UP THIRTY-FIFTH.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The previously deserted sidewalks were filling with the curious. Ahead, a circle was forming around Rinaldi. Between pairs of legs I could see his motionless form, a dark tendril oozing toward the curb from below his chest.
Shoving aside gawkers, I made my way up the street. Slidell was kneeling, face splotchy, both hands pressed to his partner’s chest.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Rinaldi’s eyelids were blue, his face morgue white. Rain soaked his hair and shirt. Blood crawled the pavement and oozed over the lip of the curb. Too much blood.
“Get back!” Slidell screamed, voice tremulous with rage. “Give the man some goddamn air!”
The circle expanded, immediately began to contract. Cell phones clicked, capturing images of the gore.
The distant wails grew louder. Increased in number. I knew Slidell had called in the code for officer down. Units were responding from all over the city.
“Let me do that,” I said, dropping beside Slidell. “You deal with the crowd.”
Slidell’s eyes whipped to mine. He was breathing hard. “Yeah.”
I slid my hands onto Rinaldi’s chest below Slidell’s palms. I could feel trembling in his arm.
“Hard! You gotta press hard!” A vein pounded up the center of Slidell’s forehead. Wetness haloed his hair.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Shooting upright, Slidell lurched toward the gawkers, feet slipping in the rain and the slick of Rinaldi’s blood.
“Get the hell back!” Slidell’s upraised palms were a horrifying crimson.
I dropped my gaze, thoughts pointed at only one goal.
“Give me some fucking room! Now!” Slidell bellowed.
Too much! Dear God, no one could survive such a loss.
Seconds passed. The rain fell in a slow, steady drizzle.
A siren screamed to a stop close by. A second. A third. Lights pulsated, turning the street into a flashing whirlpool of red and blue.
Doors opened. Slammed. Footsteps pounded. Voices shouted.
Sensing movement and space, I glanced up, palms still pressed to Rinaldi’s chest.
Uniformed cops were now muscling the onlookers back.
My eyes returned to my hands, now glossy and dark.
Feet appeared at my side, one pair in boots, one in New Balance running shoes. Muddy. Wet.
Boots squatted and spoke to me. I barely heard through the mantra controlling my mind.
Boots placed his hands over mine on the blood-soaked shirt. I looked into his eyes. The irises were blue, the whites latticed by a network of tiny red veins.
Boots nodded.
I rose and stepped back on rubber legs.
I knew the drill. ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. I watched numbly as the paramedics went through it, checking Rinaldi’s trachea, bagging him with oxygen, evaluating his carotid pulse.
Then they strapped Rinaldi to a gurney, lifted him, and slammed the doors. I watched the ambulance race into the Charlotte night.
Leaving the scene to others, Slidell and I drove straight to CMC. On the way we passed dozens of squad cars speeding toward NoDa. Dozens more clogged the streets. The city throbbed with sirens and pulsating lights.
The ER waiting room already held a half dozen cops. Barely acknowledging their presence, Slidell barked his name and demanded Rinaldi’s doctor.
A receptionist ushered us to restrooms so we could wash the blood from our hands and arms. Or maybe it was a nurse. Or an orderly. Who knew? Upon our return, she asked us to take seats and wait.
Slidell started to bluster. I led him by one arm to a row of interlocking metal seats. His muscles felt tense as tree roots.
Sensitive to Slidell’s mood, everyone left us alone. Those in law enforcement understood. Their presence was enough.
Slidell and I dropped into chairs and began our vigil, each lost in thoughts of our own.
I kept hearing the shots, picturing Rinaldi’s ghostly face. The blood. Too much blood.
Every few minutes Slidell would lurch to his feet and disappear outside. Each time he returned, cigarette smoke rode him like rain on a dog. I almost envied him the diversion.
Slowly, the number of cops increased. Plainclothes detectives stood in groups with uniformed patrolmen, faces tense, voices hushed.
Finally, a grim-faced doctor approached wearing blood-spattered scrubs. A stain on one sleeve mimicked the shape of New Zealand. Why would I think of that?
Slidell and I rose, terrified, hopeful. The doctor’s badge said
Meloy told us that Rinaldi had taken two rounds to the chest and one to the abdomen. One wound was through and through. Two bullets remained in his body.
“He conscious?” Slidell asked, face fixed in grim resolution.
“He’s still in surgery,” Meloy said.
“He gonna make it?”
“Mr. Rinaldi has lost a lot of blood. Tissue damage is extensive.”
Slidell forced his voice even. “That ain’t an answer.”
“The prognosis is not good.”
Meloy led us to a staff lounge and told us to stay as long as we wanted.
“When’s he come off the table?” Slidell asked.
“That’s impossible to say.”
Promising to find us if there were developments, Meloy left.
Rinaldi died at 11:42 P.M.
Slidell listened stone-faced as Meloy delivered the news. Then he turned and strode from the room.
A cop drove me home. I should have said thanks, but didn’t. Like Slidell, I was too battered for niceties. Later I learned her name and sent a note. I think she understood.
Once in bed, I cried until I could cry no more. Then I fell into a dreamless sleep.
I awoke Sunday morning feeling something was wrong, but unsure what. When I remembered, I cried all over again.
The
TV and radio coverage was equally frenzied, the rhetoric wildly speculative.
