CHAPTER 12
OLD FRIEND
Tim sat in the waiting room of Walter Luther General Hospital’s Trauma Unit, holding his head, which was still bleeding. He felt like hell. He looked worse.
The emergency room of a hospital early Saturday morning in any big city was no place to get immediate medical attention. The city’s underbelly hemorrhaged its miscreants from Friday night’s assorted events into the various emergency rooms. The trauma unit was usually standing room only, the results of drug overdoses, alcohol induced accidents, shootings, and the usual assortment of carnage inflicted as people realized who had been sleeping with whom.
This Saturday morning was no different. Because Tim had walked in, as opposed to being rushed in on a gurney, he was relegated to non-emergency status. He was now waiting in line to have his wounds examined by one of the overworked physicians. To make matters worse, he was flanked by two policemen, intent on getting to the bottom of his situation. They suspected he knew more than what he was revealing. Outside the hospital doors, another policeman grilled Graham Crane. He was particularly interested in knowing how an attorney had come to be handcuffed to a truck at 3:00 AM on a Saturday morning, and in view of a tavern fight.
Tim’s head throbbed and his ribs were sore from having been kicked. In spite of intense questioning by the police, he steadfastly stood by his story that he had been in the bar. His explanation was that when he left at closing time two bikers had jumped him. They beat him for winning money from them at the pool table earlier in the evening. He gave a full description of Mark McMurphy and Roger Garrett, as he remembered them, but he made no mention of Barnes.
He also stated that he did not want to press charges against the two bikers.
One of the policemen got up, moved to the row of chairs directly facing Tim, put his elbows on his knees and folded his hands under his chin, all the while staring at Tim.
Through bleary, bloodshot eyes, Tim stared back at the officer, his penchant for silence not affected by the melee.
The policeman looked to be about fifty years old. He had chiseled, angular features and close-cropped salt and pepper hair in a neatly buzzed cut.
Jarhead, Tim thought.
Jarhead looked as if he’d been a cop forever, one who never strayed from his duty. His nametag stated that he was P. Preston from the Ft. Worth Police Department.
“Okay, Mr. Harrison,” Officer Jarhead began, “now that we have a description of your attackers, would you mind telling us what you were doing with a prominent Dallas attorney handcuffed to your truck?”
Tim took his time answering. Finally, he answered. “What did he tell you?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Harrison,” Officer Preston drawled, “that the process just doesn’t work that way. You see, we ask questions, and you,” he pointed at Harrison, “supply answers.”
Tim shot a glance at the other policeman sitting next to him. a short, redheaded and freckled fellow of about thirty-five or forty. He returned the same intense stare as was being given by Officer Preston. His nametag read J. Rankin, also of the Ft. Worth Police Department.
Tim shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. He really didn’t know what to say about what had happened, and wondered whether he should ask to see a lawyer… his own. He hadn’t accounted for ending up in the hospital in his overall plan, and now was unsure of what he should admit. He turned back again to Officer Jarhead.
“We’re waiting,” Officer Preston said mildly, his chin still resting on his folded hands.
Officer Rankin stood up beside him.
Tim opened his mouth to request a lawyer, but before he could utter a word, the emergency ward nurse walked into the room and motioned that it was his turn to see the doctor. Tim rose immediately to follow her.
“Mr. Harrison,” Officer J. Rankin asked, “did you have something you wanted to say before you go?”
Tim looked back at the two policemen. “No, I don’t at this time,” he replied. He turned to leave.
“We’ll be waiting here for you when you get done seeing the doctor then,” Officer Preston said, a smile on his face.
Tim followed the nurse down the hall to the bright lights and sterile environment of the emergency room. Once there his cuts were cleansed, stitched, and bandaged. He also won an argument with the attending physician, a kid who didn’t look old enough to shave, that it was not necessary for him to spend the night in the hospital, Tim walked through the swinging doors to the entrance of the emergency ward, where Officer Jarhead and his red-headed sidekick waited to continue their interrogation.
No sooner had he rounded the corner than Officer Preston stepped up to him. “Tim Harrison, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Graham Crane.”
They read Tim his Miranda rights and handcuffed him in the entrance of the emergency ward, in full view of the nurses, physicians, and patients waiting their turn.
Officer Rankin, followed closely by Preston, led him out of the hospital. As they walked into the cool early morning air they passed Graham Crane, still talking to another policeman.
Tim and Graham locked eyes momentarily as Tim was led out to the patrol car for his trip to the jail.
Graham said nothing as Tim stared at him, even while he was being stuffed into the back of the squad car and hauled away.