MATT DUGGAN - DETECTIVE SERIES

Part X

Pushing the wheelchair bound concierge out of the warehouse side door and toward the medical transport vehicle, Sutton stopped and reached down, locking the wheels in preparation for loading the occupied chair back inside the van. “Alright, Mr. Stumbling Block,” he mumbled in a mocking voice, “you’ve been an annoying obstacle and thorn in my side long enough. If it weren’t for you, my elitist snob of a cousin would be enjoying permanent residency in the nuthouse, and I on the other hand, would be enjoying the Barton inheritance. Now it’s time to cash in your chips and get tossed out of the casino … for good. All that remains is to …”

“Hold it right there,” Matt yelled out, stepping out of the warehouse and aiming his revolver at Sutton’s upper torso.

Returning a startled expression, the unscrupulous felon looked around, expecting to see other uniformed officers. Regaining his composure, he turned and faced Matt, a malevolent grin appearing. “Okay, I give up … who the hell are you?”

“Never mind who I am,” Matt retorted, noticing the gun behind Sutton’s belt. “Use your left hand and take that Glock out of your waistband … nice and slow, and throw it over the top of the van. Get stupid and I’ll put a hollow-point right between your eyes.”


Sutton gave a cynical chuckle. “So, you’re a private dick,” he correctly surmised. “Well, this is all very clever of you,” he said as he tossed the gun over the van. “Was it Holland who hired you?”

Matt snickered. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it was, and it’s all on video,” he continued, motioning in the direction of his iPhone propped-up on top of a broom and rake organizer mounted on the side of the warehouse. “I’ve got enough on you right now to guarantee you won’t be anyone’s problem again for at least 20 years.” Matt glanced down at Holland. “Anything happens to that man, and the last thing you’ll ever see is a needle being stuck in your arm.”

Sutton feigned a breath of resignation, then paused. “Well, it looks like you’ve got me, gumshoe. I suppose I’d better …” he quickly mumbled, followed by turning Holland’s wheelchair over on its side. He sprinted around the back of the van, racing for the Glock. Charging around the front of the vehicle, Matt tackled the co-conspirator, the impact knocking his snub-nosed revolver out his hand. Sutton struggled to break free and reach the Glock, now within an arm’s length. Holding firm and rising to his feet, Matt attempted to pull the convicted felon up and off the ground when he was kicked in the chest, sending him sprawling on his back. The desperate perp turned over, crawling furiously toward the handgun and grabbing the pistol. He turned and sat upright, swinging his arm around in an attempt to align the pistol with its intended target, the sound of gunfire echoing throughout the maze of warehouses and empty pathways between the buildings. Sutton sat there, staring at Matt with a blank expression before slowly tumbling onto his side, the Glock bouncing off the dark asphalt. Holding tight to his .38 caliber back-up revolver which only moments before he had pulled out of his ankle holster, the retired police detective turned private investigator stood and walked toward the motionless Sutton. There was no movement, no indication he was breathing. Kicking the Glock a safe distance away and retrieving his dropped pistol, Matt stooped down and placed his index and middle finger on Sutton’s carotid artery. There was no pulse. Scurrying around the van, he bent down and assisted the unsteady Holland to his feet, the tumble in the wheelchair jolting the disheveled Holland out of his sedated stupor.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked

Holland shook his head, attempting to clear the fog. “Wha … what the hell is going on? Where am I?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“You’re safe, now.” Matt answered. “It appears you were abducted by Sutton and his two cohorts, which is why you’re in front of this warehouse. From what I could see and hear he was preparing you to sleep with the fishes.”

Unfazed by the realization he was a short ride away from Davy Jone’s locker, Holland looked anxiously around. “Hold on. If I’m here … where’s Melissa?”

Matt returned a puzzled look. “Melissa? What do you …”

“Wait a minute … what’s that?” Holland interrupted. He turned and pointed.

Looking in the same direction and squinting his eyes, Matt could see a caravan of tactical vehicles barreling down the service aisle approximately ten warehouses away. “Looks like the mounties have arrived,” he blurted. Forming a semi-circle and stopping on the opposite side of the medical transport, law enforcement personnel in tactical gear emerged, fanning out and around the mini-warehouse. Two accompanying fire rescue trucks and ambulances maintained a discreet distance. Delia, Morelli, and Blanchard jumped out of an unmarked SUV. Crouching, weapons drawn, they cautiously approached Matt and Holland.

“You two okay?” Delia asked in a hushed tone.

“We’re good,” Matt said, Holland confirming with a thumbs up.

Morelli gave Matt the stink eye again. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Where’s Melissa … and where’s Lundsten and Shyner?” Blanchard chimed in.

Matt glanced at Delia, a puzzled look on his face. “Melissa?”

“Morelli informed me on the way here she was reported missing shortly after Holland disappeared.”

Matt wheeled around and surveyed the warehouse, pondering Delia’s statement. “Then there’s a very high probability she’s in that same office inside the building.”

A commotion emerging from the warehouse utility door suddenly caught everyone’s attention. The words, "Don’t shoot, don’t shoot" were echoing from inside. They turned and faced the door, their weapons aimed at its rectangular center. His hands raised high in the air, a slovenly Shyner waddled in awkward fashion through the opening and onto the asphalt aisleway, his eyes filled with terror.

"Everyone ... hold your fire," Blanchard yelled out.

“Stop!” Morelli shouted using a bullhorn. “Turn around; place your hands on your head and interlace your fingers,” he ordered, pointing his Sig Sauer semi-auto pistol at the rotund lawyer, several SWAT officers taking aim with their assault rifles. The terrified attorney complied, completing an about face and placing his clasped hands on top of his head. “Slowly … begin walking back toward the sound of my voice,” Morelli shouted, Shyner again complying with the order. Two SWAT officers crept cautiously toward the portly esquire, grabbing and half dragging him hurriedly back and around Blanchard’s unmarked SUV.

Blanchard snatched Shyner and spun him around. “Where’s Melissa … and where is Lundsten?”

“They’re holed-up inside the warehouse,” he sputtered.

“Where in the warehouse?” Morelli jumped in.

“In an abandoned office in the center of the building,” Shyner replied. “She’s sedated and safely restrained in a wheelchair. Lundsten’s in there with her.”

“You’d better be right,” Morelli said sternly. He ordered Shyner to sit on the ground next to the unmarked SUV before cuffing and securing him to the running board. He turned and placed his hand on agent Anderson’s shoulder. “You just heard him. Out of an abundance of caution we’ll need to treat this as a hostage situation. Choose three team members and prepare for a deliberate entry into that facility. The goal is to locate and neutralize Lundsten in unison with the safe release and retrieval of Melissa. You know the drill. Advise when ready.”

“Got it. Let’s go,” Anderson ordered, calling aside three officers for a quick briefing.

***

“You’re a stain on the profession,” the masked and dark clothed figure ranted in a muffled tone, walking in a menacing gait toward Lundsten as he backed away from the unidentified party. Holding a large pair of metal shearing scissors, the concealed figure continued to approach the bedraggled physician.

“Who are you? What is it you want?” the panic stricken psychiatrist implored.

Ignoring the question, the shadowy figure continued to advance. “You’re everything a mental health professional should not be,” came the reply. “You’re a loathsome scoundrel and a cad. You and your two cohorts have caused irreparable harm to countless patients, and in so doing have further stained the reputation of Paragon hospital, not to mention you’re guilty of the worst kind of despicable fraud by conspiring to have an innocent young woman deemed mentally incompetent.”

“It was all Sutton’s doings,” Lundsten alleged, glancing back and forth between the perp’s covered face and the long bladed shears the unknown culprit was carrying. “It was all his idea,” he repeated. "He was the mastermind,” he yelled out, continuing to back away.

“And all for the purpose of having her committed for the remainder of her life … or at least long enough so you and your criminal co-conspirators could plunder the ill-gotten gains of her deceased father’s shipping empire,” the unidentified perpetrator sneered.

“I … I was in the process of turning this whole thing around,” Lundsten stammered, continuing to back away from the unidentified party. “I, I … I was going to turn in Sutton and Shyner.” He looked around, his fear and anxiety intensifying. “If it weren’t for me, Melissa wouldn’t even be alive,” his tone of voice growing desperate. “I tried to protect her. You … You’ve got to believe me.”

The disguised figure vented a scornful utterance, ignoring Lundsten’s lame attempts to rationalize his unprofessional and criminal behavior. “If it weren’t for you and your evil cohorts, none of this would have happened. You could have cost this innocent young woman and her concierge their lives. And for that there is no forgiveness.”

Knowing time was up, Lundsten turned suddenly and bolted in a desperate attempt to reach the warehouse side utility door.

The covered culprit scurried after Lundsten, catching up with him and plunging the shearing scissors deep into the middle of his back. The discredited psychiatrist fell forward, a sickening crack reverberating throughout the warehouse as his forehead made contact with the smooth concrete floor. The perpetrator stared for a moment at the motionless doctor, then disappeared into the darkness.

***

Ten minutes later:

“The warehouse is secure,” Anderson reported to Morelli, speaking into his wrist radio. “Melissa Barton has been located inside the abandoned office. She’s unconscious, but otherwise appears unharmed.”

“And Lundsten?”

“We found him face down in a pool of blood, halfway between the office and the service entry side door, a pair of metal sheers protruding out of the middle of his back … all the way to the grip handles. He’s dead.”

Blanchard gave the go-ahead for the medics and fire rescue to enter the warehouse and attend to Melissa, then turned and looked at Shyner. “Someone take this wretched excuse of a lawyer and place him in the back seat of a patrol vehicle.”

“I’ll do it,” Matt offered in a disgusted tone, walking toward Shyner, still cuffed to the SUV’s running board. Unlocking the restraints, he assisted the disreputable attorney to his feet.

“I’ll go with you,” Delia said, both escorting Shyner to an MPD patrol car obscured by a larger SWAT vehicle.

“Aren’t you going to re-cuff me?” Shyner asked, glancing back and forth between the two private investigators as they approached the police cruiser.

Delia rendered a snickering grin. “Why? You thinking about escaping?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Oh, and by the way, I know all about you, lady.”

Reaching the patrol vehicle, Matt handed the cuffs to Delia. “Turn around and lean against the vehicle, smart-ass. Put your hands behind your back.”

“Makes no difference,” Shyner arrogantly replied. “I’m an attorney. I know the system and I can play it like a fiddle. I’ll be out of the slammer and back in my office before you two return to your own. That’s what I’ll do, and that’s what I have to say.”

Delia took a step back. “Oh, really? You say? Well, before that happens, there is something I’d like to say.”

Shyner responded with a slow smirk. “Not that I give a shit, Ms. detective widow turned private dick and gumshoe bitch, but what would that be?” he asked in a hateful tone.

“This,” Delia replied, responding with a round house kick, her boot connecting with the left side of Shyner’s fat face. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Standing over the unconscious attorney, she hollered, “That’s for Melissa and Holland, and for all the other paragon patients and clients you’ve lied to, swindled, and ruined … you rotten, bottom feeding ambulance chasing pettifogger.”

“Daaaamn,” Matt howled out loud, a smile flashing over his face. “You’re right, Del … he was trying to escape.”


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