"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Thirty-Two
Once again, Carl Iverson found himself in a bit of a quandary.
Each day, he would pick up his morning paper, hoping to see a 'Fireman Found Suffocated in His Hospital Bed' headline, but no mention was ever made of his latest dastardly deed.
As difficult as it was for him to believe, Carl finally concluded that, once again, the 'deed' had not been completely accomplished.
The cold-blooded killer further concluded that that young fireman had to be one, unbelievably tough bastard.
Oh well…That would teach him to try to kill somebody in a 'hospital'.
Carl cursed his bad luck.
Now, the cops would be keeping his quarry protected.
Now, in order to succeed, the killer realized he would need to be much more 'creative'—er, destructive.
Iverson doused the brown wig in his hands with baby powder. The long brown strands of nylon instantly turned gray. He placed the powdered item beside the nearly ankle-length dress, and the ridiculously large purse, that he had purchased at a local 'Thrift' store, the day before.
Carl smiled down at his latest 'clever' disguise.
Tomorrow, he would 'eliminate' that damn fireman—once and for all!
He turned his attention to the electrical components, rolls of tape and stacks of plastic explosives that were resting on his coffee table. The ex-mob enforcer's sick smile broadened into an even sicker grin. 'Along with most—if not all—of the hospital's sixth floor,' Iverson silently—and sickly—predicted.
After a 'minor miscalculation' had caused both of his own eardrums to be blown out, Carl wasn't exactly keen on working with 'explosives' again, but the cops would never allow him to get close enough to kill the fireman any 'other' way. So his options were extremely limited.
Over coffee, Roy DeSoto had voiced his concerns—about the government's decision to leave Carl Iverson 'on the loose'—with his Captain.
Hank Stanley's discussion with his senior paramedic led the equally concerned fire officer to place an urgent phone call to headquarters.
Station 51's Captain's phone call led the Los Angeles County Fire Department's Chief Engineer, William Jenner, to contact his Battalion Chiefs, who, in turn, contacted their Station Captains.
A countywide call was put out for 'off-duty firemen who would be willing to take on a special assignment.'
Once word of what the 'special assignment' was got out, headquarters quickly had far more 'willing bodies' than were needed.
The hospital's security people were contacted. A shift-schedule was worked out, a duty roster was formulated and the volunteer firefighters were given their special assignments.
All of that 'advance organization' apparently paid off, because, by 06:00 the following morning, the first shift of volunteers had arrived at Rampart.
Handy-talkies were handed out, that would allow the firemen to communicate with Rampart's own security people, everybody was briefed, and, by 06:15, there was an off-duty LA County fireman in position at every single one of the huge hospitals many entryways—and exits.
Along with an HT, each of the off-duty firefighters had been handed a photocopy of Carl Iverson's mug shot.
The creep had already tried—twice—to kill one of their own.
The volunteers had vowed that they were not going to allow Mr. Iverson to make a third attempt on their brother's life.
At approximately 09:00 that same morning, an old woman exited Carl Iverson's apartment building and climbed into a waiting cab.
Nobody paid the dowdy old broad—or the bulging handbag that she was carrying—the slightest bit of attention, including the Organized Crime Task Force's two special agents, who had been assigned to keep a certain 'person of interest' under constant surveillance.
Once again, Craig Brice just happened to be 'at the right place, at the right time'.
The paramedic had accompanied his stroke patient to the hospital and was now standing in front of the ER's Nurses' Station, waiting for his partner to pick him up.
He was very much aware of what the department was doing.
Craig was relieved to find Rick Belmont, from 48's, posted at the ER's entrance, when their ambulance pulled up. If the paramedic hadn't been 'on duty', he would have had his own 'special assignment'.
The bored fireman watched an old lady—with an absurdly huge handbag—step onto the elevator and wondered if the woman was smuggling contraband food items up to one the patients.
Less than two minutes later, the elevator doors reopened and the old woman reappeared.
Craig stiffened.
The old lady bore a strong resemblance to John's assailant. In fact, the woman could've been Carl Iverson's moth—Brice suddenly recalled that John's killer was fond of disguises. 'O-or Carl Iverson!' he silently realized and determined he would take a 'closer' look. The paramedic started heading toward the old hag—on a collision course.
Sure enough! The two moving bodies collided in the middle of the crowded hospital corridor.
Craig's 'up close and personal' collision with the old lady allowed him to both see the five o'clock shadow on her—er, his homely face and feel the hard weapon that was concealed beneath her—er, his buttoned up bosom—er, chest. "Pardon me, Mam," the paramedic promptly apologized. "I'm terribly sorry. Are you all right?"
Carl saw the fireman's lips moving, but couldn't hear what was being said. Iverson simply nodded and then quickly took his leave.
It was then that Craig realized that both of the man's hands were now empty. He swallowed hard and hurried over to where Hank Stanley was standing.
The off-duty Captain was coordinating the department's 'creep watch' in Emergency Receiving.
"Carl Iverson is here, Captain," Craig solemnly reported. "He's dressed like an old woman. I saw him step into—and out of—the elevator. He just took off down the hall." The paramedic suddenly looked even more solemn than he sounded. "Captain, Iverson came down without his handbag,"
Stanley's already lurching stomach suddenly formed an enormous knot. He passed the on-duty paramedic his radio. "You try to find him! I'll try to find the handbag!"
Craig nodded and went racing off down the crowded hospital corridor, in the direction Iverson had just vanished in.
Hank did an about face and began heading for the elevator—also at a dead run. "We need to get everybody off the sixth floor!" the fire officer loudly declared, as he went racing past Dr. Brackett.
The physician's face instantly filled with both understanding—and alarm. Kel ran over to the Nurses' Station and snatched the phone up from its counter. "Yes! This is Dr. Brackett! Begin an immediate emergency evacuation of the sixth floor!"
Craig caught back up to the cold-blooded killer just in time to watch him disappear into to the basement's stairwell. He halted just outside the closed door and raised the radio in his right hand. "Brice…in Emergency Receiving," he breathlessly reported in. "Mr. Storey…Carl Iverson just ran down…into the basement…near the Lab…Iverson is dressed…like an old lady…and he is…carrying a gun!"
"Roger that, Brice!" the head of Rampart General Hospital's security acknowledged. "Storey out!"
Hank Stanley stood in the ridiculously slow-moving elevator, his entire being willing it to operate faster. "C'mon! C'mon!" the Captain continued to urge, this time, speaking to it right out loud.
At long last, the pokey lift stopped and its doors 'ping'ed open.
Stanley stepped out onto the sixth floor and addressed the nearest nurse. "That old woman who was just up here—where did she go?"
"She stepped into the visitor's lounge for a couple a' seconds—and then left," the bewildered woman obligingly informed him.
The off-duty officer made a frantic dash for the little room on his left.
Stanley stopped, just inside the lounge, and his darting eyes began a quick, but careful, reconnoiter of the relatively small space. The Captain's racing heart suddenly skipped a beat.
There, setting on top of the coffee vending machine, was the old woman's 'purse'.
Hank didn't bother to 'crank' one of the room's two windows open. He just hurled the little lounge's coffee table through one of them. The fire officer carefully removed the bulging handbag from the top of the coffee machine and proceeded to fling the thing—just as far as he possibly could—out the 'opened' window. The cringing Captain then threw himself down onto the carpeted floor and covered his un-helmeted head with both of his arms.
A couple of seconds later, there was a foundation rocking 'KA-BOO-OOM!'
TBC