Kim held his breath. He gripped the broom handle harder. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened. Then he saw the door handle begin to turn. The man was coming in!
Kim’s heart raced. The door was yanked open. As soon as Kim sensed the man was starting in. he gritted his teeth and swung the broom at chest height with all the strength he could muster. By chance he hit the man full in the face, knocking him back through the door. The surprise and the force of the impact dislodged the knife, and it tumbled to the floor.
Still holding the broom in his left hand, Kim leaped for the knife. He seized it, only to discover it was a flashlight, not a knife.
“Freeze!” a voice commanded.
Kim straightened up and looked into the blinding glare of another flashlight. Instinctively he raised his hand to shield his eyes. Now he could make out the man on the floor. It wasn’t the Mexican but rather a man dressed in a brown Higgins and Hancock shirt. It was a security guard, and he had both hands clasped to his face. Blood was coming out of his nose.
“Drop the broom,” a voice behind the glare commanded.
Kim let go of both the flashlight and the broom. Both fell to the floor with a clatter.
The bright beam of the flashlight was lowered, and to Kim’s utter relief, he found himself facing two uniformed policemen. The one without the flashlight was holding his pistol in both hands, pointed directly at Kim.
“Thank God!” Kim managed, despite looking down the barrel of a gun less than ten feet away.
“Shut up!” the policeman with the gun commanded. “Get out here and face the wall!”
Kim was only too happy to comply. He stepped out of the storeroom and put his hands against the wall as he’d seen done in movies.
“Frisk him,” the policeman said.
Kim felt hands run up and down his arms, legs, and torso.
“He’s clean.”
“Turn around!”
Kim did as he was told, keeping his hands raised to avoid any confusion as to his intentions. He was close enough to read the officers’ name tags. The man with the gun was Douglas Foster. The other was Leroy McHalverson. The security guard had gotten up and was dabbing at his newly bent nose with a handkerchief. The metal portion of the whisk had hit him with enough force to break it.
“Cuff him,” Douglas said.
“Hey, hold on!” Kim said. “I’m not the one you should be cuffing.”
“Really?” Douglas questioned superciliously. “Who would you suggest?”
“There’s someone else in here,” Kim said. “A dark, wiry-looking guy with tattoos and a huge knife.”
“And wearing a hockey mask, no doubt,” Douglas said scoffingly. “And his name is Jason.”
“I’m serious,” Kim said. “The reason I’m here is because of a woman named Marsha Baldwin.”
The two policemen exchanged glances.
“Honest!” Kim maintained. “She’s a USDA inspector. She was here doing some work. I was talking with her by phone when someone surprised her. I heard breaking glass and a struggle. When I got here looking for her to help her, I was attacked by a man with a knife, presumably the man who attacked Ms. Baldwin.”
The policemen remained skeptical.
“Look, I’m a surgeon at the University Med Center,” Kim said. He fumbled in the pocket of his soiled white coat. Douglas’s grip on his pistol tightened. Kim produced his laminated hospital ID. card and handed it to Douglas. Douglas motioned for Leroy to take it.
“It looks authentic,” Leroy said after a quick inspection.
“Of course it’s authentic,” Kim said.
“Have you doctors given up on personal hygiene?” Douglas asked.
Kim ran a hand through his scruffy beard and glanced down at his dirty coat and scrubs. He’d not showered, shaved, or changed clothes since early Friday morning. “I know I look a little worse for wear,” he said. “There’s an explanation. But for the moment I’m more concerned about Ms. Baldwin and the whereabouts of that man with a knife.”
“What about it, Curt?” Douglas asked the security man. “Was there a woman USDA inspector here or a strange, dark, tattooed man?”