Here, too, in all that had occurred today and at Oakes’s farm, and in all the days in between, disruption was at play. Vectors of force, desire, and fear… and they ought to be just as decipherable as those from a 12-lead, if one were skilled enough to interpret them.
Postulate that Staci was murdered because someone thought she knew something, and that Robin, Kayla, and Keller herself were yet to be scratched off the list, that someone simply wanted to erase all the people who’d made it out of Oakes’s burning house.
Then some other vector had smashed into Herzog. Because no sane person looking to erase Keller would leave her a thank-you note that would surely rocket her back into the news. No, as she’d said to Decker, whoever killed Herzog had good reason to despise people like him. Another victim?
Careful, don’t jump to conclusions.
She remembered her father firing complex problems at her, chock full of information that was often extraneous and sometimes a trap. “Correlation does not imply causation, Ash. What does each thing on its own mean? What if it was absent? What if it was the only thing to consider?”
She ran it around in her head again and again and didn’t see any other angles.
There were two opposing vectors here. Two killers with very different agendas.
She wished she could discuss this with Decker or Sanders, but she couldn’t believe they’d take her seriously—or worse, they might decide she knew more than she was telling, and then she would be doubly suspect in their eyes because of her history. Any addict had questionable motivations, always.
Can’t blame them. I’d think that too… In fact I think it right now, and this coffee isn’t really doing it for me. I’d rather be on a couch eating pizza and watching Netflix with about a quarter tab of fentanyl washing through my brain…
“If we get called, you’re going to have to come.”
Gauthier’s sharp statement interrupted her thoughts, and she sat forward and saw him bristling when McInroy turned a sour look on him. Where had all this angst come from?
Then she realized the police radio had been full of traffic for some time. Two units were responding to a stabbing in the southwest. She could see how anxious Gauthier was, waiting for a “good” call all while hoping he’d do well in McInroy’s eyes. Just like Keller had that first long-ago night riding with Lang.
She took a deep breath. Lang had a right to get drunk after seeing a man with his fingers clipped off as if he were a plant that needed pruning, but she was still fragile. Keller remembered well the night five years earlier when her friend phoned her and whispered, “I think I might be going to do something stupid…” Keller was no genius but knew Lang well enough to know “stupid” was code for suicide. She’d rushed over, and a long night of crying ensued, with Keller dragging Lang into counselling the next day.
Lang got better and retreated into rural EMS. Keller broke her leg and retreated into addiction and her own unresolved pain, leaving all her friends behind in relentless pursuit of the brilliant numbness that was fentanyl.
Lang had come back into the city for Keller, and Keller had returned the favour by dragging her through a murder scene, practically rubbing her face in the blood.
“I remember you.” McInroy said it into the long stretch of silence, dragging Keller out of her reverie and the pathetically weak high of the caffeine. She must’ve looked blank, because he shook his head. “Not expecting you to remember.”
First Decker, now this guy.
Well…in ten years, you meet a lot of cops.
“You look familiar,” Keller said, “but it’s been a long day.”
“Everybody knows you,” the rookie supplied, looking at McInroy for validation.
McInroy met Keller’s eyes and they both smiled. “Everyone does know you,” he said. “Just a fact. Don’t let it fuck you up… or go to your head.”
“Easier said. The fucking-you-up part, I mean.” She looked him up and down. “You remember me how?”
They were in an undeveloped area now, the streets surrounded by half-constructed buildings and mostly empty fields, and McInroy leaned back into his seat, his gaze moving over this deconstructed landscape and the reddening skies above it. Keller followed his stare and saw only some future whose skies hope had yet to fill.
“Six years ago, I shot a guy who came at me with a knife.” He blew it through his teeth like a prayer, voice whisper-soft. “I was shaky. The first two shots missed… Third took him in the chest. He dropped like a sack of hammers.”
“Righteous shoot.” The younger cop said it too quickly, as if he’d been waiting for the chance.
McInroy ignored him and turned to lock eyes with Keller as she took another gulp of coffee. She felt herself trembling again. “You saved his life.”
She remembered the call now, if not McInroy. It would’ve been hard to forget. The patient was a twenty-something small-time crook who’d been bingeing meth for days. When CPS responded to a “suspicious person,” he came at the first cop he saw, waving a knife and screaming bloody murder. It probably had been a “righteous shoot,” but Keller had only seen the aftermath.
The meth head took the bullet through his right chest. Lucky thing, too. A few inches left and it would’ve sailed through his left ventricle, killing him deader than dirt in about three seconds. As it was, he was still breathing by the time Keller slapped defib pads across the entrance and exit wounds.
“You put… seals of some kind on his chest,” McInroy said.
“Defib pads,” she said. “We have specialized seals for chest wounds now, but back then, defib pads—”
“Like from an automated defibrillator?” McInroy’s rookie partner weaved through traffic at an intersection before smiling back into the rear view mirror. “Like ‘stand clear’ and all that?”
Keller’s eyes never left McInroy’s.
“You must’ve done it right,” he said, jaw set tight. “He lived.”
Keller tried to remember if she’d known that. Paramedics rarely got closure anymore, rarely knew what good or ill befell their patients after they transferred care in the ER.
“You saved his life.” McInroy turned to Gauthier and his voice sharpened. “You keep your mouth shut about this, right? This is private. Get me?”
Gauthier looked hurt. “Of course.”
“I was a drinker.” McInroy said it to Keller as if Gauthier weren’t even in the car anymore. “Gin mostly, but I wasn’t particular. Bottle a day. I was just getting over it, just back on the job when I got that call.”
Keller felt a heaviness filling her chest, as though some sudden grief were expanding inside her.
“When I shot that guy, I was maybe a day or two sober.” He stared hard at Keller and his next words came out as a growl. “And you kept that asshole alive.”
“Guess that’s possible,” Keller said, feeling herself numb to whatever storm was coming now.
McInroy’s face was pale. “If that piece of shit had died, I would’ve been right back on the bottle. Probably would’ve drunk every fucking bottle I could’ve got my hands on. Maybe got fired.” He thought for a moment. “Probably a lot worse.”
Keller took a low, shuddering breath.
“Thanks for saving him.” McInroy turned away from her, looking forward again.
“You’re welcome,” Keller whispered, leaning back as Gauthier guided the vehicle into the parking lot of the Stonegate facility.
McInroy got out and opened her door for her, and Keller stood looking at him in the cooling night air.
“You take care of yourself,” he said.
“You too.”
She saw there were lights on in the admin area. Grainger? A hard day, and now an asshole waited at the end of it.
She watched the patrol car pull away, McInroy and Lang both on her mind. It was goddamned hard to be a decent addict when there were still people in the world who loved you.
Forty-Eight
Grainger rummaged through a sheaf of papers on
his desk, then sighed and slumped back in his chair to stare at Keller with his ratty eyes.
“First of all, I’m required to ask if you would like to access debriefing… counselling?”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so.”
That made him grin, and suddenly Keller wanted to hit him like she hadn’t wanted anything else all day, except maybe a hit of course.
“You sure?”
She knew from experience that Grainger thought anyone who claimed to have PTSD was weak, angling for time off or disability pay. Maybe he was surprised she wasn’t trying to—in his eyes—game the system.
The urge to punch him wasn’t going away. Maybe she should opt for debriefing, just to get him onto another subject and save herself from an assault charge.
Critical Incident Support Management—CISM—was a peer-support program designed to assist emergency service workers who’d been involved in incidents that could affect their mental health. Volunteers were trained to connect with peers, check in with them after bad calls, help them access support if they needed it.
It was a good program, good people working it. It had saved numerous lives. She probably ought to give it chance. But screwing up Lang’s mental health was enough for her for one day. She didn’t need to be laying any more shit on anyone else.
“I’m absolutely sure I don’t want it. Thank you,” she said, fists clenched behind her back.
“Fine.” He sniffed and looked down at the papers strewn across his desk. “But what am I supposed to do with you?”
She took a deep breath and drew herself up from beneath exhaustion’s rising tide. When she spoke, she forced a calm she did not truly feel into her voice. “Get me back on shift. Lang needs a day off? No worries—”
“Lang is taking a day off,” Grainger said. “Maybe more than one. Atchison as well. They recognize they need it.”
“I’ve had enough time off.”
“Have you?” He tapped at his keyboard and his screen flashed. “You dragged your partner through an active crime scene. I could’ve been dealing with two dead medics instead of one idiotic live one.”
It sounded like a well-practised line, poorly delivered.
Eight hours—easy—to come up with a cutting remark, and that’s the best you could do?
“Guess you’re stuck with live and idiotic,” Keller said. “Spare me the lectures.” She glanced at her watch. Her shift had officially ended hours ago. “I’m on overtime now, so if you don’t want to waste more money on ‘idiotic,” tell me what comes next and let me go home.”
He snorted. “Like you’re in any position to tell me what to do.” He rose from the chair and strode past her, giving her a sidelong glance. “Be right back. Going to check the light-duty roster.”
She watched him walk up the hallway. She guessed he could check any kind of roster he wanted on his computer but was just fucking with her, making her wait for no real reason.
Once he was out of sight, she took three quick steps behind his desk without really having planned it. But now that she was in motion, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.
Grainger had left his computer unlocked but that was no use for what she had in mind. She pulled open drawers, searching for what she knew had to be there. AHS forced password changes every forty-five days and Grainger possessed neither great imagination nor great memory, so his would be written down, somewhere handy. There were no yellow Post-its in the drawers or stuck to his phone. She tilted her head and looked around the desk, down at the keyboard.
No. No one would…
She tipped the keyboard upward. There was a piece of tape underneath with Superman&32 scrawled on it in blue pen.
Grainger’s footsteps sounded in the hall. Keller eased the keyboard back down and returned to her standing position in front of his desk.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sniffed as he walked past her. A sniff that said, I’ll keep you waiting as long as I fucking want. “You can sit, if you want. Checked the light-duty schedule and sadly there’s not a lot of scut work around for people that can’t do the real job, you know?”
Keller leaned back against the wall with her hands behind her, curbing the impulse to choke him. She was beyond exhausted now, but she would not have sat down with this man standing over her for a million dollars.
“I’m not waiting,” she said. “I’m working. Overtime now and deep in, right? I figure I’m over ninety dollars an hour right now, so take your time.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll have you piss tested, right now.”
She blinked at him, then glanced once more at the dolphin-decorated coffee cup. Grainger’s mouth tightened.
“It’s not like it’d be the first time someone’s pissed in it…” Keller shrugged. “Rumour has it.”
He hesitated for a moment, revealing that he didn’t consider this completely impossible, and she felt momentarily sorry for him. A widely hated man, well aware of it and coping by living up to every single negative expectation people had of him.
“Goddamn bitch.”
She smiled. “You’re a much better judge of character than I thought. I want back on the street. I don’t need light duty.”
She just wanted to be done, to go home and crash on the couch and overdose on sushi and Netflix.
And maybe one more thing.
Grainger seemed to find a way out of his momentary preoccupation with potential coffee-cup violations because a smile creased his face. Keller knew this could mean nothing good, and she wasn’t disappointed.
He tapped at the keyboard again and peered at the screen. “By request of Detective Decker, you’re on administrative duties till further notice.” His grin widened. “If Homicide doesn’t want you on the street, I certainly don’t.”
She tried to keep any of the hurt or anger that would only give him satisfaction off her face. She patted her back pocket, assuring herself Decker’s card was still there, imagining what she’d say to him.
“They’re worried about you.” Grainger shrugged. “I get that. I’m more worried about your next partner and your next patient.”
“I’m not—”
“Go home, Keller. Get a good night’s sleep.” He leaned over the desk, a leer on his face. “I’ll give you your overtime, and a day to catch up on sleep, but you still need to be here Wednesday at 0700. Call in sick if you want, but bring a doctor’s note.”
Keller mouth tightened. “I’m not calling in sick.”
“Okay. Day after tomorrow, then. I’ll give you a choice, how’s that? NAT, or you do inventory in stores? Or maybe data entry. Simon Hodgeson’s doing research on response times.”
AHS EMS occasionally devoted some resources to research. That might be interesting, but that didn’t mean she ached to work there. Nor in NAT—Non-Ambulance Transfer—where she would be little more than an over-qualified Uber driver. Counting IV bags in stores sounded even less appetizing.
“I don’t want to work NAT or stores, and—”
“Research it is, then.” Grainger affected a sympathetic expression. “Data entry”—he held up a hand—“and don’t tell me you can’t do that. I know about your degree.”
Great, even my degree is out to get me. “That’s not what I want. I could go to the union.” She heard how weak it sounded. She was so tired, it felt as though her muscles were loosening and pulling away from her bones.
“Do it.” He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t care. I know you have people above me that like you”—he sneered when he said it—“but you should consider that being off the street isn’t just protecting you. It’s protecting anyone you might work with, as long as there’s murderers out there leaving you personalized thank-you notes in blood.”
That sounded practised too. A better line, though.
“Just one murderer, as far as I know,” she said, but this was the worst part of dealing with assholes. Every once in a while they were right and it only made them more insufferable.
Grainger tapped on his desk. “Day after tomorrow, you’re here… Report to Hodgeson. Got it? Maybe along the way you can get yourself some ‘stress debriefing.’” He made quote marks in the air when he said stress debriefing and Keller thought she might yet muster the strength to strangle him, but she let nothing of what she was feeling show on her face. Not hard when there was nothing much left inside anyway.
“Yeah, I got it. We done?”
Forty-Nine
Arcand leaned back in his chair and frowned at the computer screen, weariness eating at him as midnight approached. Herzog had been the first connection to Oakes, then Hunt, but now others were taking shape. Searching for his sister’s abductors over the years unfortunately meant he’d learned much about pedophiles, and he’d discovered that their “club,” in which both Oakes and Herzog were alumni, was rather unique in several respects.
Firstly, they were dedicated pedophiles. For too long after Sophie’s abduction, the police had focused on the Rebels biker gang, who were deep into drugs and human trafficking and were certainly not above rape, especially of a prostitute. The Rebels had committed similar crimes in the past, the cops said.
But they hadn’t been looking for the right crimes.
Sophie had been lost, in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of day, wearing nice clothes that nevertheless revealed some skin. To the people who took her, she might have looked like an underage prostitute.
Now, Arcand was convinced that Oakes and his friends had been looking for a young prostitute. Someone they could kidnap for a few days to have their fun with, then drop off anywhere they liked and… nothing would happen. Back then, the police wouldn’t have been terribly interested in a prostitute’s story, if she even bothered to tell it to them.
The Beast in the Bone Page 23
