Rick’s heart went out to her. He might not want to connect with this woman, but her father’s fate mirrored Traci’s, except that his wife’s death hadn’t officially been ruled a suicide. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Her gaze lingered on his. “He died just before I received my license. Not that I would have been able to help him just because I had my credentials, but I hadn’t given up on him and would have kept trying.”
He nodded. “Sounds like you feel guilty for not helping him.”
“Guilty? No. I know better than that. No one can be responsible for another person’s actions. Sure, you may fight or argue and the other person takes off and does something dumb as a result, but even then, they are the ones who chose the action. Not you.”
Rick’s thoughts went to his wife. He imagined holding the baby, his son. The softness of his newborn skin. The sweet baby smell. Feeding him. Changing him. Watching him grow up. Playing together. Bonding over sports and just being present for his son in a way his father hadn’t been. Loving this child. His family complete. His heart full.
But what did he have instead? Emptiness. A hollow hole he couldn’t erase. Maybe if he’d seen that her therapist, Dr. Fox, wasn’t helping Traci enough. Maybe then he’d have found a way not to deploy as often and leave her alone so much of the time. And maybe then he would believe Dr. Dobb’s theory.
“It’s different if you neglected someone, though,” he said.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of neglect.”
“Not being there when someone needed you.”
“You mean choosing not to be there for someone?”
“No. Just not physically being around.”
“In that case, it’s still the person trying to take responsibility for someone else’s actions.” She leaned forward, her gaze remaining on his. “Are you by any chance a man of faith?”
He nodded.
“I’m a believer, too, and a Christian counselor. One thing I often remind clients of is that nothing happens that God doesn’t allow. I mean, take Ace for example,” she continued. “Even if I failed to do all I could for him, God was still watching over us and was in control.”
“Isn’t that an easy way of letting yourself off the hook?”
Her eyebrow arched. “So suppose a person stepped off the curb when a car was coming. The driver does everything he can to stop, but doesn’t succeed and the person is killed. Should that driver feel guilty?”
“No. They did everything they could.”
“I did all I could do at the time for Ace. Sure, in hindsight I can think of better ways to have handled the situation, but I acted with the information I had at the time.”
Was she right? Could he let himself off the hook for Traci’s and the baby’s death? After all, short of going AWOL, he couldn’t have left the marines. Nah, it didn’t work that way. The doc was just trying to justify not believing Griffin last night. Still, Rick had an insane urge to tell her about Traci. Get the doc’s opinion. He opened his mouth, but thankfully she waved a hand, stopping him.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything, then I go on and on like we’re best friends.”
Best friends? He doubted they’d ever be that. Not unless he learned to trust again, and that was about as likely as reconciling with his father.
* * *
Agent Cannon’s expression shifted, but he continued to eye her. Olivia hadn’t a clue what he was thinking. Not when he’d closed down and taken on that blank look he seemed to favor. The psychologist in her wanted to dig into his past. Especially after his comment about neglecting someone. She would have to be an idiot not to realize he was thinking about someone in his life or even himself, but no matter if she prodded, he wasn’t the kind of guy who would open up.
So why did he keep staring at her? Perhaps he didn’t care for her comment about going on as if they were best friends. She could solve that.
“Don’t worry,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “I get it. Just because I shared about my private life, I know we’re not friends nor likely to become friends.” She turned her attention to her laptop. “Let me print a copy of Ace’s records for you.”
“Print? But you said you didn’t have electronic records.”
At his accusing tone, she met his gaze. He really didn’t trust her. Not one bit. And it hurt.
“I said I don’t have my records stored online or on a network computer that can be accessed from a distance,” she said. “This computer isn’t connected to any networks or the Internet. So it’s as safe as the paper files I keep here in my office.”
He didn’t comment but continued to stare at her.
She didn’t care. Okay, fine, she cared about what he was thinking, but he’d proved his unwillingness to share, so why ask? She returned her focus to the screen and sent Ace’s fifty-page record to the printer, then crossed the room to watch it spit the pages out. She felt the agent’s gaze remain on her, but she didn’t bother to turn.
She might be skilled at reading nonverbal cues, but this man managed to control his emotions enough to stay behind a thick wall he’d erected and wouldn’t let her or likely anyone else through. Which was telling in itself. If he needed to live behind such a big wall, then he had something to hide. The last thing she needed in life was to ponder following her interest in a man like that.
“So now that we have our warrant,” he said, “you can share Ace’s opinion of the military.”
She faced him. “He said there was no such thing as a former marine. Once a marine, always a marine, he’d claim. His pride and respect for his service and the service of others was so obvious.”
“Most marines, including me, would agree. So he didn’t let the PTSD and the loss of normal life change that perspective?”
“Never.”
The printer stopped, and she grabbed the pages to deliver them. She expected Agent Cannon to take them and leave. Instead he tapped the paper on the desk and kept tapping until the pages were perfectly aligned.
He looked up. “Do you have a clip I can use to keep these organized?”
She dug a binder clip from the desk. “If you’d like, we can talk about your need for perfection. I’ve had great success with helping other snipers work through those issues.”
“What makes you think I want help?” He clipped the papers at the top, then slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze. “I happen to prefer things orderly.”
“Orderly, yes, but you seem obsessed.”
He didn’t respond but turned his attention to the report and started reading. He certainly didn’t plan to sit here and read every page, did he?
She had a life, and he could read anywhere. “If you don’t mind, I have work to do, and I’m sure you don’t need me to read the file.”
He coolly assessed her. “I might have questions that only you can answer.”
“You could call me.”
He sat back and rested the report on his lap. “You don’t seem to get the urgency of my investigation.”
“Perhaps if you told me what you’re keeping from me regarding Ace’s death, I could better understand.”
“As I said before, I’m not going there. So make yourself comfortable. I won’t take long.” He bent his head and flipped a page.
She curled her fingers in frustration. Large and in charge, that was what this guy was, and she disliked his behavior as much as she liked seeing his commitment to finding the killer. He reminded her of her father. Of many of her clients. Their self-assurance and belief that they were always right made working with them a challenge.
She watched his intense focus, the pages turning at a rapid rate and with swift strokes, as if she didn’t exist. She suspected she didn’t exist for him right now with his focus fixed on the report. He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing it, and she had the urge to smooth the wayward strands back into place. To touch him.
“Watching me won’t make me read any faster,�
�� he said without looking up.
She should have known he would be aware of her every move. Snipers had to know their surroundings at all times while still focusing on their rifle. She wouldn’t underestimate him again. “I’ll make some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Please.”
She crossed the room, chastising herself for thinking of him as anything other than an FBI agent. She might find him attractive, but that didn’t mean she had to act on it. For one, he lived in D.C. Two, he was likely a “love her and leave her” kind of guy. No thank you to that. She’d wait for her ideal man. A guy who was open and honest about his emotions. One who thought of others before himself. Who could commit without being overbearing. Sure, she’d never met that kind of guy, but she hoped one existed. And three, the big one—he was former military.
Three huge strikes against him. Any guy with three strikes had already struck out in her life.
At a small refreshment bar in the corner, she put a K-Cup into the machine and pressed the power button. Water dripped through the grounds, and the nutty scent of coffee filtered into the air.
He looked up. “Tell me about PTSD. I know guys who have it. Others simply have issues with readjusting after deployment. I’d like a clinical perspective.”
“I’m glad you asked,” she said, and she really was. “People think they know what PTSD is, but there are a lot of mistaken ideas out there.” She rested against the refreshment cabinet. “First, it doesn’t only affect soldiers who’ve been in combat or police officers who’ve been shot. Anyone can experience PTSD after witnessing or being involved in a life-threatening event. So natural disasters, car accidents, assaults. They all count. Even learning about a violent death of a loved one can be the cause.”
He tilted his head and studied her. “After last night you fit that bill.”
“Almost.”
He sat forward, clearly interested. “Why almost?”
The coffee maker beeped. “Do you take anything in your coffee?”
“Just black.”
Right. Plain. No frills. No way to mess it up. She started a cup for herself and then delivered his.
“Thanks.” He wrapped long, slender fingers around the mug, but his focus didn’t waver, leaving her feeling self-conscious.
She returned to the snack bar to put distance between them, but knew his gaze tracked her. When she turned, he was sipping his coffee and watching over the rim. Always watching. If only she had an inkling of what he might be thinking.
“About the PTSD,” he said. “How are you different?”
“It’s normal to feel on edge or have trouble sleeping after a traumatic event,” she replied, thankful for the redirection of her thoughts. “You can have trouble doing daily things, like working or spending time with others. But most people start to recover after a few weeks. Not people with PTSD. The feelings don’t go away on their own.”
“Okay, so not enough time has passed for you to know how you’ll deal with your trauma.”
She nodded and retrieved her cup of coffee.
“Then when I see in Ace’s records that he didn’t come to you for years after returning from combat, you probably had no doubt that he had PTSD.”
“I suspected it, yes, but had to confirm as I do with all clients. You’ll see the assessment I use in the first few pages.” She gestured at the file. “It might also be helpful for you to know that PTSD is more common than most people think. One in ten men and two in ten women will react to trauma this way. And having very intense or long-lasting trauma, getting hurt, or having a strong reaction to the event makes you more prone to it. Which is why combat and abuse are so prevalent in PTSD clients, as these types of trauma are ongoing.”
“And the symptoms are?” He lifted his mug and sipped.
“Reliving the event over and over. Avoiding things and people who remind you of the event. An increase in negative thoughts and feelings. Feeling on edge all the time. The last was particularly true of Ace, but he’d improved a lot. Then last night.” A vision of him lying on the sidewalk surfaced, stealing her breath for a moment. “Last night he was so unsettled. I wish it would have turned out differently, but…”
“Trust me. I get it, Doc.”
He’d finally given her an opening to ask questions about his past, and she wouldn’t miss it. “I suppose you have plenty of stories from your combat days where you wish you could have helped.”
A vulnerability clouded his eyes before he dropped his gaze to the printout.
“Agent Cannon?” she asked, not willing to let his evasion go this time.
He lifted a finger—his DO NOT DISTURB sign, telling her to butt out.
Fine. She would, but at least his avoidance told her he wasn’t some robot with firm control over everything, as he’d first appeared to be. He was human after all and wasn’t invincible. She’d touched a nerve—a deep one, she suspected—and now she was even more interested in figuring out what drove this infuriating, closemouthed man.
Chapter 8
The afternoon was nearly gone by the time Rick arrived at the two-story brick building housing the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office. Fortunately, the place was located less than ten minutes from the murder scene, and Rick didn’t have to waste valuable time stuck in traffic.
He worked his way down the hall and prepared himself for what he was about to see. He wasn’t squeamish, but his visit meant a life had been lost at the hands of another person, and that cut him to a quick. Some people might think that an odd reaction for a former sniper, but he didn’t kill for the thrill of it. He’d taken lives to save others. If he hadn’t been on overwatch for the other troops, many lives would have been lost. Especially in the early days in Iraq. That was very different from brutal murder.
In the autopsy room, he found Dr. Elena Idoni bent over the table, holding a ruler over Griffin’s wrist and dictating into an overhead microphone. “A five-millimeter scar—”
“Sorry I’m late, Doctor,” Rick said.
She looked up, her dark eyes behind the face shield locked onto him. With the back of her hand, she batted at a strand of black hair peeking from her cap as if frustrated. She had olive skin and that, coupled with her name, left him thinking she was of Italian descent.
He displayed his ID. “Special Agent Rick Cannon. I think you were expecting me.”
“You’re late.” She returned her attention to the table. “Have you experienced an autopsy before?”
“Many times.”
“Then you don’t need me to explain the procedure, but I have no idea if anyone ever reviewed it with you or if they followed proper protocol, so I’ll do so.” She picked up a scalpel, then looked at him. “Thus far the body has been photographed, fingerprinted, and weighed. I’ve reviewed his hair and nails and inspected for moles, scars, et cetera on my external exam. I found nothing remarkable, just a minuscule scar and a tattoo on his forearm. I also found tinea pedis, which is common for a homeless man. Though I have to say his hygiene was far better than most of the homeless population who come through here.”
“What’s tinea pedis?”
“Athlete’s foot. Also remarkable is that he had no syringe marks, meaning he wasn’t a user like much of the homeless population.” She lifted the scalpel. “And now I’m about to begin my internal exam with a Y incision.”
Rick needed more information about the tattoo before he moved on, as it could very well tie Griffin to the shooter. “I want to take a photo of the tattoo if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” She turned Griffin’s right arm over to display a small tattoo in the shape of a wheel with eight arrows pointing out from the center.
“Ever seen a tat like this?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He snapped several pictures from different angles, then looked up. “Mind if I have a look at the bullet entrance and exit wound before you make the cut?”
“So you’re a doctor now?”
He shook h
is head. “Former sniper, and I’ve seen my share of damage done by a .50, but I’ve completed my ballistic trajectory estimation and wanted to confirm the angle in the body.”
“You’re not guessing at the caliber from the injuries, are you? Because if you are, you can stop right now.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed on. “You can’t accurately tell the caliber from the wound. Drives me nuts when law enforcement tries to do that. I’ve seen large wounds caused by small-caliber bullets and small wounds caused by fragmented large-caliber projectiles. The only accurate way to determine caliber is to recover the bullet at the scene. And as I told the officers on site, the bullet passed through the body. Studying the wound is pure speculation, and you should be at the scene looking for the bullet instead of hanging out here.”
“We—” he started.
“And FYI, not that it applies here, but for future reference so you don’t annoy another ME, I have never recovered a rifle bullet in anyone, because they either perforate or completely fragment in the tissue.”
“We recovered the bullet,” he finally got to say.
She frowned. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Rick thought it best to keep his answer to himself and bent low to get a good look at the wound. “Can we turn him for the exit wound?”
She lifted the body, and Rick confirmed the downward angle. “Thank you.”
She made the Y cut, and Rick went from thinking of Griffin as the doc’s client to thinking of him as a murder victim who was going through an invasive procedure to aid in finding the killer.
After splitting the ribs, she inserted her hands in the cavity. “As expected, there’s a good deal of internal damage.” She continued her exam, removing organs to study, weigh, and set aside. With the stomach in hand, she looked at him. “Are you interested in the gastric contents?”
“Interested? No. But it could tell us what Griffin did before he met with his therapist. So yeah. I’d like to know.”
She dumped the contents into a bowl and poked around in the liquid. “I see pieces of chicken, cheese, and half-inch-long sections of bacon.”
Kill Shot Page 8
