by Lucy Kerr
I dug through my backpack, shoving past expired sun block, a paperback novel, a spare pair of sunglasses, and a protein bar. “Here you go. I picked these up while I was in town.”
Meg’s mouth made a perfect O as she took the stack of exhibit brochures from me. “You went to the Art Institute?” The way she said the words, color rising in her cheeks, eyes sparkling, made it sound like Riley when she talked about Disney World.
“Not really,” I confessed. “You can get these without going into the museum itself. Have you been there?”
“A few times,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “When my dad has a conference in Chicago, sometimes he lets me come with him, and we stop in. It’s never long enough, though. I could spend days there and still not see everything.”
Meg’s hands, I noted, were covered in ink stains. They looked almost like bruises, black fading to blue, dotted with flecks of other colors, remnants of her passion for drawing.
“There’s one in there for the school too,” I said. “Junior year is when you start looking at colleges, isn’t it?”
She stared at the floor, enthusiasm fading like a balloon losing its air. “Yeah.”
“How’s the graphic novel going?”
She nudged at her glasses. “Okay, I guess. I don’t really have time for it lately.”
“Why not?” I kept my voice light but fought a sinking feeling in my chest.
“School and stuff. Physics is kind of tough this semester, and so is precalculus. I’m trying to make first chair in band too—I play French horn, and I don’t practice enough. Plus, I need more service hours. That’s why I’m here tonight.”
For her college application, no doubt. To Harvard, the school her father insisted would be the best place to study medicine even though Meg had as much interest in medicine as I did in accounting.
“Doesn’t seem like that leaves much time for fun.”
She jerked a shoulder, the gesture an echo of her father. “There’ll be time for fun later.”
The words sounded like her father’s too, and my skepticism must have shown, because she added hurriedly, “Besides, what could I do for fun around here? My options are basically to drink at somebody’s house or drink at some creepy old abandoned farm.”
“Henderson’s,” I said fondly, and her eyes widened in recognition—and surprise. Henderson’s Dairy, long-abandoned, had been the site of legendary high school parties when I was Meg’s age. It probably was pretty creepy—the place had been falling down when I was in school, and it seemed unlikely that anyone had bothered to fix it up since then. But I had very fond memories of it nevertheless.
“You partied there?” Meg asked, equal parts awe and dismay in her voice.
“A few times,” I hedged, suddenly worried she might take my stories as an example—or worse, permission. “You’re right to skip the parties, but … there’s got to be something you could do that isn’t just school and volunteering.”
“Drawing,” she said softly. “I like drawing.”
The impulse to push her toward something more social was so strong, I literally bit my tongue. It was like my mother had taken control of my body.
When the urge had passed, I bumped her shoulder and smiled. “Hey, if drawing’s what makes you happy, go for it.”
Costello caught sight of us and frowned.
I tipped my head in his direction. “No matter what anyone says.”
“Meg,” Costello called, striding toward us. “What are you doing here? Your shift ended at seven.”
“I thought I’d say good night,” she replied, staring at her feet.
“Good night,” he said and brushed a kiss over the top of her head.
“Daaaad,” she said, flushing and twisting away.
“Get that homework done, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And be good for Aunt Lori tonight.” When she’d left, he turned to me. “Something you wanted to say, Stapleton?”
“She’s a nice kid,” I said.
“She got it from her mother,” he assured me.
The night dragged despite the steady stream of patients. The police had left, and the cleaning crew had restored both Exam Three and Trauma One to their usual spotless states. Tragedy had been tidied away as if it had never occurred so we could start fresh with the next one.
“Reporters still out front?” I asked one of the paramedics as he wheeled in a possible carbon monoxide poisoning.
“A few,” he replied.
“I wish they’d leave,” Esme said, directing him to an exam room. “It feels like we’re being watched.”
“They’ll go away soon,” I said, attaching the oxygen mask to our patient and bringing up the chart. “Gotta chase the next big story.”
I’d seen it a million times. A reporter in a black wool overcoat, clutching a microphone, somberly intoning words like “tragedy” and “devastation,” urging the viewer to trust in their sincerity. Seconds after the camera switched off, they were moving on without a thought for the people who had to pick up the pieces while they chased ratings. They trained a spotlight on people’s darkest moments, beaming them out for the world to see, claiming it was their duty, but they never seemed particularly interested in helping repair the damage.
“What if this is the next big story?” Esme asked when I returned to the desk. She leaned in, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I heard from a friend of mine on dispatch that the nine-one-one call was weird.”
I paused in the middle of labeling test tubes for blood work. “Weird how?”
“The first call was fine—some couple that came across the crash site and called it in right away. But there was a second call that came in when they were already on their way to the scene. A guy, who told them that a car had gone over the embankment and a woman was trapped inside.”
“So?”
“So,” she said triumphantly. “How would the caller have known it was a woman unless he’d seen her up close? It must have been your patient.”
I tried to picture it. The shriek of metal as Kate’s car tore through the guardrail and tumbled into the water below. The cold. The rain. Kate, drifting in and out of consciousness as the pressure from her head wound built. Had she called out for help? Had the driver tried to reach her, or had he left her bleeding and alone as the darkness closed in around her?
I swallowed against the hot bilious rush of anger. “Can they trace the nine-one-one call?”
“They did,” she said. “It came from the pay phone in the lobby. Our lobby. A few minutes before nine.”
“Why would Mueller call nine-one-one in the first place?”
“Maybe it was a genuine accident,” Esme said. “He panicked, drove off, and then felt guilty about it.”
“So he left her there for half an hour? He couldn’t have known about the earlier call. If he had called right after the accident, we could have had another fifteen minutes.”
Esme looked queasy at the realization.
Fifteen minutes was an eternity when it came to traumas. Those fifteen minutes could have saved Kate Tibbs’s life.
“He must have been planning to take off all along,” Esme said. “That’s why he gave us fake information. He knew they’d bring Kate here, but he needed to get fixed up first, so he gave himself a head start.”
“Awfully risky,” I said. “What if we’d been swamped? He could have been here for hours before we treated him.”
Esme shook her head. “Didn’t you see? We have billboards now on all the major highways, with live estimates of the wait time. He would have known he’d have time, especially since they had to extract Kate from the car.”
Mueller had known it was a woman trapped in the car. That would have been a hard detail to make out on a back road during a nighttime storm. Hard to imagine Mueller, with his dislocated shoulder, climbing down a slippery embankment to check on his victim, then climbing up again and abandoning her.
He knew he’d hit a woman because he knew who he’d hit. He
’d targeted Kate Tibbs.
“I don’t understand,” Esme continued, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “I want some sort of explanation, even if it’s horrible. There has to be a reason, right? It can’t be that the universe is just that cruel?” She tapped the newspaper resting on the nurses’ station. “Look at them. Don’t they seem happy?”
A photo from a recent campaign rally dominated the front page: Steven in a navy suit, an adorably pregnant Kate at his side in a powder-blue maternity dress. Her long brown hair was pulled back at the sides, leaving the back to cascade down her shoulders. The silver charm bracelet glinted at her wrist, and Steven’s arm circled her waist. The perfect happy family.
The article not only detailed their hopes for the election but gave a brief summary of Kate’s own accomplishments—twelve years at the Department of Children and Family Services, the last ten in Stillwater, a commitment to justice for children and helping families. Coworkers described her as a tireless fighter for her young charges.
Twelve years was a long time to fight, I mused. A hint of strain was evident in the photograph, a slight shadow around her eyes. Twelve years of fighting for kids was likely to make you some enemies too. Unlike Chicago, where it was easy for a caseworker to keep their personal life private, Kate Tibbs would have been highly visible even when she wasn’t working. I wondered how she’d felt about Steven’s rise to prominence, if she’d felt uncomfortable with so much attention. In the article, it said that she planned to leave DCFS if her husband’s bid for Congress was successful and begin working with other nonprofits to promote child welfare and strong families. A reprieve from the job, if not from the spotlight.
The question was, had Kate’s own enemies come after her, or was Steven the true target?
“Frankie, Exam Five won’t let me examine him,” Esme said, returning sooner than I expected.
I frowned. Esme didn’t seem like the type to let a patient ruffle her. “Tell him he can either let you work, or he can leave. Bring an orderly in if you think he won’t believe you.”
“No, he’s fine with an exam. But he only wants you.”
I looked up from the paper. “What?”
“He’s asking for you. Specifically.”
“What’s his name?”
She glanced up at the board where we listed the patients. “Art Gundersen.”
“I don’t know anyone named Art Gundersen.”
She shrugged. “Well, he knows you.”
“Why are we standing around, people?” Costello asked, passing through.
“Frankie has an admirer,” Esme said. “He won’t let anyone else examine him.”
Costello’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”
“I have no idea who it is,” I replied, heat rising in my cheeks. “Esme can handle it. Tell him I’m on break or something.”
“I did. He said he’d wait.”
“Does he seem like a perv?” Costello asked Esme.
“No,” she said immediately. “He’s really polite. He keeps saying he’d prefer Frankie, and he’ll wait until she’s available.”
“Fan club, not stalker.” Costello propped an elbow on the counter, black humor lighting his eyes. “Take an orderly with, if you’re worried, but let’s get him gone.”
“But …”
“Go,” he ordered. “Save the soap opera for after your shift.”
The radio crackled. “Stillwater General, this is Riverside four-forty-one. We’re en route with the victim of an MVA resulting from a police chase; patient is a member of law enforcement, presenting with minor injuries, including back pain and possible concussion. We are transporting per department protocol. ETA five minutes.”
A whooshing noise sounded in my ears as the blood rushed from my head, and I reached for the counter to steady myself. Not Noah, I told myself. It wouldn’t be Noah, if for no other reason than sheer stubbornness—he’d never let his quarry escape.
“Guess your admirer will have to wait,” Costello said, taking no notice of my reaction to the call. “Go prep Exam Three. Vargas, finish discharging the gastro case in Two—bland diet, lots of fluids, call his physician in the morning.”
For once, I was happy to follow Costello’s orders. I began prepping the room—test tubes for blood work, a suture tray, and for good measure, an ice pack.
A few minutes later, the ambulance pulled up. “Rig’s here,” Costello called, passing by my door. I hurried out after him and waited, outwardly calm but inwardly quaking as the back of the ambulance swung open and a figure emerged.
Not Noah. My gut had been right this time. The guy climbing down stiffly from the ambulance did look familiar, but half the department had shown up at Stapleton and Sons during the Clem Jensen case. This officer barely looked old enough to shave, let alone carry a weapon. He winced and waved off the paramedic, who was trying to keep a straight face as they walked in.
Costello took one look at the baby-faced deputy, who had a nasty cut above his right eyebrow and a hangdog expression, and snickered. “Call me when you’re ready for sutures, Stapleton.”
“I’ve got him,” I told the paramedic, who was reciting the deputy’s vitals as we walked toward the exam room. “What’s your name, Deputy?”
“Travis Anderson, ma’am,” he replied.
“Great. I’m Frankie.” I ushered him into the room and shut the door, leaving Costello still chuckling outside. “What happened, Deputy Anderson?”
“Call me Travis, ma’am.” He adjusted his hat and practically stood at attention, despite his furious blush and the blood trickling down the side of his face. “At approximately ten-oh-two, I was surveilling a residence when I noticed a figure approaching on foot who proceeded to gain access to the residence in question. After identifying myself …”
“I don’t need the official report, Travis. Just a recap.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His posture relaxed slightly. “I knocked on the front door, but he went out the back and ran off. I chased after him, but he managed to reach a car he’d stashed the next block over. So I ran back to my vehicle and began a pursuit.”
“Did you catch him?”
“No, ma’am.” He stared down at his feet, his voice lowered to a mumble. “There was an unexpected obstruction. I swerved.”
“Roll back your sleeve,” I said, and he obeyed. I fitted the blood pressure cuff around his arm and prompted, “You swerved. To avoid the obstruction, I take it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he sighed as the cuff released with a hiss.
“And hit something else?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Quit calling me ‘ma’am,’” I snapped. He flinched, and I gentled my tone while I continued the exam. “What was the obstruction?”
Woeful as a basset hound, he said, “A raccoon.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “And that’s when you crashed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Into a telephone pole.”
“In your squad car?”
“Undercover unit,” he said with a faint note of pride. Then his shoulders slumped. “It’s county property, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” It would be a long time before young Deputy Anderson lived this one down. “Well, Travis, the good news is you’re not too banged up. How’s your neck? Any whiplash, you think?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “But I really need to get back to the station and file a report. There’s special forms, you know, when you damage county property.”
“I’m sure there are.” I began cleaning the cut above his eyebrow. “This isn’t deep, but it’ll probably leave a scar unless we suture it. And Dr. Costello will want to examine you before you’re released, maybe do a CT scan to check for concussion. You’ll be here for a little while yet.”
“I’m fine,” he said again. “Honest, I feel great.”
Great was probably overstating the case, but I could only imagine his embarrassment. No doubt he was hoping that the sooner he recovered, the sooner the
rest of the officers would forget the incident.
“How many years have you been with the department, Travis?”
“A year,” he said and then amended, “maybe a little less. Ten months.”
Still a rookie, then. I felt a rush of sympathy for him. The new guy always had something to prove; even with a decade’s worth of experience, I felt the same every time I walked in to Stillwater Gen. Now I wondered if we had something else in common. If we’d both let John Mueller slip away.
“Ready for those sutures?” Costello said from the doorway.
Travis paled, and I patted his hand. “We’ll numb the cut before he starts. All you’ll feel is a pinch.”
Sewing someone’s skin back together takes less time than you’d expect, but there’s still prep work to be done. As Costello scrubbed in and I finished prepping the suture tray, I mulled over Travis’s story. It was possible he’d been staking out a house completely unrelated to the Tibbs case, but I doubted it. Which meant I felt only the slightest twinge of guilt when I asked, “Whose place were you staking out?”
“Ma’am?” He started to turn toward me, but the sight of Costello holding a needle and thread stopped him from moving. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“John Mueller, right?”
“Miller,” he corrected me woozily as Costello began stitching the cut closed. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I understand,” I said. “We have rules about confidentiality too. I’m just trying to make sure I have the right information for our files since we treated your suspect the other day. You know how important it is to get those reports right.”
Costello snorted but didn’t stop suturing.
“So,” I prompted. “You were keeping an eye on John Miller?”
“Josh,” corrected a familiar voice. “Josh Miller. Anderson, I see you’ve met Frankie Stapleton. She’s more trouble than you’re ready for, son.”
“Hey!” I whirled around to scowl at Noah, who was leaning against the doorway and scowling right back. “I am with a patient.”
“And I am checking on one of my men,” he returned. “A raccoon, Anderson?”
