The EMTs around the stretcher began to raise it. When it clicked into its upright position the woman on the lawn scrambled to her feet, dropping the spatula. As the EMTs were rolling the stretcher toward the open back doors of the ambulance, Gurney got a passing view of the man lying on it. His face, neck, and one shoulder were covered with blood; a bloody compress was covering the side of his head; the arm nearest Gurney was twitching.
His educated guess, based on the quantity of blood and the position of the compress, was that the temporal artery had been severed. But there was no way of guessing how much damage had been done to the side of the skull and underlying areas of the brain or what the man’s chances were of reaching the hospital alive. Many victims of head wounds didn’t make it that far.
The woman—auburn-haired, round-faced, and noticeably pregnant—was trying to get to the stretcher. She was being held back by the frowning sergeant and the female EMT.
As the stretcher was being lifted into the ambulance the woman’s efforts became wilder. She was screaming repeatedly, “I have to be with my husband!”
The EMT looked distressed and uncertain. The sergeant was grimacing and trying to hold on to her, as she flailed her arms and screamed, “MY HUSBAND!”
Her desperation seized Gurney’s heart.
He went over and faced the sergeant. “What the hell’s going on here?”
The sergeant was struggling to keep his balance. “Who the fuck are you?”
Gurney held up his credentials. “Why are you holding her here?”
“Deputy chief’s orders.” His voice was rising.
“She needs to be with her husband!”
“The deputy chief said—”
“I don’t give a damn about the deputy chief!”
The ambulance was easing out of the driveway onto Oak Street.
The woman was shrieking, “Let me go . . .”
“That’s it,” said Gurney. “We’re going to the hospital now! I’m taking responsibility. I’m Dave Gurney, DA’s office.”
Without agreeing to anything, the sergeant loosened his grip enough to let Gurney free the woman and lead her to the Outback. The WRPD officers on the scene appeared agitated by the dispute but unsure what to do.
Gurney helped the woman into the passenger seat. He was heading around to the driver’s side when a dark-blue Ford Explorer came to an abrupt stop in front of his car.
The rear door opened, and Judd Turlock stepped out. He looked into Gurney’s car.
“What’s she doing in there?” He sounded almost disinterested.
“I’m taking her to the hospital. Her husband may be dying.”
“You can do that right after I talk with her.”
“You’ve got it backward. Get your car out of my way.”
For a split second Turlock looked surprised. Then his expression settled back into a menacing lack of any expression at all. His voice was flat. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Look around you.” Gurney gestured up and down the block, where several residents had come out into the street, holding up their smartphones and other devices. “They’re recording everything that’s happening. Right now they’re recording your car blocking my car. Image is everything, right?” Gurney flashed a humorless smile.
Turlock’s reply was a dead stare.
“Some messages have a huge impact,” said Gurney, glancing at his car windows to make sure they were closed and the woman inside wouldn’t hear him. “So imagine this message on every news site tomorrow morning: ‘Deputy Police Chief Stands between Pregnant Wife and Dying Husband.’ You think that’s the kind of message your boss has in mind? Think fast. Your career is circling the drain.”
Turlock’s mouth twitched into a hint of an ugly smile. “Okay,” he whispered. “We’ll do it your way. For now.”
He gestured to his driver, who moved the Explorer just far enough to allow Gurney room to turn around and head for Mercy Hospital.
With the help of his GPS, Gurney soon had the hospital in sight at the end of a long avenue, which seemed to calm his passenger just a little. He took the opportunity to ask if she’d actually seen what had happened.
Her voice was shaky. “He’d just gone out the front door. I heard a sound, like a rock hitting the house. I looked out . . . I . . .” She bit her lip and fell silent.
He assumed that what sounded like a rock was the impact of the bullet that had passed through the side of her husband’s head. He asked, “Do you know what a gunshot sounds like?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything at all like that?”
“No.”
“When you came out, did you see anyone? A car driving away? Any movement at all?”
She shook her head.
When they arrived at the hospital, the EMTs already had the stretcher out of the ambulance and were rolling it toward the open doors of the emergency entrance.
As Gurney brought the Outback to a halt beside the ambulance, his passenger was already stepping out the door. Abruptly she stopped and turned toward him.
“Thank you for what you did back there,” she said. “Thank you so much. I don’t even know your name.”
“Dave Gurney. I hope your husband will be all right.”
“Oh my God!” Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes widening.
“What? What is it?”
“You’re the person Rick was on his way to meet!”
23
Heather Loomis’s frantic need to follow her husband into the hospital prevented any discussion of the unsettling revelation. Gurney decided that sitting there would be a waste of time and would risk another confrontation with Turlock, who’d likely be coming to the hospital to interview Heather. It would make more sense to return to the crime scene, which Kline had asked him to observe.
He retraced his route and was soon back on Oak Street. Clusters of curious neighbors were still in front of their homes. There was no sign of Turlock or his blue Explorer, and only one of the five police cruisers was still there, its lights no longer flashing. On the far side of the cruiser there was a black Ford Crown Victoria—the most common unmarked police vehicle in America. In the driveway there was a gray van with a WRPD logo on its door. Gurney parked next to the cruiser.
Yellow crime-scene tape extended from one corner of the house to a series of metal stakes about twenty feet out on the lawn and back to the far corner of the house. An evidence tech was standing in a flower bed next to the front door. He was probing a hole in the wood trim with a bright metal tool that looked like a surgeon’s pliers. He was wearing the latex gloves and Tyvek coveralls common to his occupation.
Gurney got out of his car, credentials in hand, and was heading across the lawn toward the taped-off area when he was stopped by a familiar voice.
“Hey! Dave! Over here!”
He turned around and saw Mark Torres gesturing with his phone through the open window of the Crown Vic. He walked over and waited until Torres concluded his call.
Getting out of the car, the young detective looked concerned. “I was afraid I’d missed you. Was there a problem here . . . after the shooting?”
Gurney shrugged. “Nothing major. Heather Loomis wanted to be with her husband. It could have been her last chance to see him alive. So I took her.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” Torres looked relieved, but not entirely so.
“Where’s Turlock?”
“I don’t know. I was at headquarters. He told me to get over here and find the location used by the BDA sniper.”