At the edge of the lawn by the slope, Gurney spotted a Bic pen. Shelby photographed it in situ before he picked it up, careful not to smudge any prints, and placed it in an evidence bag. As he was filling out the required item-location-date information, his phone was ringing. By the time he got to it, the message was already in voicemail.
On playback it was so broken up it was barely understandable. After listening to it three times, he could be sure only that the caller was Heather Loomis and she wanted him to come to the hospital. The reason was indecipherable, but the urgency was clear.
He called back but just got voicemail. He considered trying to reach her through the hospital number but changed his mind when he recalled the time-consuming runaround involved in his earlier effort. Assuming he’d end up driving there anyway, he decided to just go.
After explaining the situation to Shelby, he jogged the four blocks down the hill to where he’d left his car in front of the Loomis house on Oak Street. The groups of neighbors had dispersed. The yellow police tape and the darkened red stain on the grass were the only signs that something unnatural had occurred.
He got in the Outback and followed the route he’d taken to the hospital with Heather. The traffic was moving more slowly now with people coming home from work. It gave him time to think, a mixed blessing at that time of day, nearing dusk, when his concerns seemed to intensify.
Near the top of his present list was his worrisome position in the investigation of the Loomis shooting. Revealing that Loomis was shot as he set out to discuss his and John Steele’s efforts to probe corruption in the department would likely abort any progress in that direction and perhaps even expose other individuals to retaliation. On the other hand, the phone company would have records of Loomis’s call to Gurney to set up their meeting and his subsequent call to the diner to change the meeting time. If those records were discovered, and if the waitress identified Gurney, he could be charged with withholding evidence in the investigation of a felony—itself a felony.
Complicating his decision was the larger question of whether the attempt on Loomis’s life was a calculated effort to keep that meeting from happening or a mindless shoot-a-cop retaliation for the playground murders. He was pretty sure it was the former.
As Gurney got out of the car at the hospital parking lot he felt, for the first time that day, a chill in the air.
The building’s entrance was sheltered under a broad portico. A RAM van was parked next to it, and a small crowd had gathered. A media crew was adjusting TV lights around two central figures. One, in a short red skirt and white blouse, was the news personality he’d seen on Battleground Tonight. The other, in a crisply tailored blue uniform with gleaming brass buttons, was Dell Beckert.
A crew member by the open rear doors of the van called out, “Light and sound levels good. Recording and transmitting. You’re on!”
The reporter’s expression switched from bitchy boredom to the standard RAM-TV expression of concern with the worrisome state of the world. She was holding a wireless microphone. “I’m Stacey Kilbrick at Mercy Hospital in White River, New York, where Detective Rick Loomis is barely hanging on to life after being shot by a sniper in his own front yard—raising the tension in this upstate city to the breaking point. I’m talking to Chief Dell Beckert, who just emerged from the hospital. What can you tell us, Chief?”
Beckert’s face was a picture of rock-solid determination. “First, let me assure everyone that we have the tense situation in White River under control. Second, we’re making rapid progress toward the identification and apprehension of the coward who tried to kill this fine officer, a servant of our community, a man with a spotless record. Third, you have my personal assurance that law and order will prevail. To the tiny deluded minority who incite violence for their own selfish ends, I say this: you will be brought to justice. Finally, I ask for your prayers for the full recovery of Detective Rick Loomis. Thank you.”
Kilbrick stepped forward to ask a question, but Beckert was already striding away toward a dark-blue Ford Explorer idling in the circular drive just beyond the portico. She turned to the camera. “I’m Stacey Kilbrick at Mercy Hospital. I’ll be keeping you up to date with developments as they occur. Please, folks, remember to say those prayers.”
The video lights went out and the bitch face returned.
Gurney headed into the hospital lobby.
Although the exterior of the building came from the same 1960s manual of bleak design as the police headquarters, the interior had been renovated in accordance with more recent ideas about reducing stress in medical settings through the use of soft lighting, colors, and textures. A gently curved cherrywood welcome desk was staffed by three smiling senior citizens.
Gurney’s welcomer was an elegantly dressed woman with a snow-white permanent and light-blue eyes. He told her he’d come to see a patient in the ICU. She regarded him with interest and spoke in a lowered voice. “Are you a police officer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. They’re restricting access, but you probably know that. The media people are just so . . .” Her voice trailed off in disgust, as though media people were sewage that might seep into the building. She told him that the ICU was on the second floor and gave him directions to the elevator bank, adding with a frown, “Such an awful thing.”
Stepping out of the elevator on the second floor, he found himself in front of a waist-high partition enclosing an administrative island. On the partition was a sign telling him to turn off his cell phone and other electronic devices before entering the ICU. Behind the island was a nursing station with computer monitors, resuscitation equipment, and rolling IV stands. In a far corner of the station a grinning cop was chatting up an attractive nurse’s aide.
At a desk inside the island, a slim young man with short, gelled hair looked up at Gurney. His teal name tag said he was Bailey Laker. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Rick Loomis. Or Mrs. Loomis.”
“And you are . . .”
“Dave Gurney. Mrs. Loomis asked me to come.”
The cop left the nurse’s aide, his grin fading, and came around to Gurney’s side of the island. His shiny brass name tag said he was C. J. Mazurk. “Hello, sir,” he said with that assessing look common to cops everywhere. “Who did you say you were?”
Gurney presented his ID.
He took it, studied it for a long moment, and handed it back. “DA’s office?”
“Right. Mrs. Loomis is expecting me.”
“She’s down that hall. Visitors area. Turn off your phone.”
Gurney complied. Halfway along the corridor there was a room with couches, chairs, and a wall-mounted TV tuned to a weather channel. When he stepped inside he saw at the far end of the room a sideboard with a coffee machine and next to it three women sitting at a small table. Heather Loomis, Kim Steele, and Madeleine.
His surprise at seeing Kim and his wife faded as he recognized a phenomenon he’d witnessed many times—the instinctive support police wives give each other in difficult circumstances. Heather and Kim were already well acquainted, of course, through their husbands. And it had been Madeleine’s sense of identification with Kim that had solidified his own involvement in the case.