Michael Prescott - In Dark Places

"First officer is Bridges. Inside with his partner."

"He won't be running it for long. Robbery-Homicide's gonna be all over this one."

"Yeah, the WC said it was routed straight to RHD. Also said the brass were plenty interested."

"The brass won't go near this hornet's nest."

"Probably not," the first cop agreed. "Did you want to talk to Dr. Cameron?"

"If she's up to it. You call the other RA for her?"

"We called it, even though she said she didn't want one."

"She's an assault victim. She needs medical attention."

"Well, the medics are in with her now, but I think she's probably okay. She's tougher than she looks."

Wolper nodded, heading through the door. "I noticed." He went down the hall and stepped inside the waiting room of Robin Cameron's office. One pair of paramedics worked on the deputy sheriff, starting an IV, checking for vitals. Wolper could tell, just by looking, that there would be no signs of life.

Spatter patterns of blood had doused the walls. Wolper had seen enough crime scenes to know that the forensic technicians could use the angle and trajectory of the blood spray to determine the victim's position when he was attacked. In this case, they would conclude that the deputy had been standing with his back to the interior office door. He had been seized from behind, his throat cut, the blood from the severed carotid artery spewing forward, leaving the killer largely untouched. When the blood flow eased, the deputy, expiring, had been lowered to the floor.

The medics slipped the deputy onto a gurney. Wolper took another look at the body. The man had lost his cap and pants, and his shoes had been removed and tossed aside. There was something tragicomic about the corpse lying on the stretcher, wearing only underwear and socks from the waist down. A large urine stain had spread over the man's Jockey shorts; his bladder had released when he died.

Respectfully, Wolper stood aside as the gurney was wheeled out into the hall. The EMTs couldn't call a death in the field, and no lawman present was going to declare a brother officer deceased.

Wolper shifted his attention to the doorway of the main office. Inside, the other two paramedics were arguing with Robin Cameron, seated on the couch. The doctor looked defiant, and the medics looked exhausted. Wolper knew that these guys worked twenty-four-hour shifts, frequently for several days at a stretch, catnapping in the fire station, never seeing their families. They had an average burnout of only eight years. Today was probably a slow day by the standards of this neighborhood. The first and fifteenth of the month were the busiest times, when paychecks and welfare money came in, allowing purchases of booze and drugs, which led to violence. Some medics wore handguns in Rampart and other bad parts of towna strictly unofficial policy, but one that was overlooked by the higher-ups.

"Under the circumstances, Doctor," one EMT was saying, "we really would like to transport you to County-USC."

"No, thanks. I told you, I don't need a physical."

"Self-diagnosis is never a good idea."

"I like living dangerously."

She was legally within her rights to refuse treatment. As long as a patient was over the age of consent and was reasonably lucid, no one could forcibly impose medical care.

"Just let us check your reflexes, pupil dilation, run an EEG amp;"

"I'm fine. Really. Sorry you were called out for nothing."

The men, grumbling, passed Wolper on their way out. Wolper hesitated, then entered the office, nodding a hello as he approached the couch.

"You sure about that decision?" he asked.

"Absolutely."

He stopped before her and took a long look at her face, studying the bruises left by the attack. A deep violet contusion on her left temple, and splotches of red on her cheek.

"He hit you in the face."

"A love tap."

"Love taps, plural. More than one."

"He's a very expressive person."

"You need to see a doctor amp; Doctor."

"It's nothing a little Tylenol won't fix."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

She seemed to hesitate. "He knocked me down, that's all. I guess he thought I blacked out."

"But you didn't?"

"No."

"Any confusion, memory loss?"

"I'm acquainted with the symptoms of head trauma, Lieutenant."

Wolper sat down beside her on the couch. "Why'd you say Gray thought you blacked out?"

"Because he claimed he'd never touched me. He must have thought I'd been unconscious and couldn't remember."

"He never touched you?"

"That's what he said."

"Then who beat you up?"

"Apparently it was the one-armed man. As in The Fugitive ."

"Yeah, I got the reference."

"He seemed to want me to believe he'd saved me from harm. And that he never touched the deputy in the waiting room."

"He said that, too?"

"Claimed the other guy did it. Mr. Cool, Gray called him."

"Sounds like he's projecting. That's the kind of name he'd make up for himself. He probably sees himself as Mr. Cool."

Robin blinked. "That's very perceptive, Lieutenant."

"I may distrust shrinks, but I've picked up some of their lingo. I think I may know why Gray concocted that story."

"Feel free to share with the rest of the class."

"He'd just killed a law officer. That's a first for him. He knows the big-time heat that comes down on a cop killer. It might make him a big man in prison, but in the meantime it can make him a dead man. There is such a thing as street justice. I'm speaking unofficially, of course."

"Of course. So he blamed the killing on someone else?"

"That's my guess."

"In that case, he should have at least wiped the blood off the screwdriver. That was what he used to unbuckle the straps, I guess. And what he used amp; on the deputy."

"You got a good look at it?"

"He held it to my throat." She touched her neck selfconsciously. "That's a little more up close and personal than I like to get with my patients."

Wolper frowned. "Doctor, I really think you should let me take you to a hospital. Even if there's no serious physical damage, an event like this can affect you in ways that" He stopped himself. "I guess I'm not telling you anything new."

"I think I can recognize the signs of post-traumatic stress. If they develop, I'll get help. Right now I'm waiting for a phone call."

"From?"

"Meg. My daughter. I told her to leave our condo, stay with a neighbor. She's supposed to call me. I haven't heard anything. It's got me concerned."

"Why? I don't get it."

"It's a little paranoid, but Gray met her once. And he took my wallet. He'll know where I live."

"Doesn't seem so paranoid to me. Besides, a little paranoia is a good thing when you're a parent."

"That's what I keep telling Meg. I don't think she buys it."

Wolper caught the tremor in her voice. He took her hand. "She'll be okay, Doctor. Our boy's got other things to worry about right now."

"I hope so," she whispered.

She should never have opened the door to him. After the frantic phone call from her mom, Meg should have known something was wrong when someone knocked on her door. But the thing was, nobody could get into the courtyard of the condo building without being buzzed in at the gate. So she assumedjust assumed that whoever was knocking was one of her neighbors. Vaguely she imagined that her mom had called Mrs. Grandy or Mr. Haver to check on her and make sure she left the condo promptly. It ticked her off that Robin wouldn't trust her, when she was getting ready to leave, gathering up her books and stuff so she could do her homework at Mrs. Grandy's.

Peeved, she opened the door without thinking, and he was there.

Not a neighbor. Not anyone who should have been able to get onto the property without authorization.