Харлан Кобен - Run Away

Ingrid, Simon knew, believed the opposite.

You want a real person — a caring, empathic person — to be your physician. You want a person who sees you as a fellow human being who is scared and hurting and in need of reassurance and comfort. It was a responsibility Ingrid took very seriously. When a parent brought their child to see her — well, step back and think about it: When are you ever more vulnerable? You’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re confused. Physicians who do not understand that, who act as though you are an anatomical object in need of repair like a MacBook visiting the Genius Bar are going to not only make the experience more miserable but they will miss something in the diagnosis.

Sometimes, like right now, you are scared and hurting and stressed and terrified and confused as you take a seat across from a physician who speaks words that will change your life like no others. They could be the worst words in the world or the best words or, as in this case, somewhere in between.

So Ingrid would really like Dr. Heather Grewe, who oozed both exhaustion and empathy. Grewe tried to break it down, aiming for a combination of real-world terminology and medical jargon. Simon focused on the bottom line.

Ingrid was still alive.

Barely.

She was in a coma.

The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.

Simon nodded along, but somewhere the doctor’s words had untethered him. He was trying to hold on, but he was floating away. Yvonne, who sat next to him, remained firmly grounded. She asked follow-up questions, probably good ones, but they didn’t change the meaning or clarify the murky diagnosis. This is another thing you learn about doctors. We may think they are gods sometimes, but the limits of what they know or can do are both astounding and humbling.

They were closely monitoring Ingrid’s condition, but there was nothing to do right now but wait. Dr. Grewe rose and extended her hand. Simon rose and shook it. So did Yvonne. There were no visitors allowed yet so they stumbled back down the corridor toward the waiting room.

Fagbenle cut Simon off and pulled him aside.

“I need something from you,” Fagbenle said.

Simon, still reeling, managed a nod. “Okay.”

“I need you to look at something.”

He handed Simon a sheet of cardboard with six photographs on it, three in the top row, three on the bottom. They were all headshots and underneath each headshot was a number.

“I want you to study this carefully and tell me if—”

“Number Five,” Simon said.

“Let me finish. I want you to study this carefully and tell me if you recognize any of these men.”

“I recognize Number Five.”

“How do you know Number Five?”

“He’s the man who shot my wife.”

Fagbenle nodded. “I’d like you to make a formal ID in person.”

“This” — Simon pointed to the cardboard sheet — “isn’t enough?”

“I think it would also be better to do it in person.”

“I don’t want to leave my wife right now.”

“You don’t have to. The suspect is here too — recovering from the gunshot. Come on.”

Fagbenle started down the corridor. Simon looked back at Yvonne, who nodded for him to go. The walk wasn’t far, just to the end of the corridor.

“Did you catch Rocco too?” Simon asked.

“We brought him in, yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“You and your wife came into his establishment, he had his back turned, there were gunshots, he ran. He has no idea who fired or who got shot or any of that.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Really? Rocco, a leading drug dealer, is lying to us? Wow, I for one am shocked.”

“Did you ask him about my daughter?”

“Doesn’t know her. ‘White girls all look the same to me,’ he said, ‘especially junkies.’”

Simon didn’t wince. “Can you hold him?”

“On what charge? You yourself said Rocco never attacked you, right?”

“Right.”

“Luther was the one who pulled the trigger. Speaking of which.”

He stopped in front of a room with a uniformed cop sitting by the door. “Hey, Tony,” Fagbenle said.

Tony the guard looked at Simon.

“Who’s this?”

“The vic’s husband.”

“Oh.” Tony the guard nodded toward Simon. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s here to make an ID,” Fagbenle said. “Assume the perp is still out?”

“Nah, he’s awake.”

“Since when?”

“Five, ten minutes ago.”

Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Probably not a good idea to do this now.”

“Why not?”

“Protocol. Most witnesses are scared to be face-to-face with the perp.”

Simon frowned. “Let’s just do this.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he’ll see you?”

“He saw me when he shot my wife. You think I care?”

Fagbenle shrugged a suit-yourself and pushed open the door. A television played something in Spanish. Luther sat up in the bed, his shoulder wrapped. He gave Simon a scowl and said, “What’s he doing in here?”

“Oh, so you know this man?” Fagbenle asked.

Luther’s eyes shifted left and right. “Uh...”

Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Mr. Greene?”

“Yes, he’s the man who shot my wife.”

“That’s a lie!”

“You’re certain?” Fagbenle asked.

“Yes,” Simon said, “I’m certain.”

“They shot me!” Luther shouted.

“Did they, Luther?”

“Yeah. He’s a liar.”

“Where did they shoot you exactly?”

“In the shoulder.”

“No, Luther, I mean geographical location.”

“Huh?”

Fagbenle rolled his eyes. “The place, Luther.”

“Oh, in that basement. In Rocco’s lot.”

“So why did we find you hiding in an alley two blocks away?”

You could see the dumb stamped all over him. “Uh, I ran. From him.”

“And hid in an alley even when the police came searching for you?”

“Hey, I don’t like cops, that’s all.”

“Great, thanks for confirming that you were at the shooting scene, Luther. Really helps us wrap this all up.”

“I didn’t shoot nobody. You got no proof.”

“Do you own a gun, Luther?”

“No.”

“Never fired one?”

“A gun?” He got a cagey look. “Maybe once, like years ago.”

“Man, Luther, don’t you watch TV?”

“What?”

“Like every cop show.”

Luther looked confused.

“There’s always the part where some moronic perp says, ‘I never fired the gun,’ you know, like you just did, and then the cop says they ran a gunshot residue test — this ringing any bells, Luther? — and they find residue, usually in the form of gunpowder particles, on the moronic perp’s hands and clothes.”

Luther’s face lost color.

“And, see, once they have all that, the cops — that would be me — have the guy dead to rights. We have witnesses and gun residue and scientific proof our moronic perp is a liar. It’s over for him. He usually confesses and tries to cut a deal.”

Luther sat back and blinked.

“You want to tell us why you did it?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Fagbenle sighed. “You’re really boring us now.”

“Why don’t you ask him why?” Luther asked.

“Pardon?”

Luther tilted his chin toward Simon. “Ask him.”

Simon took deep breaths. He’d been blocking since he entered the room, but now it all came crashing down on him. Ingrid, the woman he loved like no other, was nearby, in this very building, clinging to life because of this piece of shit. Without conscious thought, Simon took a step toward the bed, raising his hands to throttle the useless turd, this nothing, this worthless dung who had tried to snuff out the life of such a wonderful, vibrant being.