Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1)

by Roberta Gately

  “Housekeeping to Trauma One, please.”

  Chapter Two

  Jessie opened the door to the Trauma hallway and stopped. She couldn’t go any further. The small space was packed with police and men in suits, all talking in hushed tones, but together the hush became a din that blocked out all other sound. What the hell. “Hey!” Jessie shouted. But they never heard her above the noise. She tried to elbow her way through to no avail. They’d taken over. She lifted her fingers to her lips and blew hard, and suddenly there was silence. All eyes were trained on her.

  “You can’t stay here. You’re in the way.” She began to push through the crowd.

  “And you are?” A tall man stepped forward, a cell phone in his hand.

  “I’m the nurse in charge. Who are you?”

  “Sorry. I’m Sam Dallas, detective in charge.” A gold shield was clipped to his belt, his tie undone, his suit coat draped over his arm, his full attention focused on Jessie. “I know you’re busy working on them, but we have a job to do, too. We need to get working on this, get that shooter off the streets. How is she?” He nodded toward the trauma room.

  “She’s in CT scan, and then Neurosurgery will have a look, and then we’ll know more.”

  Sam ran his fingers through a shock of thick brown hair speckled with streaks of gray. “How’s it look? Will she make it?”

  “I can’t say, not yet at least.”

  “And him?” The detective turned back towards Trauma Two.

  “That’s where I’m headed. If you guys will just move from the hallway, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “We have to keep a few uniforms here, just in case. Understand?” He moved closer and she caught the faint but unmistakable odor of stale cigarettes on his breath. Poor guy—he’d probably already finished his shift, inhaled a quick smoke, and had been called back.

  “I do. I know this is a tragedy, no matter how it turns out, and I want to help you. I really do, but just give us a chance to save them first.” She adjusted the stethoscope that was draped around her neck.

  “We will. We’ll be quiet, and we’ll be nearby to watch over everyone.”

  There was something so comforting in that phrase—watch over everyone, and despite herself, she smiled. Sam reached out and pushed a stray tendril of her hair back in place, a very unexpected thrill running through her. “Okay, I’ve got to get in there.” The rows of men parted and she moved easily through, turning just as she pushed on the trauma room door. Sam’s gaze was on her, and even across the hall, she could see the sparkle in his gray eyes and the firm, reassuring set of his jaw. She flashed him a half-smile before she caught herself. Geez. What the hell is wrong with me? She pushed open the door.

  A crowd of nurses and doctors hovered over the man on the stretcher. He was crying, and she moved in to see that his clothes, too, had been cut and then thrown haphazardly into a corner of the room. She could see a catheter draining bloody urine, and the sheet that covered him was spotted with blood. Two IVs drained fluid into his veins. The overhead monitor recorded a stable pulse and blood pressure.

  “Please,” the man was saying. “Don’t let me die.” The surgeon leaned close. “You’re not going to die. We’re taking care of you to prevent that. Understand?” The man grimaced and closed his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Jessie asked Elena, the nurse assigned to this room.

  “He’s stable, good blood pressure, normal sinus rhythm, hematocrit of forty, but…” She pointed to the urine bag. “You can see—he’s bleeding pretty badly. We’re waiting for Urology and CT and then he’s off to the OR.”

  The trauma room door burst open and, as if an apparition had appeared, Tim Merrick stood there, already in scrubs. “Someone fill me in.” He motioned to the surgical resident who seemed to wilt under the pressure.

  “Single gunshot, Dr. Merrick. Entry in the right flank, no exit wound. Blood counts stable, no other injuries, but draining blood from his catheter. We’re waiting for GU and CT scan. X-ray showed the bullet in his pelvis.” The resident lifted the sheet, turned the patient gently and pointed out the gunshot wound on his right flank. The wound was small, the blood seeping around it a bright red.

  Tim leaned in and had a close look before slapping on gloves and probing the small entry wound in Hart’s right flank, just below his waist. “Hmm,” he mumbled as if considering the precise damage the bullet might have inflicted. “OR ready? Typed and crossed?” he said. The resident nodded. Tim lifted the urine bag for a closer inspection. The fluid was bright red and opaque. There wasn’t much urine in there, if any. It was all blood.

  “Okay,” Tim said brusquely as he leaned over the patient, palpating his abdomen as he spoke. “I’m the surgeon in charge. We’re gonna take you to the OR and clean this all up. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Rob Hart whispered, his voice so faint Tim had to lean in to hear. He patted the man’s shoulder as if to comfort him, but to anyone who knew Tim Merrick, this was simply an absent-minded gesture which had no special meaning, certainly not one of comfort. Tim was usually abrasive to everyone—well, except for nurses. Rumor was, his first wife, or maybe his second, was a nurse. For everyone else, often including patients, he had little time for sympathy or niceties and his surgical outcomes were so good, no one had the nerve to question him. He turned to the resident. “Make sure to get a signed consent, and once he’s had his CT, I’ll see you in the OR.”

  He turned and motioned to Jessie. “A word?” he asked, pointing to the hallway.

  Jessie followed him out. A few policemen, including the detective, still hovered in the hallway and they seemed to come to attention when they saw Tim. His air of authority was apparently universal.

  “I heard the story. Where’s the wife?”

  “Hopefully in the ICU with Neurosurgery. She has a single gunshot wound to the back of her head—no exit wound. Glasgow Coma Scale of three, intubated, bradycardic. Looks pretty bad, but you never know.”

  He patted her shoulder just as he had Rob Hart’s. “Nice work, Jessie. Want to come to the OR with us? See where the real work is done?”

  She shook her head. “Too busy, but thanks for the offer. No one will ever believe that you really asked.”

  He forced a laugh as the detective stepped forward. “A few questions, sir? I’m Sam Dallas, Boston Police Department.” He held up his badge.

  “I don’t have anything for you right now. Talk to her.” He pointed to Jessie.

  “Can I have a few minutes with the patient?” Sam asked, slipping a mint into his mouth.

  “He can have five minutes, not a second more,” Tim said, looking at Jessie, and not at Sam.

  “That’s fine. We’ll take it. Thank you.”

  Tim strode off, heading for the OR.

  “That one’s a charmer, huh?”

  Jessie smiled. “In his defense, he’s a great surgeon. Not much personality, but good enough at what he does that it doesn’t matter.” She turned to the door. “Remind me again who you are.”

  “Aah, how quickly they forget,” he said with a wink. “Sam Dallas, Homicide.”

  Jessie stopped. “Homicide? No one’s dead yet. Aren’t you jumping the gun?”

  He shook his head in reply. “We know how dire the situation is. From what I heard at the scene, the wife is likely to die. I suppose he might too, and in that case, we need to speak to him before he goes to the OR. He’s our only witness right now. We have to jump on this while everything’s fresh in his mind. That’ll give us a better chance of keeping the dirtbag who did this off the street.”

  “Alright. Let me tell them you’re coming…”

  “Jessie,” the secretary called as she handed her a piece of paper. “The results were just called back. You might want to call the ICU.”

  “Thanks,” Jessie said, scanning the results until she reached the last one. “Oh, wow,” she muttered.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “The wife’s pregnant, maybe eight to ten wee
ks or so by these numbers. Not that it matters, but that would explain her alcohol level of zero, too. She wasn’t drinking tonight.” She sighed. “I’m just gonna call these to the ICU, and then I’ll take you in there.” She pointed to the trauma room but headed to an office off the hallway. “Give me a minute,” she called over her shoulder.

  “As long as it doesn’t count against my five.”

  It seemed only seconds when she slipped back to the trauma room to speak to the patient. “Mr. Hart,” she said softly. “The police would like to ask you a few questions. That okay? You feel strong enough?”

  He hesitated before finally nodding his head. “I don’t know what I can tell them, but yes. It’s okay.”

  Sam stepped inside the trauma room, and moved slowly amid the blood and debris that littered the floor. “Rob,” he said “I’m Sam Dallas, a detective. Just a few questions before they take you up to the OR. That okay? You up to it?” He held a pen poised over a small notebook.

  A tangle of creases sprouted on his forehead. “I don’t know how I can help. I didn’t see anything, but I had the feeling that he was a big guy, he seemed to loom over us. I mean, we were walking to our car and suddenly, too late I guess, I heard footsteps. Before I could even think what to do, I felt a gun in my back. ‘Just do what I say and I won’t hurt you,’ the man said.”

  “Anything special about the voice? Accent? Words?” Sam asked, his pen flying across the page.

  “He had a heavy Spanish accent, almost like he was new here.”

  Elena rolled her eyes. “Why do they always have to be Spanish, huh?” She muttered something in Spanish and turned her back to the scene as Hart continued.

  “But he… he knew enough to order us to look straight ahead and to force us into the alley. Then he told me to empty my pockets and pass everything back to him. I did that, I passed him my wallet, my iPhone, and some loose cash. I figured he’d just run, but he didn’t. He shot me. He shot me.” He sounded as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. He paused then, exhaling noisily as if to gather his strength so that he could continue.

  “I… I fell to the ground, and then I heard another gunshot, and then another, and then Ann fell right next to me. It all happened so fast. I just froze and pretended I was dead. I heard his footsteps as he ran, but I didn’t move, I didn’t open my mouth for fear he was coming back. I don’t know how long I waited, but…”

  And he began to cry, soft whimpering sounds. He covered his face and spoke haltingly. “It all happened so fast. I waited, and when I thought it was safe, I fished through Ann’s bag for her phone, and that’s when I called for help. I just don’t know anything else.”

  “Sorry to put you through this,” Sam said as the trauma room staff listened with rapt attention. “Where were you coming from?”

  “A bar downtown. I don’t remember the name.”

  “And you were on Warrenton Street headed where?”

  “To the car. We’d had dinner and then walked through the Public Garden and around the Common. I bought her flowers from one of those street vendors.”

  Ahh, the rose petals, Jessie thought.

  “We went to a bar after, and…”

  The door snapped open. “CT’s ready, and Dr. Merrick called. He said time’s up.” And suddenly everyone was moving again, disconnecting monitors and lines and printing out labs. The surgical resident grabbed the end of the stretcher. “We ready?” he asked as he pulled the stretcher toward towards the door.

  “Someone call Dr. Merrick. Tell him we’re in CT and then we’ll be up.”

  Chapter Three

  The procession to CT scan moved briskly leaving just Jessie, Elena, the nurse who’d helped run this case, and Sam behind. “Hey,” Elena whispered to Jessie so that Sam wouldn’t hear “How’s the wife?”

  “She’s in pretty bad shape. Does he know?”

  Elena shook her head. “No. He was more worried about himself. Never mentioned her. I guess he was just still in shock.”

  “Hmm, yeah, I guess you never know how people will react. Seems strange to me, but…” She shrugged.

  “Can I ask some questions?” Sam asked as Elena peeled off her gloves and threw them to the floor.

  “Not of me,” she answered. “Too busy.” She pressed the intercom. “Housekeeping to Trauma Two,” she said before she slipped away.

  Sam took in the debris scattered over the floor, his eyes resting on the patient’s clothes. “I’m going to need those,” he said. “And the wife’s. You got those?”

  Jessie nodded and donned a pair of gloves to collect the clothing and any other belongings. She folded the jacket and pants and slid them into a plastic bag, before folding the remainder—the shirt and tie and underwear. Underneath it all, a flash of silver sparkled beneath the room’s bright lights. She leaned closer. It was a wristwatch, a fancy one by the looks of it. The band was dotted with blood.

  “I’ll get that,” Sam said, reaching around her with one gloved hand and scooping the watch into a small plastic bag. “Guess the robber missed that.”

  “He missed all the wife’s jewelry, too—pearls, diamond ring, wedding band, Tiffany bracelet. She didn’t have a purse though. Maybe the shooter got that?”

  Sam shook his head. “We have that. Took possession at the scene. She had some money, lipstick, and a credit card. He missed that, too. Not the brightest thief. Maybe that’ll make him easier to catch.”

  “But if he was out to rob them, why shoot them? You heard the victim, he never even got a good look, so why shoot a woman in the head and him in the back? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but criminals never do make sense to the rest of us. With any luck, he’s made a mistake that will help us find him. This one hits home for all of us. We’re going to work this all night.” He lifted the bag of clothing and slipped the watch inside. “Got her stuff for me?”

  He followed Jessie into Trauma One. It had already been scrubbed clean, the floors shiny, a gleaming new stretcher in the center of the room, ready and waiting for the next victim. The housekeeper had placed Mrs. Hart’s belongings bag on the counter, the scent of lavender faint but still noticeable. “Here you go,” Jessie said, pulling out a drawer in the corner and handing a pen and slip of paper to the detective. “You just have to sign there.” She pointed to the bottom of the form. “Just says you took all of their possessions, including jewelry.”

  He pulled off his gloves and signed the form with his left hand, no wedding band in sight, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He pulled out a business card. “Call me if you think of anything, or even if you don’t and just want to have a drink, okay?” His eyes, which had seemed to sparkle earlier, now looked drawn and heavy, which was exactly how she felt. Too tired to even speak, she nodded and slipped the card into the pocket of her scrubs.

  Jessie checked with the supervisor—both gunshots were in the OR; nothing left for her to do except go home and crawl into bed with a bottle of wine. She slipped into her jacket, fished out her keys and headed for the door.

  “Hey, hold on, Jessie. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She turned to see Nick, a smile on his lips, his brown hair ruffled, his uniform showing off the work he did at the gym, his biceps evident through the deep blue fabric. She couldn’t help herself and she smiled in return. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  “I’m off duty, thought I’d see if you want to collect that beer. I know it’s been a rough night.”

  “You’re right. It’s been pretty awful, probably for you guys too, huh?”

  “Yeah. We’re more used to the usual troublemakers, bumbling robbers, domestic calls and stupid kids. A young couple targeted hits home for all of us.”

  He moved in closer, and she could smell the clean, fresh scent of him, and something else—a flowery scent—maybe that’s what it was, and she realized he’d had a tough night too, being at what must have been a horrific scene. She considered his off
er, but only for a millisecond. Every inch of her ached, and she only wanted to go home and crawl into bed.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked. “The after-hours club is open.”

  She remembered it well. The Boston Police had a private club tucked away on the second floor of a nondescript building in an industrial area not far from the hospital. If the usual bars were closed, the club was next on everyone’s list, the perfect way to end a night. It was tempting. She looked at her watch—already after two a.m. She heaved a long sigh. “Any other night, I’d love to, but tonight, I’m beat. Raincheck?”

  “You got it. I’ll call you.” He planted a quick kiss on her cheek and squeezed her shoulder, reminding her that this nice guy was just the type of man she should fall for. Time to change her track record—she’d always chosen the hard-to-get ones who never failed to disappoint her in the end. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he added. “This time, I promise I’ll do it.”

  They’d met months before at Foley’s and had connected right away, but though he’d stopped in to see her a few times in the ER, he’d never called. “I’d like that,” she said, kissing him full on the lips before she turned and walked through the ambulance bay to her car, the closeness of him lingering on her mouth. Jessie pulled up the collar of her jacket against the heavy, early-November fog.

  A crowd of reporters and the bright lights of their cameras sliced through the hazy air lighting up the night. She stopped to have a look. It was the mayor and his aides, and the police commissioner over by the walk-in entrance. Half a dozen microphones were pushed up close to their faces. She couldn’t tell what they were asking, or what he was saying, but it was easy enough to read the anguish on their faces and in their hurried words. She felt it too, and as she turned to go, one eagle-eyed reporter chased after her. “Miss?” she said, a microphone in her hand. “You were in the ER tonight?” The woman never waited for an answer, instead she rushed on. “Any information you can share on tonight’s shooting?” She held a microphone up.