Everything to Lose

by Danielle Girard

  “You from the South, Doctor?” he asked.

  Schwartzman looked up, surprised.

  “Hailey mentioned an accent, but I don’t hear it.”

  “I was raised in Greenville, South Carolina,” she said, hearing her own drawl as the name of her home city and state came across her tongue.

  Hal laughed. “I heard it that time.”

  “I guess I haven’t lost it entirely though I haven’t lived in the South in a lot of years.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little drawl,” he said. “I love listening to Merle Haggard. Wouldn’t be the same if he didn’t have that drawl.”

  “I suppose not,” she said, careful to enunciate her words.

  Jamie Vail sat in the back of the open ambulance. A man in slacks and a dress shirt was using butterfly sutures to close a small wound on her forehead.

  “She could use stitches,” Schwartzman said.

  The man looked over. The front of his slacks was stained with grass at the knees and there was blood spattered on his shirt. “Oh, I told her,” he said. “She’s been fighting me since that bomb went off.”

  “I wasn’t fighting,” Jamie said.

  “Then I’d hate to see you when you are fighting,” the man said.

  Jamie blushed.

  “You okay there, Jamie?” Hal asked.

  “I’m fine. I don’t care about the cut. I need to check on Z.”

  “I’ll check on him,” Hal said.

  “Would you? He’s not hurt, but—”

  “I’ll check,” Hal said.

  Schwartzman hoped one day she’d be a part of the camaraderie the inspectors shared. How nice to be part of a team. How safe.

  “I think Hailey’s with him, too.”

  Jamie’s gaze followed Hal as he left, avoiding eye contact with the doctor caring for her injuries. There was something between them, but it didn’t feel like intimacy exactly. Maybe some past involvement?

  “Can I do anything?” Schwartzman asked.

  “You got a suture kit in your bag?” the doctor asked.

  “I told you, no stitches,” Jamie said.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The doctor gave Schwartzman a sideways glance.

  “I’m a medical examiner,” Schwartzman said. “We don’t do a lot of sutures.”

  “Travis Steckler,” he said. “I’m an ED doc at UCSF. I was here when the bomb went off. We got lucky. Somehow Jamie knew what was happening. Only one casualty.” He let out his breath slowly, a technique she recognized for trying to keep his hands steady. “Could have been a lot more.”

  No one spoke. Jamie stared over the top of the doctor’s head.

  It wasn’t a past intimacy that she saw but perhaps a potential one.

  Schwartzman excused herself and went to find the body. Hailey and Hal stood with a teenager. Hal had his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy held his hands over his eyes. As she passed, Hailey peeled away and caught up to her. “Bomb squad identified a single pipe bomb, placed under the Lexus.”

  A blue Lexus was being hoisted onto a flatbed tow truck.

  “I haven’t seen the body yet, but the paramedics think the blast killed him,” Hailey said. “Once they confirmed he was dead, though, they didn’t move him, so no one has done any real examination.”

  “Vail was already here on a case?” Schwartzman asked.

  Hailey shook her head. “Jamie’s son, Z, goes to school here.”

  Hal and the boy were still talking. “His name is Z? Like the letter?” Schwartzman asked.

  “It’s a nickname. His full name is Zephenaya. Jamie adopted him after his sister was killed. About five years ago.”

  Schwartzman stopped. “The bomb happened to go off while she was at the school?”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

  “Nor am I,” Schwartzman agreed. “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Nothing confirmed, but Jamie is working a case related to our hit-and-run.”

  Schwartzman had heard. “An automotive paint sample was matched to both cases.”

  “Yeah,” Hailey said.

  “I like to follow my cases through when I can,” Schwartzman explained.

  “Good. So, you’re caught up.” Hailey started walking again.

  “Do we know who this victim is?” asked Schwartzman, struggling to keep up with Hailey’s pace. The inspector walked fast for someone her size, and Schwartzman was regretting her choice of shoes.

  “Not yet. But whoever it was, it’s really upset the boy,” Hailey said. “He couldn’t talk when I got to him. He’s still not saying much.”

  They arrived at the body together. Face up, the man was younger than their last victim. In his thirties. Schwartzman studied his features and turned back to the boy with Hal. The resemblance was unmistakable.

  “Jesus,” Hailey said in a quiet breath.

  Pulling on gloves, Schwartzman asked, “This is the boy’s father?”

  “Has to be,” Hailey whispered, sounding as surprised as Schwartzman. The inspector didn’t know about the relationship before.

  Alan Wigby, a camera strap around his neck, flipped through the images on the LED screen. “Who?”

  “Nothing,” Hailey said quickly with a hard stare. “It’s another case.”

  Realizing she’d said too much, Schwartzman hid the heat in her face by studying the victim’s work shirt. There were several small burn marks in the fabric over his right shoulder and a series of abrasions along his neck, which implied he had been standing with his right side toward the bomb when it detonated.

  “Do you have what you need, Alan?” Schwartzman asked.

  Wigby glanced up as though surprised to hear his first name. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to move the body.” Schwartzman nodded to the paramedics. “Let’s get him on his side.”

  The two paramedics got down on their knees and rolled the victim onto his left side. “I’ll work fast,” she said. “You can see where the shrapnel burned into the fabric.” Schwartzman pointed out burns on his shirt and two on the side of his jeans.

  “Could one of those have killed him?”

  Schwartzman studied the marks. “None of them seem deep or significant enough to be cause of death, but it’s hard to tell. It’s possible that the bomb triggered some secondary condition. Heart attack or a head contusion…” She reached up and palpated his skull for abrasions and found none.

  “You can lay him back again.”

  The paramedics slowly lowered the victim onto his back. Schwartzman started to unbutton his shirt when she spotted another hole on the left side of his work shirt. She pressed her finger through the hole.

  Schwartzman opened her medical bag. She pushed the clean, packaged Tyvek suit to the side and pulled out a pair of gardening shears. Taking hold of the flannel shirt, she cut a straight line up the side. Then, another straight line through a navy undershirt until she had exposed the victim’s sternum.

  She leaned down to take a closer look at an entry wound that had punctured the intercostal muscles. She fingered the area for evidence of the shrapnel under the skin. Then, she used her finger to press into the wound, feeling the break in the tissue between the fourth and fifth ribs.

  Hal and Jamie joined them. Ignoring their presence, Schwartzman focused on the wound, trying to trace the path of the projectile. The silence buffeted around her like the warmth of a fire. Accustomed to finding her own focus, she fingered the entrance wound; the path was deep.

  The projectile had likely severed the descending aorta, which would explain the rapid death. He would have bled out into his abdomen. She pulled her bloody gloves off and put on clean ones. She ran her gloved hands across his shoulders and chest, examining his head and neck. There was no visible blood. She was aware of Hal’s bulk as he joined them, too. She was grateful that he didn’t interrupt.

  “I need to flip him over,” Schwartzman told them.

  Looking baffled, Hal knelt beside her. “Which
way?”

  “Onto his right side,” she instructed. She counted to three and with only the slightest help from Schwartzman, Hal rolled the victim so that Schwartzman could examine his back.

  “What did you find?” Jamie said, breaking the patient silence of the group.

  Schwartzman spoke carefully. “I can’t be sure without being at the lab.”

  “But—” Jamie prompted.

  Hal lowered the body back down.

  She pulled her gloves off, inside out, and laid them on the pavement. “The only evidence of an entrance wound is a single point on his left side. But the shrapnel from the bomb is all on his right side.”

  “So, what happened to his left side?” Jamie pressed.

  “From what I can feel, the projectile cuts between his fourth and fifth ribs.”

  “So that’s what killed him?” Hailey asked.

  “From what I see, that would be my guess. Again, I can’t be certain until—”

  Jamie got down onto the pavement and studied the side of the victim’s shirt. She examined his neck, shaking her head. “It’s impossible.”

  Hal rose to his feet. “What’s impossible, Jamie?”

  “That explosion sent shrapnel flying two hundred feet,” she said. “A piece of it cut me in the head and I was way out on the lawn.”

  “Okay,” Hal said.

  “Well, if it hit me way out there, how did Del—how did he get away with only a few scrapes? And if he did, then why the hell is he dead?”

  In a soft voice, Hailey said, “You knew this was Zephenaya’s biological dad when you saw him.”

  Jamie looked up.

  Hal blew out his breath and rubbed his huge palm against his bald head.

  Hailey gave Jamie’s arm a reassuring squeeze. They were friends. Hailey was no nonsense. She was neither condoning nor condemning Jamie. She was reliable. Calm. Different from Jamie, but they seemed to be good for each other. Schwartzman had never had a friend like that.

  Schwartzman rose slowly to her feet. The backs of her knees tingled from a lack of circulation and she bent them slightly to try to increase the blood flow back into her limbs. “The wound on his left side,” she began.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “It wasn’t shrapnel.”

  “You mean because there’s only one entry point,” Jamie said.

  “Partly. If this had been shrapnel, it would be almost impossible to avoid other marks.”

  “But it’s possible,” Hailey interjected.

  “Maybe, but not in this case.”

  No one spoke.

  “The bomb’s shrapnel hit him on the other side of his body. We can see the evidence of the burns on his clothes and the abrasions on his neck.”

  “It’s possible he took one shot to his left side and then spun away, catching some debris on his right,” Hal offered.

  Schwartzman shook her head.

  “What are you saying?” Jamie asked.

  “The trajectory is too straight. The types of materials used in a pipe bomb are irregular in shape—nails and broken glass, that sort of thing. They enter the body and bounce all around.” Schwartzman motioned to the victim. “This one projectile on the victim’s left side entered and traveled straight through his muscles and between the two ribs.”

  Jamie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re saying he was—”

  “Shot,” Schwartzman said. “The autopsy will confirm it, but I believe the victim was killed by a single gunshot wound to the chest.”

  Chapter 17

  Jamie stared down at Michael Delman’s lifeless body.

  “We have to talk to Z.” Hailey’s voice sounded far away.

  How many times had Jamie thought life would be easier if Michael Delman were dead? No worrying about tracking him. No concerns about how or if or when he might show up in their lives again. No more fretting about whether Z would one day want to reach out to him.

  “Jamie?” Hal pressed. “You know that, right?”

  “I have to be there.”

  “Of course you do. You know we can’t interview a minor without a legal guardian present,” Hailey said.

  She wanted to take Z home. Get the hell out of this place.

  Maybe Ohio would be good for all of them.

  God, what if Tony was right? What if they should all start over in Ohio? When Tony found out…

  “Tony can’t hear anything about this,” she said sharply.

  “You’re Z’s guardian,” Hailey said. “You have no obligation to inform anyone else.” She paused a beat. “But Jamie, how will you keep it from him?”

  She was right of course. “I have to be the one to tell him,” Jamie said.

  Travis Steckler walked toward them.

  Jamie fingered the bandages on her forehead.

  “Let me see those,” he said. He wrapped his left hand behind her neck and used the other to raise her chin. She was staring right at his mouth. His lips were parted ever so slightly, and she could feel his breath on her face.

  She pulled back. “I’m okay, really.”

  His left hand held her firmly by the neck. “Hang on a minute. You’re not going anywhere yet.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Hailey, one eyebrow cocked. Jamie reached out a hand to swat her. It was too far.

  “Don’t wiggle or this will take longer,” Steckler warned her.

  Her skin was pulled, then pressed as he laid the sutures back across the bone of her brow. She winced at the pressure. “Probably a little bruising there, too,” he said. “But it looks okay. If it opens up, though, I want you to call me.” He gave her neck a little squeeze and let go.

  She said nothing. Her face was on fire. It was not the time for this. She looked around for Z and found him standing with the three girls from City Academy. The two girls Jamie didn’t know were huddled together, while Amanda Steckler stood beside Z. She wore his baseball sweatshirt, the sleeves pulled down over her hands. She and Z were talking softly, faces close. Amanda was a junior, like Charlotte. Were they talking about the bomb or was this something that had been going on before today?

  Did Z know Charlotte, too?

  “Z.” She waved him over.

  He squeezed Amanda’s shoulder, like Steckler had squeezed her neck. Oh, hell.

  “Your sweatshirt,” she said, starting to pull it up over her midriff.

  He waved it off. “I’ll get it from you later.”

  “Thanks, Z.”

  “Sure.” He was half smiling as he started toward Jamie, but his expression turned south when he saw her face. “What?”

  “Hailey and Hal have a few questions they need to ask,” she said. She tried to smile. Put him at ease.

  “Okay.”

  Hailey and Hal stood with Schwartzman who was processing Delman’s body. Jamie stopped Z from getting any closer.

  “Hailey,” she called.

  Jamie motioned to Z, and Hailey reached out to tap Hal. The two of them walked over together. “The school has offered to let us use one of the math classrooms,” Hailey said.

  Jamie frowned.

  “So we don’t have to go to the station,” Hal added.

  Jamie wanted to talk now. Quickly. Then, she wanted the hell out.

  “Room one twelve,” Hal said. “You know where that is, Z?”

  Z nodded.

  “Lead the way,” Jamie said.

  Hailey and Hal followed Z across campus, Jamie behind them. Hailey took two steps for every one of Hal’s and still they were synchronized. Or maybe it was the pounding in Jamie’s head that made all this feel like some sort of weird dance.

  Z’s head hung as he walked off the path and cut behind the math building, leading them to the rear door. He held it open for the inspectors and Jamie. “It’s down on the left,” he told them.

  The building was cold in the way that many of the old buildings in the Bay Area were for their poor insulation and thin single-pane glass.

  Hailey and Hal sat at two of the students
’ desks and slid them to face another two. Hal tried to bend his knees, but he kept hitting the underside of the desk. So, he shifted his body to an angle and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  Even Z seemed to have trouble making himself comfortable in the desk seat. Hailey and Jamie fit fine.

  Hal pulled himself up in the chair and clasped his hands together on the desk. Just his two hands and a few inches of his forearm took up the entire desk. “You doing okay?” Hal asked.

  “I’d like to go home, to be honest,” Z told him.

  “We only have a few questions,” Hailey said.

  “A few, sure,” Z said.

  Hal nodded to Hailey. Her lead. Same thing Vich always did. If she nodded back to him, it was his. Hailey didn’t. “Did you know the victim, Mr. Delman?”

  Jamie sat up straight. What kind of question was that?

  Hailey gave her a stern expression, and Jamie sat on her hands to stay in her seat.

  Z looked at Hailey like she was nuts. “The victim?” he repeated like it was a crazy thing to call him. “Well, he was my dad, so you could say I knew him.”

  What was Hailey making of that connection? Z had answered it. It was a dumb question. Of course, he’d known his father.

  What memories came to mind when he thought of his father?

  There had been physical abuse and emotional, but mostly there had been abandonment. But the death upset him.

  “But I don’t know who killed him,” Z continued. “It’s not like we had a relationship or nothing.”

  Anything. A relationship or anything. That was true, too. The right answer. He knew Delman because Delman had fathered him. Not because they knew each other. They did not know each other. When Z came to her five years ago, his father had been in prison. Jamie took Z to see him once, early in the adoption, but Z had said he didn’t want to go back. Jamie had never pushed. That fact was good news for Z. Unless he’d wanted a relationship with his father. Maybe they should have talked about Delman more.

  Jamie wanted for this to be over.

  “Did you see your dad regularly?”

  “Shit, no,” Z snapped.

  “Language,” Jamie warned him. The police were human. Humans made assumptions based on stereotypes. Kids who swore were presumed guiltier than those who didn’t. Appearance, haircut, language, it all filtered in whether they wanted it to or not. Jamie knew that from her own experience.