An Eye for an Eye

by Irene Hannon

  “You’re welcome.” He drew the side chair close to her bed and sat. “Tell me how you’re doing.”

  “I tried to convince them to let me go home.”

  “I heard.”

  “They said my blood pressure was too low.”

  “I heard that too. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “Is there anything you haven’t heard?”

  He grinned. “Being with the FBI has its advantages.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that. And I hope that means you can fill me in on what happened. No one’s told me a thing.”

  “There isn’t much to tell yet. The incident is being investigated as we speak. We think it was a single shooter. He was gone before the police arrived.”

  “Who would do a thing like this?”

  “We aren’t sure.”

  “Was it someone trying to make some sort of statement, like you hear about on the news once in a while?”

  “It’s possible. But not likely. Those kinds of shooters tend to pick crowded places and try to inflict as much damage as possible. He only fired two shots, and there was no one around except you and me.”

  Some of the color left her cheeks. “You think he was shooting at us specifically?”

  “That’s one of the theories we’re considering.”

  “Why?”

  He debated how to answer, choosing his words with care. “In my line of work, you make enemies.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “No. But we have some ideas about where to start looking for one.” He hadn’t planned to bring up the convenience store debacle, but he saw no reason to keep it from her. Once his connection to today’s shooting was discovered by the press, she’d hear about it anyway. “I was involved in an incident several months ago that generated national press—and a lot of hate mail to me and the Bureau.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t remember seeing anything in the media. I would have recognized your name. When did this happen?”

  “Early May.”

  “That explains it. I was in Europe for a conference. I must have missed the coverage.”

  “Just as well. The media frenzy died down in a few days, but the public reaction continued for quite a while.”

  She fingered a velvety petal. “Is that why you’re in St. Louis instead of Quantico?”

  “Yes. The powers that be wanted to let the dust settle. And I needed a few weeks to recover.”

  “Is that new-looking scar on your leg a souvenir of the incident?” “You were looking at my legs?” He tried for a teasing tone, hoping a touch of levity would ease the tautness in her features. “It seemed fair enough. You were looking at mine.” A smile whispered at her lips.

  He chuckled. “Guilty as charged. And not the least bit repentant.” “You have changed. Whatever happened to that shy boy I knew once upon a summer?”

  “He grew up.”

  “I noticed.” A dimple flashed in her cheek, but before he could respond, she shifted the conversation back. “You haven’t answered my question about that scar.”

  “Yes. It’s a souvenir. I was shot.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  In truth, he’d rather forget the whole thing. And her gentle question suggested she wouldn’t press the issue if he declined to talk about it. But he’d learned that refusing to discuss it wouldn’t make it go away. And that forgetting wasn’t an option.

  “My partner Coop and I were on our way to work very early one Monday morning. We stopped at a quick shop for some coffee. I went in, and while I was filling the cups, a guy pulled a gun on the teenage clerk and demanded the money in the cash drawer.” He swallowed. Cleared his throat.

  “I was one of three customers. The others were an older man and a pregnant woman. The gunman had the clerk in a choke-hold, and he told us he’d kill him—and us—unless we did exactly what he said. From the way he was sweating and the wild look in his eyes, it was obvious he was an addict in desperate need of a fix. The situation was volatile, and I knew it wouldn’t take much for him to use that gun.”

  Mark rested his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands between his knees, and kept his gaze fixed on the floor as the tragedy replayed in agonizing detail in his mind. “The clerk—his name was Jason Wheeler—tried to open the cash drawer, but it stuck. That infuriated the gunman, and he put the gun to the kid’s temple and said he had five seconds to open the drawer or he’d pull the trigger. To demonstrate he had no qualms about using the weapon, he took a shot in our direction. It didn’t hit any of us, but I knew we couldn’t expect to be as lucky if he fired again.”

  Mark took a deep breath. This was where it got really difficult to maintain an impassive tone.

  “While all this was happening, Coop decided to grab a bagel to go with his coffee. When he opened the door and the bell jangled, the guy turned, giving me a clear shot. I drew my gun. Unfortunately, Jason chose that instant to make his own move. He jerked away from the gunman as I pulled the trigger. My bullet hit him instead of the target.” Mark closed his eyes. Waited a few seconds. Opened them. “Coop took the guy down, but not before he managed to put a bullet in my leg.”

  “What happened to the boy?”

  At Emily’s soft question, Mark stared at his hands. “He didn’t make it.”

  The silence in the room was heavy, mirroring the burden that weighed down his soul. When he felt a touch on his shoulder, he forced himself to look up.

  “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

  “Yeah.” The word rasped out, and he cleared his throat. “I am too.”

  “I can tell the physical wound is healing. What about the emotional one?” The question was soft. Caring.

  He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate. “You’re being a psychologist.”

  “No. A friend.”

  Nodding, he accepted that. With gratitude. “That’s taking a little longer.”

  “Have you talked to anyone?”

  “A psychological assessment is required after an incident like this. The counselor didn’t think I was ready to rejoin the team.

  I didn’t argue.”

  “What team are you referring to?”

  “I work in a division of the Critical Incident Response Group.

  We deal with large-scale, high-profile crises.”

  She searched his face. “You’re on the Hostage Rescue Team, aren’t you?”

  “You know about that?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. Most civilians had never heard of it.

  “I read a book a few years ago by a former HRT sniper. It was . . . eye-opening.”

  “I’m not a sniper. I’m on an assault team.”

  “That’s just as dangerous. Maybe more so.”

  “We’re well trained, Emily.”

  “Grant was too.” Her eyes grew distant, and a flash of pain echoed in their depths. “Training doesn’t eliminate danger. Or risk.”

  In silence he reached for her hand and laced her cold fingers with his, unable to refute her statement.

  With an obvious effort, she refocused her attention on him.

  “Sorry. We were talking about you. Tell me about the letters and calls.”

  Shrugging, he tried to downplay them. “Some people have long memories, and Waco and Ruby Ridge didn’t engender a lot of positive public sentiment for the Bureau. We do everything possible to avoid the use of excessive force, but even in a situation like the convenience store—where a tactical resolution is justified—we get beat up.”

  “It sounds like you took the appropriate action, given the circumstances.”

  “That’s what the review board concluded.”

  “But it doesn’t bring back Jason Wheeler.”

  “No.” He should have figured Emily would zero in on the guilt that had been gnawing at his gut for close to three months. Even before she’d become a psychologist, she’d had good insights.

  “He was seventeen. An honor student. He had a great future ahead of him.”
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  She thought about that for a few moments. “Would you do anything differently if faced with that situation today?”

  It was a question he’d asked himself many times. And he gave her the answer he’d memorized. “No. I did what I had to do, despite the tragic outcome.”

  He knew in his head that was true. But his heart was still struggling to accept it.

  “How did his family react?”

  “I don’t know. They were fully briefed on what happened by senior people in the Bureau while I was in the hospital. And I sent them a letter, carefully vetted by Bureau lawyers, who were convinced we’d be sued.” A mirthless smile twisted his lips, and he shook his head. “But we never heard a word from them.”

  “Not everyone is litigation-happy. Perhaps they recognized that you did your best.”

  “It’s possible, I guess.” He knew his disheartened tone suggested he didn’t hold out much hope of that, and he gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to get into all of this today.”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  He was too. But it was time now to talk about the present.

  “Do you feel up to giving a statement to the police?”

  “Yes. Although I doubt I can tell them much.”

  “That’s okay.” He pulled out his BlackBerry as he spoke. “They won’t expect a lot. I couldn’t help them much, either. Except to suggest that the shooting might be connected to the convenience store incident.” He punched in Steve’s number. It was answered on the first ring. “It’s Mark. I’m with Emily. She’s ready to talk to the police.”

  “Good.” Steve sounded relieved. “Oakdale is pushing. I’ll let them know they can send someone over.”

  As Mark said good-bye and slid the BlackBerry back into its holder, a nurse entered to offer another round of pain medication. “Is it going to knock me out again?” Emily asked.

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Can I wait a bit?”

  “Sure. Press the buzzer whenever you’re ready.”

  Watching the woman exit, Emily wrinkled her nose. “I hate medicine. Besides, your visit is far more effective than a pill in distracting me, anyway.”

  “I’m flattered. And the feeling is mutual, by the way.”

  She smiled. “You always were a charmer.”

  As he looked at her across the bed—and across the years— Mark suddenly couldn’t remember why they’d lost touch. “How come we didn’t stay in contact after that summer?”

  “We did for a while. But a serious relationship wasn’t on our agenda in those days. We had other priorities.”

  “The foolishness of youth,” he murmured.

  Giving him a quizzical look, Emily asked a question of her own. “How is your family? Do they still live in Tennessee?”

  “Yes. Dad died a few years ago, but Mom’s doing well. My sister has three kids now and lives close to her. I get down as often as I can.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  She plied him with questions, and he was able to conjure up a few stories about his nieces and nephew that elicited some much-needed laughter. When he ran out of those, he turned the tables on her.

  “How about you, Em? How’s your dad?”

  She’d had little family, he recalled. The summer she’d come to visit her grandmother, a few months after her mother died, it had been just her and her dad, a military officer. She’d spent her youth moving every few years as her father’s assignments took him all over the world. Six months after her visit to Tennessee, her grandmother had suffered a fatal stroke. The last time he’d seen her was at that funeral.

  “He died ten years ago,” she told him.

  Meaning she was alone. Emily had told him once that with all the moving, she’d never had a chance to build long-term friendships. He wondered if she had fared better on that score after settling in St. Louis. Good friends would have helped sustain her through the loneliness and the losses.

  He took a back-door approach to that question. “We’re going to try to keep your name out of the media, but we may not be successful. Is there anyone you need to notify about this before they hear it on the news?”

  A slow shake of her head answered his question before she spoke. “No. I’ve already called my secretary and my pastor, who has my medical power of attorney. There’s no family. And Evelyn knows.”

  “Evelyn?”

  “My neighbor. A wonderful widow lady in her seventies who’s like an adopted grandmother. She took me under her wing when I moved into my condo after . . . when I lost Grant. She’s the one who brought over my pajamas.”

  No mention of close friends her own age, he noted. Why not?

  A knock on the door interrupted them. And as Mark rose to admit the detective who had come to question Emily, he realized he had a lot more questions of his own.

  4

  “Dr. Lawson? Sergeant Montgomery, Oakdale PD. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am. I’ll try to keep it brief.”

  “No problem, Sergeant.” As the detective took the chair Mark had vacated, Emily looked at the man who’d made this day bearable—and who was now heading out the door. A wave of panic swept over her. “Aren’t you staying?”

  Mark paused. “It’s not protocol to have two victims or witnesses in the room together when one is being interviewed.”

  “But you’ve already given your statement. Please . . . I’d feel better if you’d stay.” The trauma of the past twelve hours had shaken her secure little world, and she needed the moral support his presence would provide.

  His gaze dropped to her hands, which had clenched the sheet into a tight wad, and he exchanged a look with Sergeant Montgomery. “It’s up to you. But she might be more relaxed if I stay.

  I can leave at any point if either of you wants me to.”

  The man considered Emily’s tense posture. “Okay. Let’s try it this way.”

  With a nod, Mark propped one shoulder against the wall and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  The detective recorded the basic information first, for which Emily was grateful. It gave her a chance to calm down a little before he began asking about the morning’s events. But her pulse ratcheted up again as his questions got more specific.

  “Do you walk in that park every morning, ma’am?”

  “Yes. With rare exception.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary prior to the shots being fired?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anyone in your acquaintance who has a grudge against you, or has threatened you?”

  That query threw her, and she shot Mark a startled look.

  “It’s a routine question in a case like this, Emily,” he told her. She looked back at the detective. “No. I have no enemies.”

  “Is there anyone in your acquaintance who you consider to be capable of violence?”

  “You mean, someone who might shoot me?” Incredulity rippled through her voice.

  “Anyone you think capable of violence of any kind. Friends, family, co-workers, clients, the guy who cuts your grass . . . any person you’ve had any contact with.”

  Jack Hanley.

  The name flashed across her mind like a neon light, jolting her.

  Jack Hanley wasn’t happy with her, but taking out his frustration with a gun? She couldn’t imagine it.

  At her hesitation, Mark frowned and pushed off from the wall.

  “What is it, Em?”

  “Nothing. I just . . . I do have one client who’s rather peeved.

  A referral from a corporate employee assistance program. But shooting at me . . . the whole notion is surreal.”

  Mark exchanged a look with the detective and took a step closer. “Tell us about this guy.”

  “He’s a senior-level manager who didn’t appreciate being sent to me by his company’s EAP three weeks ago. Nor did he appreciate my suggestion that he enroll in an anger management course. When he elected not to take my advice, I recommended he be put on
paid leave until he worked through his issues.”

  “Why?” Mark asked.

  “With workplace violence at an all-time high, it’s best to diffuse potentially risky situations.”

  “In other words, you thought this guy was capable of violence.” “Not necessarily. But I didn’t think it was wise to take any chances. My recommendation was more precautionary than anything else. The leave was intended to send him a strong message about his need to get help. In any case, I can’t see him as a shooter.”

  “When did all this take place?” Sergeant Montgomery asked.

  “He was notified of the leave yesterday.”

  The two men exchanged another look.

  “Has he ever threatened you?” Mark asked.

  “He called to rant a little yesterday after HR informed him of the company’s decision. But he’s never threatened me.”

  “We need to check him out.”

  Emily shook her head. “I can’t reveal a client’s name. That would compromise the confidentiality my work is based on.”

  “Confidentiality can be breached if criminal activity is involved,” Mark said.

  “We don’t know that there is.” Emily understood the legalities of her profession. And the ethics. Her instincts, as well as her professional training, told her Jack Hanley hadn’t been the shooter. Yes, his explosive outbursts and callous treatment of his direct reports was what had brought him to the attention of his management. But she didn’t believe he would pick up a gun to express his anger. Identifying him would not only be wrong, it would add unneeded stress to a life that was already crumbling.

  “Where there’s a reasonable suspicion that a person may present a danger of violence to others, you’re under no obligation to protect his identity,” Mark reiterated.

  “I don’t think there is a reasonable suspicion,” Emily countered, holding her ground.

  Mark regarded her for a moment. Then he turned to the sergeant. “What else do you need?”

  “I’m done.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  The detective stood. “Thanks for your help, Dr. Lawson. We’ll be in touch if we have any additional questions.”