Fatal Trauma Read online

  He didn’t bother to check the caller ID. Wrong number or emergency, either way he knew he had to answer it, if only to still the ringing. “Dr. Baker.”

  “Mark, this is Anna.”

  Mark swung his feet around and sat on the side of the bed. “Anna, what’s—”

  “I know it’s late. You didn’t return my call, and I had to talk to someone. My AA sponsor is out of town. Mr. Tanner’s wife answered his cell phone and said they were on their way to the hospital. He may be having a heart attack. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need someone to help me . . . to talk me down.”

  Mark dry-washed his face, feeling the rough stubble of a day’s unshaven beard. “I don’t understand.”

  “I want a drink. I need a drink. But I have over fifty days of sobriety, and one of the things AA preaches is that before we take a drink we call someone.” She laughed, with no mirth in it. “Tag. You’re it.”

  Mark’s brain was churning. “Anna, when we had lunch . . .” He looked at the bedside clock. “When I was with you about fourteen hours ago you were fine. You didn’t drink then. You didn’t even seem to want one. What’s changed?”

  “When I got home tonight, I ignored the mail. I never get anything worthwhile anyway—just bills and junk. I made some decaf coffee, heated some leftovers, and watched TV while I ate. Then I showered and got ready for bed. But before I turned out the light, I remembered seeing an envelope that reminded me of the stationery my ex-husband uses. It was cream-colored, with a raised blue return address in the corner. He’s a lawyer, and . . . Mark, this is so hard.”

  “You can tell me.” Mark stifled a yawn. “So you found the letter and opened it. What was in it that’s making you want to drink?”

  “My ex-husband is . . . he said he’s going to fight my efforts to get visitation rights to Hannah, our daughter. Right now, I can only see her in a neutral location, a supervised visitation center. I’d told him I’d been sober for two months, that I was getting help and attending AA meetings. I’d even told him I was wearing the SCRAM monitor, but he doesn’t care. He says I’m not a fit mother, and he’s going to fight me.” She sobbed, ending in a hiccup. “He’s a lawyer, and the attorney who handled our divorce ripped me to shreds at that hearing. That’s why Carter has custody of Hannah. I don’t stand a chance. It’s not worth the effort anymore. I can’t—”

  “Stop it, Anna. You’re letting this get to you. Think about it rationally. You’re a professional. You’re getting help for your drinking. You have proof that you’ve been sober for more than two months. That’s not a guarantee, but it’s a start.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, broken occasionally by muffled sobs. Mark didn’t know what else to say. Maybe Anna should see a counselor. Maybe someone at AA could help. Wasn’t there some sort of twenty-four hour hotline for alcoholics? Would Anna know about that? How could he find out?

  “Anna, isn’t there—”

  “Mark, there’s one more thing that’s bothering me. I haven’t shared this with you because . . .”

  “Because we were dating?”

  “Well, actually, our dating was sort of a smokescreen,” Anna said. “You see—”

  Mark frowned, wondering what their dating could be screening. He waited for Anna to finish. Instead, he heard breaking glass, a muffled thud, and then silence. “Anna. Anna!”

  He kept calling for Anna to answer, but there was only silence on the other end of the line. Had she dropped a glass? And if so, why? Did Anna faint, have a seizure, what? Finally, Mark took a deep breath, broke the connection, and dialed 911.

  10

  Kelly came awake slowly, like a swimmer emerging from a deep dive, struggling up from the depths and reaching for wakefulness like pushing for the surface and air. Finally, she opened one eye and looked at her bedside clock, where red numbers showed 6:26. What had awakened her? Then she heard it again—pounding at her front door, interspersed with the ringing of her doorbell.

  She slid her feet into slippers and wrapped her robe around her. When she reached the door, she looked through the peephole and saw two uniformed police officers, a black man and a Caucasian woman. The man had his fist raised, obviously ready to knock again. Since he was roughly the size of Mount Everest, Kelly decided she’d better open up before he knocked down the door.

  “Just a second. Let me get the door unlocked,” Kelly called. When she swung the door open she asked, “Yes, officers?”

  The female officer, a petite blonde, took the lead. She pointed to her nametag. “I’m Officer Carter.” Nodding at her partner, she continued, “That’s Officer Mercer. We have a couple of questions for you.” Carter smiled in what was probably her attempt at a non-threatening expression. “May we come in?”

  Kelly stepped aside and gestured the two officers toward the living room. She closed the door and followed them. “Please, sit down.” She yawned. “Sorry. I got home about midnight, and you woke me.” She eased into an armchair. “What’s going on?”

  Carter leaned forward from her seat beside Mercer on he couch. “Where were you between midnight and four this morning?”

  Kelly wished she’d excused herself to brew coffee. She could certainly use some to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her brain. “I was here . . . at home . . . in bed. Why?”

  Mercer spoke. His voice was deep and surprisingly soft. “Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”

  Kelly felt a blush rise on her cheeks. “No. I live alone. And I sleep alone, if that’s your next question.” She raised her voice slightly. “Again, why are you asking?”

  Carter ignored the question. “Do you know Dr. Mark Baker and Dr. Anna King?”

  Should she stop answering questions and call a lawyer? No, she was certain she had nothing to fear. Maybe this was still part of the investigation of the shooting Saturday night, although she wished the police hadn’t awakened her to ask the questions. “I work with Dr. Baker in the emergency room of Memorial Hospital. I believe Dr. King is one of the surgeons at the hospital.”

  “Haven’t you dated Dr. Baker?” Mercer asked.

  Kelly thought for a moment about telling these two that Mark had broken off their relationship, but decided to keep her answers short and to the point. “Yes, in the past.”

  Mercer went on. “And didn’t he also date Dr. King?”

  “I . . . I think he did.”

  Carter stood and leaned forward toward Kelly. “And because you were jealous, did you slip away from your home about three this morning, go to Dr. King’s home, and shoot her through the window?”

  ***

  Mark yawned and wished he had some coffee—about a gallon should do it. He was still in the scrub suit he was wearing for pajamas when Anna called. He closed his eyes for a moment, but quickly opened them again because his eyelids felt as though they were lined with sandpaper. He’d experienced nights like this before, but they’d been spent in the emergency room, not in his own living room answering question after question from a detective he was learning to dislike more each minute.

  “Take us through it one more time, please, doctor.” T. R. Jackson’s navy suit was pressed and wrinkle free, his pale blue shirt looked to be fresh from the laundry, his patterned gold tie was perfectly knotted, and—in contrast with Mark—he was freshly shaved and smelled of a good cologne. His hairless dome glinted in the overhead lights as though it had been polished. In short, Jackson was the antithesis of the way Mark felt and undoubtedly looked.

  Jackson’s partner, Detective Ames, sat quietly on Mark’s sofa, his notebook open in his lap, apparently ready to pounce on any change in the story Mark had told the detectives twice already. Unlike Jackson, Ames showed evidence of being rousted out of bed and dressing hurriedly. Even at that, though, he was a veritable fashion plate compared with what Mark imagined his own appearance to be.

  “Okay,” Mark said. “I was awakened from a sound sleep by a call on my cell phone.”

  “Not your landline?” Ames asked,
glancing at his notes.

  “I have one, mainly because the hospital requires it, but most of my friends call on my cell.” Mark started to say, “It’s a generational thing,” but decided not to antagonize the detective, who seemed about his age anyway.

  “So you were awakened by the call,” Jackson said. “Go on.”

  Mark told the two detectives what Anna had said. She’d received a letter from her ex-husband that said he would contest her efforts to see her daughter more often. She was about ready to take a drink. Mark had determined that she’d called him as sort of a last resort. As he tried to offer support, Anna said there was one more thing. She’d been dating him as . . . he searched his memory for the exact words. “She said dating me had been a ‘smokescreen.’”

  “What did she mean by that?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t know. That was when I heard glass shattering and a thud as though something had hit the floor. I thought maybe she’d dropped a glass or something. Perhaps she’d fainted. I kept saying, ‘Anna, Anna,’ but there was no answer. Finally I called 911.”

  Jackson looked at Mark and shook his head. “Nice little story, and you’ve apparently got it down pat.” He looked at Ames who closed his notebook and nodded. “But maybe that’s not the way it went down.”

  Mark frowned. How many more times was he going to have to tell this? And why weren’t the detectives out there trying to locate the person who’d shot Anna? “Look, you can check my cell phone records, or Dr. King’s calls, or whatever you people do. But that’s the truth.”

  Jackson shook his head. “We’ve already found out you had lunch with her today. We know you’d dated her a few times before that. Maybe she called you last night to break off your relationship. When you saw you couldn’t change her mind, maybe while you were talking with her, you got in your car and drove to her house. I don’t know if she hung up or if you two were still on the phone with each other when you did it—maybe she said something that was the last straw, but I think you were so angry or hurt or both that you walked up to her bedroom window and shot her.”

  ***

  Kelly was on the verge of telling the police to either arrest her or leave when Carter rose, pulled a card from the pocket of her uniform shirt, and held it out. “One of the detectives on the case will be in touch. Don’t leave town for the next couple of days. And if you think of anything else you’d like to tell us, give me a call.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you,” Mercer said. He followed his partner to the door. At the threshold, he turned and looked Kelly in the eye. “But if you want one, the time to make that call is before the detectives interview you.”

  Kelly slumped in her chair and stared at the door where the two police officers had exited. Anna had been shot. And, judging from the tone of the interview just concluded, Kelly was a suspect. What should she do now? Then it hit her. The police never mentioned whether Anna was dead, was wounded, or if the bullet missed her. Surely she wouldn’t be questioned this quickly and this thoroughly if it were a case of malicious mischief. No, if Anna wasn’t dead, she was at least severely injured.

  Kelly searched her brain for the name of a lawyer, but came up empty. Maybe there was someone in her church. . . . It was too early to call her pastor. Perhaps Mark knew someone. Besides, if the police had come to her doorstep, they undoubtedly had interviewed Mark as well. Interviewed? More like the third degree. Did they really think she’d shot Anna King because she was jealous? Then again, she had to admit that there had been times, as her feelings for Mark grew, that she did resent his dating Anna. It was a good thing she’d kept those feelings to herself.

  Still in her robe, Kelly went into the kitchen to get some coffee started before calling Mark. She had things to do, and she was pretty sure the effort would require some coffee . . . a lot of coffee.

  ***

  Mark double-locked the front door, leaned against it, and exhaled. Jackson and Ames had just left, after voicing the warning he’d heard so many times on TV but never had directed at him: Don’t leave town, we’ll be in touch. His heart was still thumping from his experience. Certainly his adrenaline level had rocketed higher each moment the police were grilling him. And Anna’s shooting added to the stress he already felt from being targeted by the Zetas. And—oh, yes—he could be in the crosshairs of a couple of lawyers poised to include him in malpractice actions. If he ever needed the peace Kelly had talked about, now was the time.

  He strode into the bedroom long enough to pick up his cell phone, then carried it into the kitchen and checked the coffeemaker. Sure enough, the machine was bubbling along, a dark and aromatic brew flowing into the carafe. He looked at the kitchen clock and discovered it was seven thirty in the morning. Normally, he’d enjoy waking up to the smell of his favorite beverage. But he hadn’t just awakened . . . he’d been up for several hours, and it didn’t look like he’d be going back to sleep this morning.

  Cup in hand, Mark eased into a kitchen chair and dialed Kelly’s number. She needed to know about these latest developments. He took a sip of coffee, winced at the burn on his tongue he always got because he couldn’t wait, and listened to the ring of the phone.

  When Kelly answered, Mark asked, “Did I wake you?”

  “No, two police officers did, pounding on my door earlier. Have you heard about Anna King?”

  “Probably more than you have,” Mark replied. He brought her up to speed, starting with the three a.m. call from Anna. “After I called 911, I started to go to Anna’s home to see what was going on, but the police had told me they’d go there to do what they called a ‘welfare check,’ and I’d probably get caught up in the process. So I waited around for about an hour, then tried to call Anna’s cell phone. Guess who answered?”

  “Mark, I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” Kelly said.

  He noted the exasperation in her voice, so he went on. “Our friend, Detective Jackson answered. It seems that the police officers that arrived found the doors locked. They walked around the house, saw what appeared to be a bullet hole in the window of one of the rooms, then looked in and saw Anna on the floor with blood all around her.”

  Mark waited for Kelly to respond, but all he heard was a sharp intake of breath. He continued, “Detective Jackson and his partner were there when I tried to call Anna. Jackson had taken possession of her cell phone, and he answered. He told me to stay put, and after they finished their preliminary investigation at Anna’s house, they showed up at my front door.” He sighed. “They put me through the wringer, accused me of shooting Anna, and in general scared me to death. They just left, and I was about to call an attorney, but thought I should talk with you first.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Kelly said. “The two policemen who were here—or, I guess you’d call one of them a policewoman—anyway, they talked about me being the shooter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was jealous of Anna’s relationship with you.”

  “That’s—” Mark stopped. He’d never thought of getting serious with Anna, but he had to admit he’d had those thoughts about Kelly. Could she— No, that was preposterous. “Sounds like we need to get together. Maybe we can find an attorney who’ll represent us both.”

  “I’m due to be at work at three,” Kelly said. “And I need to contact Tracy about a ride again. How about lunch?”

  “I don’t think we should wait that long,” Mark said. “I’ll need some time to shower, shave, and get dressed. Why don’t I come by your house about nine? We can go to the Daily Grind or somewhere for coffee.”

  “I guess that will work. Do you know any lawyers?”

  “I’ll check with some people. And don’t worry about getting a ride to work. At first I thought it was a good idea for us to be separate, but I’m beginning to think there’s safety in numbers. Why don’t you ride with me tonight? In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to help us both feel safer.”

  ***

  Kell
y felt like a spy sneaking around behind enemy lines, facing capture or death at every turn. Her head swiveled right and left, her eyes flickered between the side mirror and the road ahead as Mark drove. Every car contained a Zeta, every pedestrian carried a concealed handgun, every drawn shade or blind along the route shielded a man with a rifle.

  “We’re almost there,” Mark said. “You can stop cringing every five seconds. I think we’re safe here at ten in the morning in the middle of Drayton. If someone’s coming after us, it would be in a more secluded location than this.”

  Kelly considered Mark’s words before she leaned back and took a deep breath. “You said there was something you were going to do to make us feel safer. I don’t feel safer yet. What did you have in mind?”

  Mark stopped at a red light, looked both ways, and turned right. “I had several ideas. At first I thought of buying a gun—”

  “Please don’t!”

  “I said I thought about it. I decided that I was more likely to shoot myself in the foot than use a pistol against someone else. Besides, my carrying a gun wouldn’t help you if we were separated. I even thought about trying to hire a bodyguard of some sort, but that would be terribly expensive. Actually, unless we had a Secret Service detail surrounding us every minute we were away from our homes, I figured that if someone wants to kill a person . . .”

  Kelly could fill in that blank quite well. She’d seen enough movies and TV programs to know how difficult it was to protect someone from a killer. “Well, you’re certainly making me feel more secure,” she said, inching away from the window to the limit of her seat belt.