Cold Shot (5 page)

He lowered his, still in the building. “They have her at the ME’s office.”

“And?”

“Waiting on a positive ID.”

“And Tanner?”

“I’m closing in.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You want me to strike preemptively?”

“If they ID our girl, it’ll lead them straight to our door. Make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Finley glanced at the clock. Where was John, the lab tech, with Jane Doe’s body? After arriving at the lab, she’d left the annoyingly silent Griffin in the lounge with Declan. What was he hiding about his past work? And why from her?

Parker had disappeared to his lab as usual when they had a new case, and she’d called to ask John to transport Jane Doe to the exam room nearly twenty minutes ago.

Five frustrating minutes later, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

Griffin and Declan remained in the lounge conversing, neither appearing to notice her pass by the open door. Her curiosity about their relationship along with Griffin’s knowledge of ballistics rose, but she remained on task, stalking down the dimly lit corridor toward the arrival bay.

Don’t focus on the darkness. You aren’t alone. It’s not the same. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore
.

Frustrated she’d allowed herself to get worked up again, she chugged down a soothing breath as she turned the corner.
I am safe.
How many times did she have to work to convince herself of that?

“Give it time,”
everyone said.

She was tired of giving it time. It’d been long enough.

She just wanted to feel normal again.

Wrapping her fingers around the cold steel handle, she pushed the door in.

John lay facedown on the floor, blood pooling around his head. “John!” She shrieked, rushing toward him, but movement shifted her attention. A man in black hefted Jane Doe’s bagged body onto a stretcher.

“Hey!”

He looked up, but the room was too dark to make out the details of his face—and he was wearing a dark hoodie pulled low to his eyes.

His right arm swung up and instinct urged her to hit the ground. She collided with the cold tiles as a shot whizzed overhead with a soft whir, lodging in the wall behind her.

As another shot collided with the steel she dove for the door and scrambled for the janitorial closet across the hall.

Her pulse throbbing in her throat, she reached the closet and shut the door, her chest rising and falling in rapid pace with her breath.

Please, Father . . .
was all she could manage through the terror gripping her. Her heart ticking in her throat, she waited.

Listening for footsteps was nearly impossible over the hammering in her ears.

She waited, each breath labored, shallow, her chest tightening.

He wasn’t coming.

Relief filled her . . . but then the realization hit.

He is taking Jane Doe.

As petrified as she was, she couldn’t let him do that. Couldn’t let him deny Jane Doe her real name or her family closure. It’s
why
she did what she did—to bring justice to those who could no longer fight for themselves. Though she was weak, her Savior was strong.

Swallowing her fear, she cracked the door and with clammy hands gripped the edge, staring into the corridor.

Please, Father, help me to be brave
.

Something squeaked to her right. Her heart racing, she leaned farther into the hall. The man was wheeling Jane Doe’s body away.

Griffin glanced at the hall. He’d heard something. It was muffled, but . . .

Declan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought I heard . . .”

“What?”

“A gunshot.”

“Trust me, if there was a gunshot in the ME’s office, we’d all be on full alert.”

Griffin strode to the door. “It sounded like a silencer.”

“Silencer?” Declan followed him into the hall. “Then how did you . . . Never mind.” He shook his head.

Griffin moved toward the arrival bay, toward the origin of the sound. “It came from this direction.”

Finley’s silhouette darted down the side hall with a mop poised upright in her hands.
What on earth?
He looked back at Declan.

“This way,” he said. “We can cut her off.”

Following Declan around the bend, they froze as they reached the guard station. The guard was slumped sideways in his chair, blood trickling from his nose.

Heat flared in Griffin’s chest, spreading through his limbs.
Finley
.

The outside bay door opened, and he raced for it, pulling the fire alarm as he went, Declan fast on his heels.

Don’t be stupid, Finley
.

Red lights whirled along the beige walls, intensifying his adrenaline rush.

Sirens shrilled nearby—the fire station only two blocks over.

Hammering through the bay doors he found Finley on the ground, her arms wrapped around the metal stretcher leg.

Was that Jane Doe?

A police cruiser and fire truck approached, their lights radiating out over the darkness, illuminating a black van as it sped away.

He dropped to the ground and lifted her onto his lap. “Finley?”

She groggily came to, blinking. “Hey.” She smiled. “You called me Finley.”

He smiled despite the dire circumstances.

Declan rushed past them, firing at the van tearing out of the parking lot.

Griffin smoothed the hair from Finley’s brow, checking her for signs of injury. “What happened?”

“That man killed John and tried to steal Jane Doe.”

“So you decided to stop him with a mop?”

“It’s all I could find. I jammed it through the stretcher wheel spokes, and he went flailing forward with his momentum. Unfortunately, I did too. Last thing I remember seeing was the metal stretcher edge in front of my face and emergency lights swirling in the distance. Good call on the alarm.”

“The benefits of having a police and fire station within walking distance.”

An EMT knelt at Finley’s side. “Let me take a look at you.”

She waved him off as another moved to John. “I’m fine.” But it was clearly too late for John.

“Looks like you took a knock to the head.” The EMT insisted on examining her. “This’ll just take a minute.”

She started to protest, but Griffin cut her off. “Let the man do his job.”

She nodded and then winced, clearly regretting the motion.

Declan returned.

Griffin didn’t have to ask—his friend’s angry face said it all. The man got away.

“I appreciate you offering to stay,” Finley said as Griffin accompanied her back toward her exam room and away from the chaos. “But it’s not necessary.”

“Yes it is.” Someone had broken into the medical examiner’s office, for goodness’ sake—had killed the lab tech, knocked out the security guard, and taken a shot at Finley. It was the definition of an unsafe environment, and his years in SWAT had trained him perfectly for such things.

“I won’t be alone. As you can see. . . .” She gestured to the spinning red-and-blue lights outside the corridor windows. “The cops are here in abundance.”

“They aren’t going to be in the lab with you.” Only on the perimeter after the building was deemed secure, if they followed standard protocol. That wasn’t good enough.

“Parker will be here. He won’t leave until he’s worked every piece of evidence. Trust me—I know him.”

That’s exactly what he’d thought too until . . .

Parker rushed into the exam room. “What happened?” His worried gaze shifted to Finley, and he stepped toward her. “Are you okay?”

She rubbed her arms. “I’m fine, but John’s dead.”

“What?” Parker’s eyes widened.

“And he tried to kill Finley too.” Outrage spewed from Griffin’s lips.

“I’m so sorry.” Parker grasped her shoulders. “I had my headphones on, and my lab doesn’t have a window. . . . It took me a moment to figure out what was happening. Any idea who he was?”

Finley shook her head. “I only saw him briefly and not well, but I didn’t recognize him.”

“What about security footage?” Griffin asked. The ME’s building had to be decked out with it.

“Police say the man kept his head down, hoodie on. They got no clear image,” Declan said, entering and leaning against the counter.

“Any idea why someone would try to steal the body?” Griffin asked, attempting to ignore the fact Parker’s hands were still on Finley’s shoulders.

Finley inhaled. “To prevent ID would be my best guess.”

“Which means the killer is aware we found her.” And was likely the same person they’d chased through the woods last night.

“Which means he’s close,” Declan said, echoing Griffin’s thoughts.

He looked at the bruise on Finley’s forehead. “Too close.”

He watched them through his scope. The same group from the crime scene, now all at the ME’s lab. They were going to work this one hard.

His jaw tightened.

Tonight’s events had taken an unexpected and decidedly unsatisfactory turn.

His finger itched to pull the trigger, but a dead forensic anthropologist would only stir the hornet’s nest.

He held his breath, wanting—no,
aching
—to squeeze the trigger, but he released his hold and rolled off his stomach.

Standing, he took one last glance over his shoulder, the distance too far to see them without the aid of a scope. This wouldn’t be the last time he had them in his sights, and next time—when the timing was right—he’d happily pull the trigger.

7

F
inley pulled on her gloves. The attempt at body snatching had seriously flared her curiosity. Who, exactly, was Jane Doe?

She turned on her microphone and began her analysis of the remains, recording the pertinent information—date, location, starting time of analysis, and names of everyone present. Next she moved on to radiographing—obtaining dental images, and x-raying the entire skeleton, paying particular attention to the skull wound, which was almost certainly the cause of death.

She retained two lumbar vertebrae in their original state before cleaning the rest of the bones and laying them out in a systematic manner—distinguishing left from right, inventorying each bone and tooth, and photographing the entire skeleton in one frame.