Color Blind (10 page)

She yanked back out the medical examiner’s photos of Emily Grogan, the ones Emily’s family and the media had such trouble getting hold of. Amazing what could happen when a murder case kept so quiet suddenly became tied to the most prolific serial killers the country had seen in years.

Richards stepped in, crowded Jenna’s personal space. Up until this moment, he’d been sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, but now his movements were jerky, agitated. “Aren’t we paying this Grogan guy way too much attention if he isn’t the second shooter? I may not be the expert here, but shouldn’t we spend more time profiling
that guy?
” He jabbed at the window toward Isaac.

“We are,” Hank muttered.

Jenna shook her head. Richards wouldn’t accept Hank’s answer, however true it might be. “We don’t have anything on Isaac yet. According to public records, Isaac Keaton doesn’t
exist
. Thadius Grogan
is
Isaac’s profile right now. He’s one of the only connections we have.”

Richards threw his hands up. “You said yourself he’s trying to distract you!”

There, she couldn’t argue. But it was more complicated than that. Isaac Keaton had his own agenda, for sure. The question was: better to chase the person Isaac took them straight
to
, or dig a needle out of a proverbial haystack and find one eyewitness from the theme park?

A third option existed, but right now that option was on Jenna’s list right after stabbing her own eyes out with a rusty spoon.

She glanced at Hank, hoping for help.

“Your call,” he said.

Funny. He’d said the exact same thing when she’d found out she was pregnant with Ayana. Something she had never been able to forget. Or maybe forgive.

Now her mind cinched around the answer on the spot: whichever one wasn’t Hank’s. “Richards is right. We need to talk to the people who were at the park, starting with the coherent ones in the hospital. I want to interview the victims myself.”

•   •   •

T
he stubby night shift charge nurse at Simons Medical Center didn’t act happy when Jenna, Hank, and Richards showed up on her floor at 1 a.m. wanting to talk to the park shooting victims. “These people need their
rest
, Detectives!”

“Ma’am, we hate to interrupt the sleep of anyone who’s been through such a traumatic experience, but it’s crucial we speak to them as soon as possible. Our job is to bring the people who hurt them to justice,” said Hank.

Jenna was thankful he hadn’t bothered to correct her inaccurate moniker “Detectives.” It was only a matter of time before the media swooped in and realized the two shooters at the park were the Gemini, but for now, the fewer who realized the FBI—and
former
FBI—were involved, the better.

“And it’s
my
job to see my patients get their rest,” she said, her pudgy cheeks reddening to match the color of her frizzy hair. She turned and continued to file folders in the cove behind her. “What happened? I thought they said they’d arrested the nut who did this.”

This chick clearly didn’t watch much TV. “The evidence points to multiple shooters.”

The nurse clicked her tongue. “People are crazy these days. Imagine! Shooting people at a
theme park!
”

“We’d love to make small talk, ma’am, but we need to get these interviews rolling. Which room should we start with?” Richards asked, voice seeping with annoyance.

“Listen, you—”

“Twyla,” Jenna cut in after a glance at her name tag, “we definitely don’t mean to disrupt the order of your wing.”

Hank took over. “Maybe you could check to see if any of the patients are awake?”

Nurse Twyla shot a glare at Detective Richards, then turned back to Hank. “Well, I suppose I could check. I’m not makin’ any promises, though.”

She waddled out the back of the nurses’ station and down the hall. As they watched her go, Richards grunted. “We could burst through that door and interview anyone we wanted, this case what it is.”

Jenna smiled. Working as a doctor in a psych ward for several years would teach anyone not to mess with an overworked, underpaid member of the nursing staff. “We could. But what we
could
do isn’t always the best route. Trust me. Keeping friendly with the gatekeepers is a good thing.”

Nurse Twyla ambled back toward them. “Only have one awake. He says he’ll speak with you, but I’ll be watching. You upset the balance in here, and you leave lickety-split. This way.”

She buzzed them in, and they followed her down the hall. “Yancy Vogul—”

“Twenty-four-year-old male, superficial gunshot wound to the left arm, hospitalized for observation only,” Hank said.

“Why’s he in the ICU, then?” Richards asked.

“People like you,” Twyla replied. She stopped at the next door they came to. “Keep it brief.”

Jenna took the lead and passed through the already open door. Yancy Vogul lay on top of the covers, fully clothed.

“You guys
did
bring pizza, right? I only agreed to this because she said you brought pizza,” Yancy said quickly, maybe a little nervous.

Jenna took in his full appearance as best as she could but kept her focus on his eyes. “Mr. Vogul, we appreciate you speaking to us so late. I’m Dr. Jenna Ramey. This is S.A. Hank Ellis and Detective Richards of the OPD.”

“Call me Yancy,” he said.

He didn’t meet
her
eyes, though. Jenna followed his to Detective Richards, whose gaze was at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry too much about that,” Yancy said, tapping the side of his curved metal prosthetic foot with his hand. “Repels bullets.”

Wisecracker. Fast talker. From the darting pupils, his tucked-in body language, both were covers for nerves, shyness. Maybe a touch of Asberger’s? Maybe just cool.

“How are you feeling?” Hank asked, no doubt to draw attention away from the awkward focus on the young man’s disability.

Yancy dry-laughed. “Better than a bunch of people, I guess.”

PTSD was definitely on the table, especially if Yancy’s foot was MIA from an encounter with guns or explosives. Violence.

“Yancy, this is a difficult question, but we’d appreciate it if you can tell us anything you might remember about what happened at the theme park, no matter how insignificant it seems. Anything strange you noticed, anything you saw right before—or during—the shots.”

Yancy’s head stayed down toward his chest, but his eyes rose to study Jenna, a frown on his face. “I noticed lots of stuff, but none of it’ll be important for what you need, I’m sure. I was walking near the ferry on my way to one of the shows at the castle. That’s why I was there—a friend of mine plays Cinderella. She kept bugging me to come watch her. I finally did. Picked the wrong day, I guess.”

“What happened next, Yancy?” Hank prompted.

“I heard someone yell. Heard pops. Screaming. People running everywhere. About ten feet away, maybe, blood spattered on the concrete. Next thing I knew, my arm was on fire, my balance went wonky. I hit the ground. By then, I knew what was happening. From where my face planted, I could see a few bodies. They weren’t moving. I didn’t try to move. Played dead.”

Most people would panic, but this kid had instincts. Or training. A soft yellow color started to form in Jenna’s mind. “You said you heard someone yell
before
the shots?”

Yancy nodded. “Yeah. Don’t know what he said, though. I couldn’t make out the words.”

“Definitely he?” Hank asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“And definitely
words
?” Jenna reiterated. That tidbit could be important.

“Yes.”

“Okay. So you played dead. What happened next?” Hank asked.

Yancy shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the memory. “People kept shrieking, running. Nobody helped me, really. Some people ran over me. A guy stepped on my back at one point. I didn’t react, but I doubt it would’ve mattered if I had. Eventually, the pops stopped. Screams died down. I saw medics around the other bodies and lifted my head. Someone came over to me.”

“Do you have any idea how long it was before the pops stopped?” Hank asked.

Other people at the park told Saleda it was anywhere from three to twenty minutes. Still, Yancy’s take would be interesting.

“Sorry, but I left my stopwatch at home.”

“How many pops did you hear?” Jenna asked. Long shot, but if Yancy’s face was planted and he had any military or police training, he might’ve counted, if only to block out other things. “Or was there
anything
you might have counted?”

“After I was on the ground, maybe three more pops? They weren’t fast. There was time in between them. Seemed to last forever, but it was probably only a couple of minutes.”

The ferry shooter, according to the slugs recovered, had only fired nine times. Yancy’s account was pretty close—much closer than the fifty shots many witnesses claimed.

“Let’s back up,” Hank said. “What about before, during your morning in the park? Did you notice anyone around you acting odd, doing anything suspicious?”

Yancy’s head fell back against the pillows. “Dude. I’ve watched the news. I know you guys think you’re doing yourselves some big favor by keeping the guy you arrested a big secret, but it’d be a lot easier to tell you something if we knew what we were trying to remember.”

That was the problem. “You’re right, Yancy. We haven’t released a picture yet, but it’s because we want to—”

“Maintain the integrity of the eyewitness testimonies. Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m just saying it’s something you might want to consider. I can tell you all day about what the shrieks sounded like, or how it felt to have no idea if I’d be gunned down if I tried to see if the girl ten feet away from me was still breathing. But I can’t tell you anything that might be hiding in my brain unless you jog it a little.”

•   •   •

J
enna pulled the door of Yancy Vogul’s room closed and started down the hall. “Let’s get some more information on Yancy Vogul. He’s got some kind of serious background.”

“Already have Irv on it,” Hank said.

“Yancy might be right, you know.”

Richards caught her stride. “You think we should release Keaton’s photo? What about people thinking they saw him even if they didn’t? I keep thinking it would give us a chance to find people who know who he
really
is if we just pasted his picture a few choice places, but you guys said it wasn’t a good idea.”

“
Yet.
I said we didn’t need to do it
yet.
We can use it as a tool later, but we want to play our cards close to the chest. Keaton wants the attention. He’ll have thought about us releasing it. Right now the damage it could cause might be worse. If I’m right about the ferry shooter, he’s nervous. He’s not a cucumber like Keaton. He spooks. He might get more violent,” Jenna answered. Then, to Hank, “But think about it. We could show it selectively. Maybe someone saw Keaton with the other shooter in the lead-up.”

“Eyewitnesses under pressure are close to useless, Jenna. You know that. Besides, Yancy Vogul’s already tainted. He admitted he’s watched the news.”

“He had plenty of exposure time once he was on the ground. He didn’t have a gun
in
his face to distract him—”

“Yes, I’m sure the people trampling him were only a minor diversion. Oh, and the bullet wound.”

“Eyewitnesses with a police background and trained observers are more accurate than average,” Jenna insisted.

“We don’t know he
has
a background,” Hank reminded. “What do you make of the yelling?”

Jenna considered for a moment. In a less premeditated attack, she’d have thought the yells were a rage response to some outside stimuli. In this case, it seemed more like a battle cry. “Yelling words is interesting. Not something he’d do spur of the moment, not something he’d do without picking out something exact. Combine that with the hesitation between the shots—”

“You’re sure it was hesitation?” Hank cut in.

“You’re not?” she replied.

Hank shrugged. “Guess it couldn’t have been very targeted, given the place. So the hesitation between shots makes you think he needed to prepare for the shooting? Jack himself up?”

Jenna nodded. “Maybe. It’s also an attention-seeking behavior right before killing people. A risk. He was convinced it was the right thing to do. He felt validated.”

“Probably because Keaton knew the ferry shooter couldn’t work up to it on his own.”

“Exactly.”

Hank’s phone dinged with a text, and he whipped it out of his pocket. “What do you know? You’re right. Yancy Vogul used to be an intern at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”

As soon as he said it, his phone started vibrating in his hand. He held up a finger. “Yeah?”

“You don’t know the kid, then?” Jenna asked Richards. He was a detective. For all she knew, he could’ve worked with the state’s version of the FBI.

He shook his head. “Nope. Only been with the PD, and haven’t run into him, for sure. I’d remember the foot, I think.”

Maybe. But he might’ve had two feet back then.

Behind them, Hank talked feverishly with someone on the cell. “That’s after the intersection of Corkery and Wilcox? Christ. All right. We’re on our way.”

Hank pocketed his phone and moved for the door. “Gotta wake up Saleda. They found Thadius Grogan’s truck in a pawn shop parking lot. Grogan’s gone, but he left a body behind.”