The paramedics quickly push-pulled a gurney down the hall. Without being asked, the gawkers parted to allow them through. Though I regretted releasing of Peter’s hand, I was finally in my right head enough to let them do their work. I let go, stood and took a few shaky steps backward.
Two officers checked the stairwell. Another checked the hallways then backtracked to where I was standing.
“Detective Glass?”
I nodded.
“You don’t remember me, do you? James Hutcherson…”
My mind couldn’t focus on his face. I stared at Officer Hutcherson blankly. He was a blur of black hair and brown eyes. “Sorry.”
“We went to the Academy together.”
“Ah, yeah.” He seemed to be waiting for more. “Hey.”
He smiled with warmth. “So, want to tell me what happened?”
My voice was monotone, explaining what I saw without embellishment. Strictly the facts, Jack—or James in this case. I didn’t mention Mick’s and Dick’s names until the very end.
“Sir?”
“Officers Kelly Fitzpatrick and Jason Dillon.”
“Yes, sir, about that, you said Mr. Dyachenko was blocking their path?”
I met his eyes. “I said Peter was unarmed and standing in the doorway.”
“You are sure he was unarmed?”
“His hands were braced against the doorframe. I saw his entire body. A second later they converged on him. I didn’t see which one shot him. They ran past him. He started bleeding. The second shooter, who I identified as Leila Alvarado, came down the same hallway and shot him in the head. The whole thing took maybe a few seconds.” I lifted my shirt, showed the gun and waited. He got the clue, retrieving it from my jeans.
“She got off two more shots before I tackled her.” I nodded to Leila. One of the paramedics was examining her. Another had cleaned Peter’s head wound and was bandaging it up. Hovering against the wall, I tried to assess the wounds as they cleaned them. The EMTs were working quickly, but I saw enough of Peter’s injuries to clench my fists.
The second bullet had ripped through his scalp from the side of his head to his temple. I thought I saw bone peeping through before the white linen hid the gash. It looked worse than it was. They’d probably shave his head and stitch it up.
If he lived.
If? If he lived?
A pair of scissors sliced through Peter’s shirt. The wound to the right of his belly button was only a small round hole. It looked innocuous, but I knew there was carnage below the surface.
Watching the latex-covered hands work all over his body brought my own hands up. They were gloved in blood. My heart tripped in its beat. I wanted to take back that gun and shoot Leila in the face until she was unrecognizable.
“Could Mr. Dyachenko have been shot before he blocked the doorway?” Hutcherson asked.
I glared at him. For the briefest of seconds, I considered punching him in the gut and asking him to run down the hallway. I chose the diplomatic route instead. “Are you an idiot?”
“I have to ask—”
“Have you ever been shot?” He shook his head. “Give me your baton and let me jam it into your stomach.”
“Point taken, sir.”
People had better quit calling me sir.
My pocket began to ring again, pulling me out of disturbing images. This time a classical ringtone played. Rachmaninoff maybe. It just had to be Cai.
Peter’s hand twitched and pointed at my pocket. I shook my head. “No you can’t fucking talk to Cai.” I should answer it, though. But not while cops were here. I wasn’t trusting anyone on the force right now.
“Code,” Peter rasped though his oxygen mask. I waited until the ring had stopped; then I crouched and handed him the phone. He punched in the code and folded my fingers around the plastic. “Please.”
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t leave. I’m a witness.”
“It’s okay, Detective Glass, I think we have everything for now,” Hutcherson said.
Bigmouthed asshole.
Down the hall Dave’s ringtone brought my phone to life. My attention was splitting in too many directions. I didn’t feel like a cop right then. I had zero interest in pursuing leads or hearing evidence from suspects or chasing teenagers. Peter was my only concern. “All right. I can go. But I don’t want to.” I looked at our hands, caked and coated in red, but entwined. The pristine moment when they were clasped like that earlier in the day seemed weeks ago.
“Clean.” Peter said.
“Can I get a water bottle or something to clean his hands?” I scanned the crowd. He drew my attention back to him with a pull of my hand.
“No,” Peter said. “I’m…clean.”