Page 86 of Sharp Force
“About what?” She stares defiantly at him.
“About whatever you were asking.”
He carries the Pelican case across the mats, setting it down next to my coat and briefcase.
“Mostly we wanted to know if any patients were unaccounted for last night,” she says. “Or if anybody on the staff has been having a problem with anyone. Not just patients but outside vendors.”
“Which gives everyone a heads-up that what happened here might be connected to the hospital,” he replies. “That’s called dropping the iron curtain.”
“It had already dropped,” she counters.
“Having the FBI with you didn’t make that any better,” Marino continues to lecture. “Who was it?”
“At first, I was with Lucy and Tron, but they left early on. ThenI hung out with Special Agent Tully. She’s always nice to deal with. You know, she isn’t disrespectful, treating me like a dumb shit.” The implication is obvious.
I step closer to the living room while they continue to spar.
“Well, you and Tully telegraphed way more to the hospital than they did to you.” Marino carries on.
“Have you found out something to make us think the killer is connected to this place? A patient, for example?” Fruge replies.
“Not necessarily. But that’s not the point.”
“And besides, everybody knows everything,” she goes on. “It’s all over the internet what happened on Mercy Island this morning. The names of the victims, this address, Zain Willard’s powerful uncle who’s running for president. The info’s gone viral as you’d expect.”
She informs us that Dana Diletti just interviewed Graden Crowley at the hospital’s entrance. He’s complaining that the medical examiner’s office is bullying him and the police.
“You’re mentioned by name.” Fruge derives some pleasure telling Marino this. “He’s saying you tried to arrest him.”
“I didn’ttry.” Marino can’t help but smile. “If I had, he’d be in cuffs on his way to lockup.”
As he and Fruge go at it, I’m peeling up two sticky mats. Dried blood shows on the back of them, the drops still visible on the chevron oak flooring. I measure the distance between bloodstains, finding what I expect.
Perfectly round drops approximately the size of a dime.
Six to nine inches apart.
They fell at a slow velocity, impacting at a 90-degree angle, consistent with someone dripping blood while walking.
“How much blood was outside when you got here?” I interruptMarino and Fruge bickering. “Were the drops as closely spaced as these?”
“They were a couple feet apart. Like every time he took another step, more blood hit the snow.” It’s Fruge who answers.
“There should have been a lot of blood,” I reply.
“There is on the hall runner where it appears he was attacked,” she says. “It’s hard to know how much he bled outside because of the conditions.”
“I don’t want anybody near the house.” Marino isn’t done bossing Fruge around. “You may as well put your coat back on. Best thing is for you to stand outside on the porch. We don’t need you or anybody else in here right now.”
“But I’ve already been inside.” She’s offended. “You and I walked through every inch of this place when we first got here.”
“It’s more helpful if you guard the door.” He’s gruff with her. “You shouldn’t have left your post, hanging out with the FBI, acting like a wannabe.”
“Who said I want to be FBI?”
“You’re always asking Lucy about Quantico,” he replies, and it’s true.
Now and then Fruge and Lucy socialize, having coffee in the guest cottage. They grab a beer and listen to DJs at the Bayou Club on King Street. Lucy mentioned that not long ago, Fruge asked for a tour of the FBI Academy. She was crushed to learn the cutoff age for new agents is thirty-six. She’s a year older than that.
