Protecting the Pregnant Witness. Julie Miller
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thought she was coming in this morning to sign her statement about the events she’d seen Friday after visiting with Patrick. She had no idea these two detectives wanted to grill her up one side and down the other because they believed she’d come face-to-face with someone they’d dubbed The Rich Girl Killer.
She wanted to remind them that she’d come here of her own volition, trying to be the good citizen her father had taught her to be, despite the suspicions they’d initially thrown her way after Kyle Austin’s death. She also wanted to remind them that she was already late for her shift at the Truman Medical Center where she was finishing up her nurse’s training. And although her supervisor was married to a forensic scientist who worked for the police department, and said she understood such things, Josie didn’t want any marks—like a lack of punctuality—to show up on her record.
Finally, the silent detective at the far end of the table spoke up. “Maybe he’s never been arrested and he’s not in the KCPD or State Patrol database. Do you want to try the FBI database?”
Josie’s gaze shot to the clock on the wall. “How many pictures is that?”
Detective Fensom offered her a wry smile. “Too many to look at today, ma’am. But it might be worth forwarding your description to the Kansas City Bureau office to see if they pull any pix for you to look at on a later date.”
Josie grabbed her backpack from the chair beside her. “So I can go?”
“One last thing.” Detective Montgomery flipped through the papers in his folder and pulled out a copy of an enlarged image of a high-school yearbook page. He slapped it on the table in front of her and pointed to the picture of a boy with wiry hair, an acne-scarred chin and thick glasses. “Is that him?”
Leaning in, Josie studied the picture more closely and compared it to the man with the toupee she’d seen Friday. “Well, the man I saw looked fifteen years older—maybe because his hairline was receding, almost like arrow points. The cheekbones were different, the jawline more pronounced.” She squinted, focusing in on the glasses he wore. The lenses distorted their size, but, “The eyes are the same.” Josie leaned back, hugging her bag over her belly. There was something cold, something disconnected and eerily familiar in those pale eyes. She looked up at the detectives. “Is this him?”
“At least we’re right about our Donny Kemp theory,” Montgomery said to Fensom. Then he looked down to answer her. “This is what our suspect looked like when he was in high school. We believe he’s had plastic surgery and has changed his identity more than once in the ten years since. If we can link Donny Kemp to whoever he is now—”
“The man I saw.”
“—then we won’t be chasing a shadow anymore. We could finally bring this guy in.”
She glanced over at the computer composite a police artist had pieced together from her description of Kyle Austin’s killer. The same cold eyes, masked behind a different pair of glasses, looked back at her and she shivered. “Am I in any danger?”
“All you’ve done is look at a ten-year-old photo. If we bring this guy in, and you identify him, we’ll put you in a safe house until his case goes to trial. Otherwise…” he pulled out the statement she’d signed earlier, folded it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, “you’re listed as a Jane Doe informant in my report.”
“And I’ve talked to the prison about expunging your name from their files,” Fensom added. “You won’t even be in the M.E.’s report on Kyle Austin’s death. Until we find him and arrest him, he has no reason to see you as a threat.”
She pointed to the computer-generated picture. “Are you sure?”
Spencer Montgomery crossed to the door and opened it, indicating she was finally free to go. “I’d recommend practicing common sense when it comes to your personal safety, but I think extreme measures would only raise a red flag at this point. You be sure to contact us if you think of anything else, or if you do feel threatened in any way. You have my card, Miss Doe.”
Miss Doe. Not Josie or Miss Nichols. She hunched her shoulders and lowered her head as she faced the bustle in and around the maze of cubicles on the detectives’ division floor. As long as none of them knew why she was here, as long as Donny Kemp—or whoever he’d become—never learned her name, she’d be perfectly safe.
Josie took a deep breath and headed toward the elevators. She could do this. It was right to do this. Friday, she’d tried to save a man’s life and had failed. Today, she’d confirmed the police’s suspicions about the identity of a serial killer. Tomorrow…
Junior rolled onto her bladder and suddenly, Josie had to focus on finding the nearest bathroom.
This baby was her tomorrow. The precious life growing inside her meant she wasn’t alone in the world anymore. Rafe Delgado might regret the night they’d created this miracle, but she didn’t.
Her only regret was that the baby would probably drive the final wedge between her and Rafe, ending whatever relationship they had left.
Just as she was about to push the elevator call button, the light for the fourth floor lit up and the doors slid open. Her heart shriveled when she spotted the five officers inside, outfitted in special black uniforms, weapons and gear that made them look as though they were marching into battle. It was useless to try to turn away, useless to duck her head and pretend she didn’t know these regulars from the Shamrock.
Captain Cutler strode off first, tipping the bill of his hat. “Miss Nichols.”
Trip Jones filled the opening, grinned, then stooped down to give her a hug. “Hey, Josie. Good to see you.”
Alex Taylor winked. “Hey, Josie.”
Miranda Murdock, the newest member of SWAT Team One, even offered a polite nod. “Hello.”
Josie summoned the patience and strength to trade hi’s and hugs and how are you’s as the first four officers moved on past her.
But then Rafe was standing between the elevator doors, his grim, dark eyes sweeping over her.
“What are you all doing here?” she asked.
And then his hand was on her elbow, pulling her to one side, away from the criss-cross of traffic entering and exiting the floor. His fingers had burned through the cotton of her loose-fitting scrubs jacket by the time he’d turned her into the doorway of a closed office and released her. “Monday morning roll call,” Rafe explained. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
With her back pressed to the door it was hard to see anything beyond the dimensions of his chest, hard to stand her ground and tilt her chin and remind him that he didn’t have any proprietary claim over her actions anymore. “I came in to sign my witness statement for Detectives Montgomery and Fensom.”
He glanced away and shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving the short, tobacco-brown spikes in a mess that she would have smoothed back into place for him six months ago. Yet when he faced her again, the only message stamped on his face was a warning. “Don’t get involved with this case. We’re talking a serial killer here.”
She curled her fingers into her palms, fighting the urge to touch him, to soothe his concern. “Would you back down from doing your duty? Or did you learn different lessons from my father?”
“I’m trained to do what I do.”
“And you don’t think I’ve learned a few survival skills over the years, with the people I know and the things I’ve been through?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Jose. I care about you.”
“Yeah, just not enough to do something about it.”
With that, Rafe drew back, taking his heat and charged energy with him. “I’ll admit you gave me a good shock Friday night. But you know I’ll take care of the baby—medical bills, day care—whatever you need.”
Feeling