The Reluctant Witness. Kathleen Tailer
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went into the kitchen, got a large bowl of water and started heating it in the microwave. Then she grabbed a pair of scissors and a few other items she needed from the drawers. When the water was warm, she took it back into the living room beside the man, then took the scissors and cut away enough of his clothing to expose and treat the wounds. Chloe had brought her medical bag and also gotten a small fire going, then disappeared. Casey knew the child had probably gone back into the bedroom with a book and was silently glad that Chloe hadn’t wanted to watch her work. Cleaning and treating this man’s injuries wasn’t going to be pretty.
She opened her medical bag and was instantly thankful that she always kept it stocked in case of an emergency. She had never expected an emergency of this proportion, however, and she rummaged through the bag’s contents, hoping she would find sufficient supplies for closing his wounds. The bleeding had stopped on his leg and shoulder, so she focused on the wound on his side that was definitely the most life threatening. She checked for internal bleeding and said a silent prayer, hoping that the bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs. Seeing none of the telltale signs, she cleaned the damaged area and started carefully stitching the skin together, thankful that the man was unconscious and unable to feel the pain that would undoubtedly haunt him when he woke up again.
After she had finished treating that injury, Casey turned her focus to the gash in the man’s forehead. It was a deep slash and it took her quite a while to complete her work. She had not trained to be a plastic surgeon—or even a general surgeon—but she tried her best to keep her stitches small and even to minimize the scar. The man had dark brown hair in a very short, clean-cut style, but if he grew it out a tad on top, he could probably cover the scar with very little effort.
When she finished, she sat back and rested for a minute, taking stock of her handiwork. So far, so good. She looked carefully at the man’s face. He was actually kind of handsome, in a military sort of way. He had strong features, including deep-set eyes, high, chiseled cheekbones and a wide, authoritative jaw.
Again she wondered what had brought him out here to the mountains. She’d only been living here about five months and didn’t know any of her neighbors, but she still couldn’t imagine why an FBI agent would be in this neck of the woods. Who had those other men been? Criminals he’d been trying to arrest? She blew out a breath and reminded herself to stay focused on her task. Wondering wouldn’t bring her any answers right now.
She continued her work. At some point he would probably answer all of her questions if she could just get him healthy again.
The leg wound was next. The man moved a little as she worked but then seemed to lose consciousness once again. Casey said another silent prayer of thankfulness, glad that he was again out cold so he didn’t feel the pain. All she had with her was a local anesthetic, and it wouldn’t do much to help the throbbing he would have been feeling if he’d been conscious. She was especially not looking forward to digging the bullet out of his shoulder without the proper analgesic, but after completing her stitching on the leg wound, she took a fortifying breath and started her work.
About an hour later, with sweat covering her brow, she’d finished the last of her surgeries and had dressed all of his wounds. She pulled off the rubber gloves she had been wearing and tossed them into the bowl of bloody towels, then checked his pulse and breathing one more time. Everything looked good and his pulse was strong. What he needed now was rest and time to heal. She covered him with a blanket again and leaned back, exhausted.
She paused a moment, then reached for the wallet that she had removed from his pocket. He had a law enforcement shield on one side, and on the other a couple of credit cards and his driver’s license. There was some cash inside, but she didn’t bother counting it—it was none of her business. But she refused to feel guilty for flipping out the license and examining the picture and the other information. She had a right to know the name of the man she’d let into her home.
The driver’s license definitely showed the man lying before her. According to the small print, his name was Jack Mitchell and he hailed from Charlotte, North Carolina. She closed her eyes and said a prayer for Jack Mitchell. Whether he survived or not was in God’s hands now. She could do nothing else for him but pray.
THREE
Casey adjusted the volume on the TV set, then sat back. The newswoman was interviewing a large Latino man who was identified as FBI unit chief José Mendoza. He was grim and stone faced and his expression was haggard, as if he didn’t want to accept what was unfolding around him. Crime-scene tape fluttered behind them and red-and-blue police lights lit up the scene and cast shadows around the apartment building’s parking lot.
A blue sedan was parked in the background and a group of men and women wearing FBI jackets surrounded the open trunk. Casey could just make out a thick piece of plastic hanging over the edge that seemed smudged with blood. Her heartbeat increased. That car had to be the one she’d seen racing away from the mountain after Jack Mitchell had been shot. The man in the trunk had to be the other victim the men had loaded inside. She leaned forward, eager to find out more about what was going on.
“Chief Mendoza, I understand that the victim’s name is Milo Denton. Can you tell us anything about him?”
Mendoza shrugged. “I can tell you he was a private investigator from Raleigh. We’ve already notified his family.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes ma’am, the victim did sustain a bullet wound. We’ll know more after the local medical examiner has a chance to process the scene and complete her investigation.”
“Did anyone hear the gunshots?”
The chief shook his head. “No one has come forward so far. We’re asking anyone with information about this situation to call our FBI hotline.” The number ran along the bottom of the television screen.
“Do you know if he was killed in that car or at another location?” the newswoman pressed, motioning toward the blue sedan.
Casey noticed a look of discomfort cross the man’s face. “We’re not sure yet. It’s too early and I’d only be speculating at this point. You’ll have to give us a chance to do our job and perform a thorough investigation. Once we’re finished, we’ll issue a full report.”
“Of course. Can you tell us who that car belongs to?”
“No comment. Now, if you don’t mind...” He turned to head to the crime scene, but the newswoman followed him.
“Can you tell us how the body was discovered?”
“Anonymous tip.”
“And why is the FBI involved? Have you been called in to aid the local police with the investigation?”
Mendoza grimaced. “I’m afraid that’s all I can say right now. I need to get back to work.”
The newswoman raised an eyebrow but turned back to the camera. “Well, ladies and gentleman, to recap, the body of private investigator Milo Denton was just discovered in the trunk of a car at the Midtown Apartment complex. Apparently Mr. Denton was the victim of gun violence, and both the FBI and local police are investigating at the scene. Be sure to tune in at six for a complete update.”
Casey turned the TV off, disturbed by what she’d heard and more confused than ever. It seemed like the shooters had wanted the body to be discovered. Only they could have known to call in the “anonymous tip.” Who was this Milo Denton, and how did he fit into the puzzle? And why had he been shooting at Jack yesterday?
She turned and dabbed Jack’s lips with the washcloth. There was no use speculating. Answers would come eventually. She rewet the cloth and touched his lips again, wishing she had a proper IV setup so she could give the man the fluids he needed. He was still unconscious, but he didn’t have a fever so far and she knew that she should count her blessings. She reached for her medical bag and began changing his bandages, carefully examining each wound for signs of infection. He was exactly where she expected him to be with his recovery, but she couldn’t stop herself from worrying. What if he died? What