Nothing Left: A Jack Cameron Thriller Read online

  Finally, we turned a corner, rounded the curb, and Vaughn pumped the brakes, but didn’t slam them as in the movies with howling tires and furious smoke. We slid to a stop in front of a very small hospital with a grassy lawn out front.

  The building had greenish-brown hedges in the front and tiny, black sprinklers that sprayed water at them in an ongoing battle to keep them alive and happy. The sprinklers circled and sprayed and then cycled back to their starting positions to start the process all over again. A dark tan building had the words “Hope” and “General Hospital” painted in red-and-white letters stacked low on the bottom of the third floor at the top of the building. Bright exterior lights shone down on the lawn and parking lot like spotlights on an empty stage.

  Vaughn put the car in park, switched off the ignition, and pulled out the keys. She didn’t look at me. She just popped open her door and used one hand on the steering wheel to heave herself out of the seat.

  I asked, “This is the hospital?”

  She leaned back down and peered into the cab at me.

  She said, “It’s a part of a larger chain of medical centers really. They bought the old hospital and left the sign up. It’s more like a well-staffed and stocked clinic than a hospital. They’re all over the county.”

  I nodded.

  She said, “They don’t do heart transplants or anything.”

  She said it like she was still trying to tell me that she wasn’t just a small-town cop. I guess that she had a chip on her shoulder about it, but I shrugged again and moved the conversation on.

  I said, “Better than no hospital like the town that I grew up in.”

  Vaughn shut her door and I shut mine. I followed her up a thin cement walkway over the grass and to the side of the building. She led the way through an emergency room entrance and glanced at a security guard behind a desk. I ducked under the rim of a pair of automatic doors and followed her. The doors sucked shut behind us.

  I glanced over at the security guard. His nameplate read Gene.

  Gene jumped to his feet when he saw her as if he was in the military and she was a superior officer. I expected him to salute like an Army private seeing the base commander for the first time ever.

  He didn’t say “hello” or “hi” or any other greeting.

  He simply said, “Chief,” and reached down to the top corner of his desk, pressed a button, and buzzed us through the security doors.

  Gene looked at me with a hint of jealousy in his eyes. Maybe Vaughn was more to him than just an imaginary commanding officer.

  I made no gesture signifying to him that I thought one way or the other about his jealousy. I followed Vaughn into a short corridor with bright white square tiles on the floor and bright colors on the walls with one long green stripe painted along the wall that must’ve been there for us to follow. We walked along and the hall immediately rounded to the right and launched us into a much longer corridor. We followed the green strip and rushed down a string of halls and turned corners, first left and then right and left again and right again.

  We stopped at a pair of double brown doors with three-foot-square windows in the center of each. I could see through the glass three or four nurses shuffling around, frantic, and one ER doctor.

  Vaughn pushed through the doors and I followed. No one stopped to look or even acknowledge us.

  One of the nurses was in blue scrubs while the others wore green. I wasn’t sure if there was some kind of symbolic difference between the different colors or if it just meant that the nurse in blue scrubs had laundry to do and the only pair that she had left was the blue ones.

  They all seemed to be working on one patient in particular because the doctor was standing over him and the nurses were scrambling to help.

  Vaughn and I stopped in the center of the room and listened.

  The nurse in blue said, “Bullet wound to the head.”

  A nurse in green said, “Call Dr. Garcia! Get him here stat!”

  The ER doctor said, “Nurse, don’t call him! Run upstairs and get him!”

  Dr. Garcia must’ve been the only other doctor in the building who could help in this particular situation. He was probably making his rounds upstairs and having a quiet night that was about to be interrupted by the guy who had a bullet wound to the head.

  Vaughn turned and pushed me back and out of the way of the nurse in green who was headed out the double doors to search for Dr. Garcia.

  Vaughn and I stepped back against one wall and tried to stay out of the way of the commotion.

  Over at the other end of the big room, I saw her deputy, the guy called Howard. His eyes were on the ER doctor and the nurses as they worked tirelessly to stabilize their patient, who I was starting to bet was our attempted suicide. There was blood on Howard’s uniform shirt. A lot of it. It was splattered across his chest and stomach and his right forearm, including a standard black watch with a black rubber band.

  Vaughn nodded in his direction and grabbed my arm. She pulled me behind her for a brief moment and let go. She led me over to him.

  Without thinking, I looked the deputy up and down, fast.

  I asked, “From the guy?”

  I said it as if we were old friends and I was a member of the team. I did this naturally, but it was the right thing to do. I don’t like long, drawn-out introductions and explanations about who I am and what my interest was and what my qualifications were. I preferred to just skip to the part where I asked a question and I got the answer that I needed. So I acted like a key member of the team. A tactic used by federal agents every day, all over the country.

  An FBI agent from a local field office is assigned to a new case to investigate a homicide in a small town with small-town cops with small-town minds, who don’t like the federal government and they don’t like federal government agents coming in and pissing all over their jurisdiction, showing them who’s really in charge. Generally, the FBI agent would have a problem and would have to waste considerable time meeting deputies and shaking hands and going through the rudimentary hazing that come from the local boys. So what do they do instead? They introduce themselves as members of the team right away.

  The FBI agent says, “Hey, man. I’m one of you. I’m just a guy with a job to do. I didn’t come here to interfere with your case. If anything, I’ve got better resources than you. So let’s work together and burn up some of Uncle Sam’s money to catch this killer. What do you say?”

  This tactic worked for the FBI, so why not for me? But I didn’t have to employ it, apparently because Officer Howard didn’t need convincing that I was a part of the team. One look from Vaughn and he knew better than to ask questions. It seemed that if I was with her then I was spoken for and verified and vetted to the full extent of her power and that was good enough for him.

  Officer Howard looked up at me, confusion in his face that quickly turned to acceptance and he asked, “What?”

  Vaughn said, “This is Cameron. He’s consulting with me on something else.”

  The deputy looked me up and down, but said nothing, no comment, no opinion on his face at all.

  Vaughn didn’t explain my presence any further than that.

  I said, “The blood on your clothes. Is it from this guy?”

  Howard nodded and looked back at Vaughn.

  She asked, “Who is he?”

  Howard said, “His license says his name is Ryan Saunt.”

  Vaughn asked, “How bad is it?”

  Howard said, “Bad. I don’t really know. He bled. A lot. But I don’t think that his brain was hit. Looked like the guy didn’t even stick the muzzle in the right spot.”

  I asked, “What’s the right spot?”

  Howard sneered at me for a long second and held his breath and then exhaled with a kind of question implied in the gesture, like “who are you again?” But the question faded and he half shrugged, rolling his shoulders up and dropping them in the same second.

  He said, “What I mean is that he didn’t fire it
into his temple or his mouth like a man who really wanted to die.”

  Vaughn said, “So why’d he do it?”

  Howard said, “Attention, I guess.”

  I said, “A man who wanted attention? Or a man who didn’t know how to kill himself with a gun?”

  Vaughn looked at me and Howard ignored me, just kept his focus on Vaughn.

  He said, “Looked like he fired it into the top of his head. Possibly at the eleven o’clock position.”

  Vaughn asked, “Eleven o’clock position?”

  Howard said, “Yeah. Like on a clock.”

  Vaughn nodded and stayed quiet, which made Howard regret saying that. Obviously, Vaughn knew what he meant, but I supposed he was shaken up for some reason. He seemed a little on edge. Maybe, it was from the guy bleeding from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head and bleeding all over Officer Howard’s uniform shirt that did it.

  I bet that they didn’t see a lot of violent crime in a community this small and maybe Howard had never even see a guy shot before. And that was why he seemed on edge. It was possible.

  I said, “We should talk to the doctor.”

  Vaughn nodded back.

  She looked back at Howard and asked, “Where’s the gun?”

  Howard said, “Back at the motel.”

  Vaughn asked, “You left it?”

  Howard said, “Yeah. What was I supposed to do? The guy was bleeding everywhere. I couldn’t just leave him there while I bagged and tagged the weapon.”

  Vaughn said, “What about little kids wandering in and taking it?”

  Howard said, “I locked the door behind me. I called Clark from the car. He should be sitting in the parking lot by now.”

  Vaughn said, “Great.”

  I asked, “Who’s Clark?”

  Vaughn said, “He’s the night clerk at that motel.”

  I paused a beat and then I asked, “The guy’s name is Clark? Clark the clerk?”

  Vaughn said, “Yeah. I know.”

  I shook my head and then asked, “What about the doctor?”

  Vaughn said, “I’ll check. You stay here.”

  Howard said, “Okay.”

  Vaughn said, “Not you. You stand outside Saunt’s door. Try not to let him escape.”

  The last thing that she had said was “try not to let him escape,” which seemed more like a quip or a jab at Howard and not an actual request. The guy shot himself in the head, so where was he going to go, even if he did wake up and had full cognitive functions? I mean, where?

  I figured that the statement must’ve been a direct jab at Howard, one that seemed pretty straightforward on the surface. Officer Howard must’ve been charged with watching a prisoner once and let him escape and never lived it down. This is a common workplace tactic when an employee makes a major mistake and the employer allows the employee remain in force. Instead of letting bygones be bygones, the employer will occasionally make a sarcastic remark about the employee’s past mistake, leading to a minor case of embarrassment on the part of the employee. The employee is in turn reminded of his or her shortcomings and is energized to make sure that the past mistake is not repeated.

  Vaughn and I walked past Howard and toward the chaos around Saunt’s hospital room. Two nurses, one of the ones in green and the one in blue, stood near the ER doctor as two male orderlies walked back and forth gathering different supplies.

  I stayed close to Vaughn, smelled her perfume, which was just as subtle as earlier, but got to me. She smelled good.

  She stopped at the door. We didn’t go in. She grabbed one of the orderlies by the arm.

  She said, “I need to speak to the doctor as soon as possible.”

  The orderly was a short and stocky black guy, not much older than me, who looked like he knew how to handle himself. He must’ve been a boxer in his free time because he had a condition known as boxer ears. His ears were puffed up into themselves like small, bloated mushrooms glued to the sides of his hair. He didn’t seem embarrassed about it at all. He kept his hair shaved close to his head.

  The orderly said, “That could be a while, ma’am.”

  Vaughn asked, “How bad is it?”

  The orderly turned and glanced back into the room at the guy and at the doctor and then he looked back at us.

  He said, “The guy shot himself in the head. I think it’s bad. Excuse me.”

  The orderly pulled away from us and went back into the room to help the doctor and the nurses.

  Vaughn said, “Let’s go grab the gun from his motel room. If we get there, check the place out fast, then we can get back to our problem in the desert.”

  I nodded and waited for her.

  Vaughn took one last look at the doctor and the nurses and the orderlies and then she led the way. We walked through the open emergency room and stopped at Deputy Howard before we left.

  She said, “As soon as the doctor is free, call me and give him your phone.”

  Howard said, “Okay.”

  He turned and walked away without looking back.

  Vaughn looked at me.

  She said, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 9

  THE GUY WHO SHOT HIMSELF was named Ryan Miles Saunt. There had been no details about him from Vaughn because she had never heard of him before. According to her, Mr. Saunt was new in town. From his photo ID on his license, she recognized seeing him for the first and only time in the diner and only a few days ago. She said that she hadn’t paid him much attention. He was just a guy eating in a diner, something that she had seen many times every day, nothing special about him, and no reason to think twice about him. People came and people went. Hope wasn’t a “sit around and see the sights” kind of town. It was a slow-growing, slow-moving, quiet place.

  Vaughn and I pulled up to the motel in her police cruiser with the sirens and the lights switched off. She parked the car near the front office. She wanted to stop in at the front desk before going to Saunt’s motel room.

  The motel clerk named Clark saw us through the window. He stepped out of the front office and onto the gravel parking lot and waved at us.

  Vaughn stopped the car directly in front of him. He walked over and leaned down and looked in through my window. He didn’t pay me much attention, just a quick glance at my eyes and then straight at Vaughn.

  He said, “Hi, Ms. Vaughn.”

  Vaughn nodded and said, “Clark.”

  Clark asked, “You’re here about that guy, right?”

  Vaughn said, “Of course. What room?”

  Clark stepped back away from my window and made a big show about crossing around the hood of the police car and around to Vaughn’s side. He leaned down and peered in. He looked across her at me and hesitated for a moment, looking like he was scared. The look on his face showed that he thought that Vaughn had made a grave mistake, that she should’ve put me in the backseat and not the front.

  Vaughn said, “He’s with me. A consultant. Which room?”

  Clark shuffled in his pockets with a little nervousness in his demeanor; suddenly the big show had lost its big act.

  He pulled out a key and said, “Room twenty-one. Down the left side.”

  He didn’t point the way, just said it and Vaughn didn’t wait for anything else from him. She grabbed the key and tapped the gas with her foot on the brake. The car revved up and Clark got the hint and backed away. Vaughn accelerated and we were off down the gravel lot. She drove the length of the parking lot with people scattered everywhere. Apparently, the sound of a gunshot, the sirens from Howard’s car, and the ambulance had flustered them out of their rooms.

  After seeing Vaughn’s car, many of them moved closer to the edges of the parked cars, staying just behind the rear bumpers. There were some children, some old ladies and some old men. I didn’t see any people in their twenties or thirties or forties. It was still early evening hours and none of the motel guests looked as if they were woken by the commotion. A couple of the children had no shoes on, but other than that I
saw no one who looked dressed for bed.

  I said, “A lot of people in this motel tonight. Does your little town usually have such a big occupancy?”

  Vaughn said, “It’s usually pretty full. We’re the only thing from here to the next town, which is over forty miles away. So people generally veer off the freeway, drive a little, get gas, and stay the night.”

  I said, “Is this the only motel?”

  She said, “No there are two others.”

  I asked, “How did you know what motel Howard was talking about?”

  She said, “How do you mean?”

  “Back at the hospital. He told us that Saunt had been at the motel. How’d you know which one?”

  “This one was the first one. It’s the oldest. People here just call it the motel.”

  I nodded.

  She said, “Here we are.”

  She stopped the car, threw the gear into park, and stepped out of the car in a fast motion like she had earlier. She left the light bar on, but not sirens, just the blue lights spinning and flooding across the faces of people standing around in the parking lot.

  Vaughn left the engine running as well, but closed her door behind her and gestured for me to follow. I got out of the car and slammed my door. I felt a crick in my neck that hadn’t been there before. I cracked my neck to one side and then to the other, left and then right.

  Vaughn stared at me with curious eyes.

  I asked, “What?”

  She said, “Nothing.”

  Then she said, “Jack never did that. At least I never saw him do it.”

  I said, “I’m like my father, but I ain’t him. We’re alike and we ain’t.”

  Vaughn smiled and said, “That sounds like something he’d say.”