“Detective Rick should be here soon. Could you let him know I had to leave on police business and ask him to call me? He has my number.”
“No problem.” The spark faded.
He got in his car, entered the address Kline had given him into his GPS, and headed for the interstate at twice the speed limit.
Oak Street turned out to be located at the topographically lower side of the Bluestone section that Kline had described as the “high end” of White River. The street ran along the base of a gentle slope that rose from the grim Grinton section up to a plateau that marked the north edge of the city. As far as Gurney could see, the rest of Bluestone looked like Oak Street—a quiet neighborhood of older, well-maintained homes, neatly mowed lawns, and treelined pavements. The afternoon sun was bathing the area in a warm glow.
When Gurney arrived at number twelve, he counted five WRPD cruisers parked at haphazard angles in front of the house, two with their front doors open, all with their light arrays flashing. A Mercy Hospital ambulance was parked in the driveway. Two uniformed officers were unfurling a roll of yellow crime-scene tape.
Gurney parked next to one of the cruisers and walked up the driveway, holding his DA’s office credentials out in front of him.
Several officers and EMTs were gathered on the front lawn around a collapsible rolling stretcher that had been lowered to the ground. A few yards away a woman in a sweatshirt and jeans was sitting on the grass, holding a kitchen spatula, making a sound like a wailing baby. A few feet away on the grass there was a yellow potholder. A female EMT was kneeling next to her, one arm around her. A sergeant was standing over them, his phone to his ear.
The EMTs around the stretcher began to raise it. When it clicked into its upright position the woman on the lawn scrambled to her feet, dropping the spatula. As the EMTs were rolling the stretcher toward the open back doors of the ambulance, Gurney got a passing view of the man lying on it. His face, neck, and one shoulder were covered with blood; a bloody compress was covering the side of his head; the arm nearest Gurney was twitching.
His educated guess, based on the quantity of blood and the position of the compress, was that the temporal artery had been severed. But there was no way of guessing how much damage had been done to the side of the skull and underlying areas of the brain or what the man’s chances were of reaching the hospital alive. Many victims of head wounds didn’t make it that far.
The woman—auburn-haired, round-faced, and noticeably pregnant—was trying to get to the stretcher. She was being held back by the frowning sergeant and the female EMT.
As the stretcher was being lifted into the ambulance the woman’s efforts became wilder. She was screaming repeatedly, “I have to be with my husband!”
The EMT looked distressed and uncertain. The sergeant was grimacing and trying to hold on to her, as she flailed her arms and screamed, “MY HUSBAND!”
Her desperation seized Gurney’s heart.
He went over and faced the sergeant. “What the hell’s going on here?”
The sergeant was struggling to keep his balance. “Who the fuck are you?”
Gurney held up his credentials. “Why are you holding her here?”
“Deputy chief’s orders.” His voice was rising.
“She needs to be with her husband!”
“The deputy chief said—”
“I don’t give a damn about the deputy chief!”
The ambulance was easing out of the driveway onto Oak Street.
The woman was shrieking, “Let me go . . .”
“That’s it,” said Gurney. “We’re going to the hospital now! I’m taking responsibility. I’m Dave Gurney, DA’s office.”
Without agreeing to anything, the sergeant loosened his grip enough to let Gurney free the woman and lead her to the Outback. The WRPD officers on the scene appeared agitated by the dispute but unsure what to do.
Gurney helped the woman into the passenger seat. He was heading around to the driver’s side when a dark-blue Ford Explorer came to an abrupt stop in front of his car.
The rear door opened, and Judd Turlock stepped out. He looked into Gurney’s car.
“What’s she doing in there?” He sounded almost disinterested.
“I’m taking her to the hospital. Her husband may be dying.”
“You can do that right after I talk with her.”
“You’ve got it backward. Get your car out of my way.”
For a split second Turlock looked surprised. Then his expression settled back into a menacing lack of any expression at all. His voice was flat. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Look around you.” Gurney gestured up and down the block, where several residents had come out into the street, holding up their smartphones and other devices. “They’re recording everything that’s happening. Right now they’re recording your car blocking my car. Image is everything, right?” Gurney flashed a humorless smile.
Turlock’s reply was a dead stare.
