Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (16 page)

"Have people done that?" Susan asked incredulously.

"I haven't seen it," Jesse said, "but this is what they'd look like if they did."

"Do you have to dig so deep?" Mark winced again. "It feels like you're using garden shears."

"I got my technique from you, so you only have yourself to blame. Have you ever considered wearing Kevlar?" Jesse asked, shooting a mischievous smile at Susan. "Considering how often people try to kill you, you could use the protection. If you'd been wearing it today, you'd have half as many cuts."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mark said, hearing a plink as Jesse dropped another shard into a metal pan full of bits of broken glass.

"Any idea who the shooter was?" Jesse asked.

Mark shook his head. "Steve is busy trying to figure that out. The shooter was carrying false ID and was crushed to death in the accident."

"I wouldn't call what happened an accident," Susan said.

"Did you learn anything at the motel?" Jesse asked.

"Titus Carville rented two adjoining rooms," Mark said. "He supposedly did it for increased privacy, but I'm wondering if there was another reason."

"Like what?" Susan asked.

"I don't know," Mark said.

"Doesn't sound like you found out anything worth someone killing you," Jesse said.

"Maybe I did and don't realize it," Mark said. "I have this nagging feeling that the answers are right in front of me and I just can't see them."

"I hate it when that happens," Jesse said.

"When has that ever happened to you?" Susan asked.

"Every time Mark solves a murder and reveals to me how it was done," Jesse said. "Lacey's new movie
Thrill Kill
opens tonight; want to see it with me?"

"No thanks," Susan said. "I don't like seeing a grown man drool in public."

Jesse looked at Mark. "How about you?"

"I think I'll pass," Mark said. "I heard the manager of the Slumberland and the surfer were brought here. Did you treat either of them?"

"They're doing fine," Jesse said, "thanks to you."

"I've never seen condoms and a beach blanket put to such clever use before," Susan said.

"You haven't gone to the beach with me lately," Jesse replied.

Susan laughed. "Jesse!"

"What?" Jesse replied innocently.

Noah Dent was passing by in the corridor, when he spotted Mark through the exam room window, and doubled back.

"Here comes trouble," Jesse mumbled, motioning to the door just as Dent invited himself in.

"Dr. Sloan," Dent said. "I heard you had a nasty scrape."

"More like a couple dozen," Mark said. "But I'm receiving excellent care."

"You certainly are," Dent said. "Which is why I couldn't help noticing that you didn't register with the front desk."

"It's not like we don't know who he is," Jesse said.

"But do you know who his insurance carrier is? What his deductible covers?" Dent asked, looking from Jesse to Susan, then back to Mark. "I didn't think so. When you are done with your treatment, Dr. Sloan, I expect you to fill out the payment forms like every other patient is required to do before receiving medical care."

"This is basic first aid," Jesse said. "We aren't doing open-heart surgery here."

"We charge for all the services rendered at this hospital, including services performed on our own staff," Dent said. "Your time, and these supplies, are costing us money, regardless of who you're treating."

"He just saved two people on the street," Jesse said. "You don't see him presenting them with bills."

"He's right, Jesse," Mark interjected quickly, eager to stop the dispute before it escalated. He turned to Dent. "I apologize, this is entirely my fault. I should have filled out the forms. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking clearly when I came in."

"Of course you weren't. You shouldn't be expected to be thinking about paperwork under the circumstances," Dent said, then glared at Susan. "But I expect more from our nursing staff. Sadly, they don't have any excuse."

And with that, Dent marched out.

"What a lovable guy," Jesse said.

"I'm sorry if I got you or any of the ER staff in trouble," Mark said. "I'll fill out the forms and issue a memo tomorrow taking full responsibility for whatever procedures weren't followed."

"He's really out to get you," Jesse said.

"It certainly seems that way," Mark sighed. "Maybe I should consider wearing Kevlar in the hospital, too."

Jesse and Susan gave Mark a lift back home, stopping at the Slumberland Motel along the way so Susan could pick up Mark's car for him.

It was barely evening, but Mark went straight to bed, slipping between the cool sheets and falling instantly asleep.

He awoke at eight a.m., having slept a full fourteen hours, his body making up for the sleepless night the day before and the stress of nearly getting killed at the Slumberland Motel.

Because of his injuries, Mark opted for a delicate sponge bath so as not to aggravate his many cuts. Shaving also presented a challenge, his face already scratched from the flying glass. All in all, though, he thought he looked pretty good for a man who should be dead.

He wouldn't admit it to anybody himself, but he found the brush with death invigorating. It energized him and kicked him out of the doldrums he'd been feeling over his inability to solve the case. The attempt on his life not only made him feel more alive, it gave him a sense that he'd engaged the enemy. The game was on, and he was ready to play.

Mark went into the kitchen just as Steve came in from his morning jog on the beach.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Steve asked.

"Great," Mark said.

"Great?" Steve asked incredulously.

"It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for you," Mark said.

"I wouldn't know," Steve said. "I've been up all night following up leads from the Slumberland shooting. I just got back."

"And you went for a run?"

"I needed to clear my head," Steve said. "Now I'll be so exhausted that I can't help but fall asleep."

"Did your all-nighter yield any new information?"

"Yeah, and you're not going to like it." Steve went to the fridge, pulled out a Gatorade, and drank it straight from the bottle. "The guy who tried to kill you was Albert 'Fresh' Frescetti, freelance muscle for the Mob."

"The Mob?"

"I wish everybody would start calling them something else, because I feel silly every time I say it," Steve said. "Not that
the Syndicate
,
the Organization
, or
the Mafia
sound any better."

"Why would anybody in organized crime want to shoot me?" Mark asked. "Wouldn't it make more sense to shoot Lacey McClure?"

"Speaking of Lacey, officially she's no longer the focus of our investigation."

"She
is
the case," Mark said. "She murdered her husband and his lover. This whole Mob thing is a smokescreen

"It doesn't look that way now," Steve said. "We recovered Frescetti's gun and the bullets he shot at you. They match the bullets we pulled out of Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler. It's the murder weapon."

"He
kept
the gun? Why would he do that?" Mark asked. If he was a professional killer, he would have ditched it right away, not saved it to use in another killing. The last thing a killer wants is to keep any evidence—especially the murder weapon—that could tie him to his crime."

"Frescetti isn't known as a great intellectual," Steve said. "He is known for being a violent sociopath."

"But even sociopaths don't want to get caught," Mark said. "And if he killed them, who drugged them first and why?"

"Maybe Jesse's theory was right," Steve said. "Maybe the drugging and the shooting aren't related."

"If it's a simple execution, why bother trying to disguise the time of death? Who came back at four thirty and fired the shots I heard?" Mark said. "And more importantly, why?"

"We can ask Daddy Crofoot that," Steve said, "when we find him."

"Why was Frescetti tailing me and not you or Lacey?" Mark continued. "I wasn't the one who accused the Mob of being responsible for the killings. I don't think they had any thing to do with them."

"Yeah, but they don't know that," Steve said. "You do have a reputation for being tenacious. Once they found out you were involved, maybe they got afraid you would eventually find evidence that linked them to the murders."

"Which wouldn't be too hard to do if the idiot killer was still carrying around the murder weapon," Mark said. "This doesn't make any sense, Steve."

"It does to everybody else," he said. "From the chief of police and the DA on down. Everything we've found so far confirms Lacey's story: her accountant's report, the FBI wiretaps, Stryker's video, the gas station surveillance tapes, and now a Mob killer taking shots at you with the murder weapon."

Mark shook his head. "The shots didn't even sound the same."

"What shots?"

"The shots I heard yesterday and the shots I heard the day Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler were killed," Mark said. "They didn't sound the same."

"You heard the shots in entirely different situations," Steve said. "The first time, you were sitting out there on the deck on a peaceful afternoon when you heard shots coming from fifty yards away. Yesterday, you heard the shots while diving to the floor, windows shattering and cars crashing all around you. Of course they didn't sound the same."

"I don't think that's it," Mark said. "The gunshots had a different pitch."

"How can you possibly remember the pitch?"

"I do."

"Dad, the bullets all came from the same gun."

"But that's not what I heard."

"It's what the evidence proves," Steve said. "There isn't any doubt."

"So now you're convinced she's innocent, too?"

Steve looked at his dad and wondered why this felt like a betrayal. The evidence was overwhelming and undeniable. He couldn't continue pursuing a line of investigation on gut feeling alone, not with the entire police hierarchy and the national media watching his every move. If he ignored the evidence and followed his instincts, his career would be torched. He knew he was playing politics but he was also facing reality. It didn't mean he didn't trust his father or have faith in his instincts. Steve was just doing his job.

He wanted to tell his father all those things, and he found a simple way to do it.

"I'm only going where the evidence takes me," Steve said.

"That's just it," Mark replied. "You're being taken."

* * *

"She was this cute little furball," the woman said, wincing. "Just sitting outside the Starbucks this morning, waiting for her master to return with a latte."

Jesse's patient was a plus-sized woman in her forties. From the numerous bloodstains on her blouse, she looked at first to be far more injured than she actually was. Her only wound was a mild dog bite to her left hand. She got blood all over herself trying to shake her hand free from the dog's jaws, waving the beast around until he finally let go.

"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to pet strange dogs?" Jesse said, examining her wound.

"The dog didn't look strange to me," the woman said.

"Well, you must have looked strange to him," Jesse said. "Do you know if the dog had a rabies shot?"

"You can call the vet and find out," she said, handing him a slip of paper with her good hand. "I wrote the number down. They might still be there."

"The dog got hurt, too?" Jesse asked.

"He wouldn't let go until I whacked him against the wall a couple of times," the woman said, then noticed the way Jesse was looking at her. "I had no choice. It was self- defense."

"I'll call the vet. You're going to need a tetanus shot and some antibiotics." Jesse pocketed the note. "I'll be back to clean and dress the wound in a few minutes."

"Are the shots really necessary?" the woman asked. "The dog seemed clean to me."

"You also thought he was friendly," Jesse said. "Besides, think about where even the friendliest dogs like to lick themselves."

Jesse left the exam room and was on his way to the phone at the nurses' station when Susan caught up with him. She handed him a piece of paper.

"Take a look at this," she said.

He glanced at it, bewildered. "This looks like your resume."

"I've spent the last few years in the nursing field, but I worked a little in the food-service industry when I was in college," Susan said. "As a nurse, I'm told I have a comforting and supportive bedside manner, so I'm sure my table-side manners are good, too. I've had to work very fast in the ER, taking doctors' orders, treating patients. Add that all up, and it's obvious I could be the fastest, friendliest, hardest-working waitress you've ever hired."

Jesse set the paper side and looked at her with concern. "Susan, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a job." She ran a hand across her cheek, wiping away a tear. "I'm suddenly in the market."

"You've been fired?" Jesse asked incredulously.

"It's part of a new 'austerity program' to cut hospital spending. One nurse from every department is being cut, based on seniority," Susan said. "And since I have the least seniority of any of the ER nurses, I'm the one who has to go."

"Dent can't fire you—we've got too few nurses as it is," Jesse said.

"And still more than the hospital can afford," Susan said, "at least that's what Dent said as he gave us our severance checks. I have to clean out my locker and turn in my ID at the end of my shift."

"This isn't about the budget," Jesse said. "This is about Dent trying to get at Mark."

"I'm not that close to Mark, and neither are the fifteen other nurses who got fired," Susan said. "This is about corporate greed and the bottom line."

"Dent knows how close you are to me, and how close I am to Mark, that's the bottom line," Jesse said. "You said it yourself, he's been gunning for us. Dent knew he couldn't just single you out and get away with it. Next he'll find a way to get rid of me, and then Amanda."

"I'm not so sure," Susan said.

"I am," Jesse said, "and I'm going to do something about it."