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Authors: Eileen Dreyer
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to her lab and thought briefly that she was going to have to find out what that bright blue capsule was she was beginning to see everywhere, even as she watched the hooded eyes of the men who waited by the radio.
The suicide, Mary Margaret Ryan, got Molly's attention. The cop, Bill Myers, got her anxiety.
And then, it all ended.
"Oh, Jesus!" came the stunned voice over the radio, breaking every rule. "They just threw him out!"
All activity in the room stopped. All eyes focused on the radio. Everyone waited, even though that tone of voice told them everything.
"Pursuit is continuing southbound on Kingshighway. Tan late-model Olds, Missouri vanity plates David-Ivan-Victor-Edgar-Robert. Eleven hundred block of South Kingshighway is blocked off. Watch commander is requested at scene, eleven-thirty-eight."
No request for paramedics.
"Let's get her moved," Molly told her team, because they were all needed somewhere else. "I'll call Winnie and let her know."
And then she had to get to Kingshighway, because the last thing any of them needed was for Bill Myers to be lying out there too long.
* * *
"Did you know Mary Margaret had a prescription for Prozac, Mrs. Ryan?" Molly asked three hours later.
Crouched in the corner of the nubby brown and blue plaid Sears country comfort couch, Mrs. Mary Jane Ryan held on to the box of tissues in her lap as if it were the ballast that kept her from slipping into a little ball of grief. A small woman with old eyes in a middle-aged face, she stared at the butterflies that decorated the top of the cardboard container much the way Molly watched Gene's mountains.
"Stress," Mary Margaret Ryan's mother answered in a whisper. "She has a lot of... stress. A big case. She wouldn't... she..."
She would. She had.
Molly focused on the questions on her sheet, half filled in, her own words terse and clinical. Her hands were trembling almost as badly as Mrs. Ryan's. It was a good thing the woman couldn't tell.
Molly's mind was still on Myers. She'd done her job, the same she'd done for Mary Margaret Ryan, but she'd done it more quickly. More quietly. She'd been ringed by a dozen squad cars with flashing lights and a herd of media trucks, the newspeople jostling with angry police.
At least she hadn't had to break the news to Bill's wife. There were at least three chaplains and a dozen senior officers for that. Molly had ushered his body back to her cold little morgue, though. She'd handed him over to the attendants and a somber Winnie and then fought her way back out through the news crews to talk to Mary Margaret Ryan's mother while the city police force mobilized to track down the tan Olds that had gotten out into the county.
Molly had work to do. She had to go in to the hospital at five for her next shift. She had to find out whether they'd caught the fifteen-year-old who'd shot Myers in the head with his own gun and then dumped him onto a busy street at sixty miles an hour.
She had to do anything but tell this sad little lady that her bright and ambitious young daughter had been so selfish that she had ignored what would happen to her mother when she stuffed a gun in her mouth.
"Can you think of any reason Mary Margaret would have tried to take her own life, Mrs. Ryan?" Molly asked anyway, her own voice not much more certain than that of the woman she interviewed.
"Peg," she said, her head lifting, her eyes coming to brief life. "Her name is Peg."
"Peg. Yes, ma'am."
The room was filled with pictures. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, a shy-looking couple caught smiling at the camera as if it were a trick. Children. Five maybe, with their growth and development charted in color across the living room wall.
One photo caught Molly's attention, thekind ofshot taken to celebrate the end of boot camp. Short hair and an I-can-do-anything glare. A handsome kid in a First Cav patch. A familiar pose. Molly had a shot just like it of her in her Army Nurse Corps dress greens.
There were no pictures of this son in
The suicide, Mary Margaret Ryan, got Molly's attention. The cop, Bill Myers, got her anxiety.
And then, it all ended.
"Oh, Jesus!" came the stunned voice over the radio, breaking every rule. "They just threw him out!"
All activity in the room stopped. All eyes focused on the radio. Everyone waited, even though that tone of voice told them everything.
"Pursuit is continuing southbound on Kingshighway. Tan late-model Olds, Missouri vanity plates David-Ivan-Victor-Edgar-Robert. Eleven hundred block of South Kingshighway is blocked off. Watch commander is requested at scene, eleven-thirty-eight."
No request for paramedics.
"Let's get her moved," Molly told her team, because they were all needed somewhere else. "I'll call Winnie and let her know."
And then she had to get to Kingshighway, because the last thing any of them needed was for Bill Myers to be lying out there too long.
* * *
"Did you know Mary Margaret had a prescription for Prozac, Mrs. Ryan?" Molly asked three hours later.
Crouched in the corner of the nubby brown and blue plaid Sears country comfort couch, Mrs. Mary Jane Ryan held on to the box of tissues in her lap as if it were the ballast that kept her from slipping into a little ball of grief. A small woman with old eyes in a middle-aged face, she stared at the butterflies that decorated the top of the cardboard container much the way Molly watched Gene's mountains.
"Stress," Mary Margaret Ryan's mother answered in a whisper. "She has a lot of... stress. A big case. She wouldn't... she..."
She would. She had.
Molly focused on the questions on her sheet, half filled in, her own words terse and clinical. Her hands were trembling almost as badly as Mrs. Ryan's. It was a good thing the woman couldn't tell.
Molly's mind was still on Myers. She'd done her job, the same she'd done for Mary Margaret Ryan, but she'd done it more quickly. More quietly. She'd been ringed by a dozen squad cars with flashing lights and a herd of media trucks, the newspeople jostling with angry police.
At least she hadn't had to break the news to Bill's wife. There were at least three chaplains and a dozen senior officers for that. Molly had ushered his body back to her cold little morgue, though. She'd handed him over to the attendants and a somber Winnie and then fought her way back out through the news crews to talk to Mary Margaret Ryan's mother while the city police force mobilized to track down the tan Olds that had gotten out into the county.
Molly had work to do. She had to go in to the hospital at five for her next shift. She had to find out whether they'd caught the fifteen-year-old who'd shot Myers in the head with his own gun and then dumped him onto a busy street at sixty miles an hour.
She had to do anything but tell this sad little lady that her bright and ambitious young daughter had been so selfish that she had ignored what would happen to her mother when she stuffed a gun in her mouth.
"Can you think of any reason Mary Margaret would have tried to take her own life, Mrs. Ryan?" Molly asked anyway, her own voice not much more certain than that of the woman she interviewed.
"Peg," she said, her head lifting, her eyes coming to brief life. "Her name is Peg."
"Peg. Yes, ma'am."
The room was filled with pictures. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, a shy-looking couple caught smiling at the camera as if it were a trick. Children. Five maybe, with their growth and development charted in color across the living room wall.
One photo caught Molly's attention, thekind ofshot taken to celebrate the end of boot camp. Short hair and an I-can-do-anything glare. A handsome kid in a First Cav patch. A familiar pose. Molly had a shot just like it of her in her Army Nurse Corps dress greens.
There were no pictures of this son in
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