Brophy tapped his notes. ‘I’ll be discussing this with the chief constable so I need to know what I’m talking about here.’
Fat chance, thought Watts. ‘What I’ve seen so far suggests armed carjacking. I’ll order an historical case search, which could turn up something, but we still keep the victimology angle in mind.’
Leaving Brophy’s office, Watts went to the squad room. It was now crowded with officers, the talk full of the two shootings. It quietened as he came inside. He looked at each of them.
‘We’re getting all we need for a category A inquiry.’
Amid hoots, shoulder punches and high fives, he pointed across the room. ‘Open those doors. Move six tables into that room. We’re expecting more hardware.’ He searched for Judd, almost missed her. The pink and blue had gone. Her hair looked damp. He raised his hand.
‘With me.’
They went downstairs, passing a fresh-faced young constable on his way up. Watts turned to him. ‘Got a job for you.’
The constable straightened, pushed back his shoulders.
‘Easy lad. I want you to search all carjacking cases in this city which featured a gun during the last decade. Got that?’
‘Sir!’
‘Include replica weapons. Whatever you find, get down to the basement, pull out the files and take them to my office.’
‘Sir.’
Watching the ramrod youth continue upwards, Watts was reminded of something he’d become increasingly aware of during recent months. Anybody under twenty-five made him feel tired. ‘He’s new. What’s his name?’
‘Reynolds.’
‘I hope he’s as keen as he looks.’
He detoured to the reception desk and the civilian worker in sole charge of it. ‘Candy, I’m off out with Judd. If anybody rings, wanting to talk to me, let me know. You’ve got my number.’ He tracked her gaze to where Judd was waiting. ‘Unless it’s the press. In which case, you know nothing. Got that?’
‘Yes.’ She turned away.
He headed from the building to his vehicle, Judd in tow. Inside, he started the engine, looked at the sheets of paper she was holding out to him, recognizing his own handwriting. His notes on the scene from the previous evening. He took them from her.
‘That was quick reading.’ He frowned, pointed to large capital letters across the top. ‘What’s “TLDR”?’
‘Too long didn’t read. Just tell me what you know, Sarge. If I’ve got questions, I can ask you.’
Face set, he reversed and headed from the car park, giving her an overview of what he had from the crime scene. He was also reviewing what he had just told his other investigative officers. In truth, he didn’t yet have all that was needed for an upscale investigation. So far, Brophy had been unexpectedly amenable to his demands. Getting the one person he wanted onto this case could lead to a big fight.
10.10 a.m.
They were waiting close to the wide doors of the Intensive Care Unit, Watts having refused the family room, anticipating that members of the victims’ families would be inside, full of questions to which he had no answers. One of the unit’s doors opened. A nurse appeared. He and Judd stood.
‘Detective Inspector Watts? Dr Harrison, the trauma surgeon, has a five-minute window. Follow me, please.’
They did, through the doors and across a quiet area to a small room off it. The woman inside it stood and offered her hand. Watts introduced himself and Judd.
‘I’m the senior investigating officer for the investigation into the shootings. I was present at the scene when both victims were removed from their vehicle and brought here by ambulance.’
‘Then you’re already aware how serious their situation is.’ Harrison glanced at her watch. ‘I apologize for having to rush this, but family members of both victims are waiting for me. I can confirm the victims’ names: Michael Lawrence and Molly Lawrence, a married couple. Mr Lawrence, twenty-seven years old, an interior designer; Molly Lawrence, twenty-three, a finance manager.’
‘How are they generally? When do you think we’ll be able to talk to them?’
Harrison gave Watts an evaluative look. ‘You’ve just missed the neurosurgeon.’ She paused, then lowered her voice. ‘I regret to have to tell you that Mr Lawrence died thirty minutes ago. Mrs Lawrence remains sedated. She’s suffered extreme trauma.’ Watts stared at her, Molly Lawrence’s terrified voice in the emergency call starting up inside his head. He took a card from his top pocket, handed it to her.
‘When there’s some news, I’d appreciate a call to either of those numbers.’
Harrison looked at it, then up at him. ‘In case I wasn’t clear when I referred to the trauma to Mrs Lawrence, in addition to being shot, there’s another issue. She was four months pregnant.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Now, I need to talk to the relatives.’
Walking from the room with them, she kept her voice low. ‘Mrs Lawrence was a patient of this hospital in regard to her pregnancy. It’s my understanding that she attended here yesterday afternoon accompanied by her husband for a pre-natal check-up … She is, of course, no longer pregnant.’
They watched her divert to a room on the other side of the ICU, picking up muffled voices and sobs as she opened the door and went inside. Watts and Judd continued on in silence along several long, shiny corridors. At the end of one, she pointed to a sign indicating the way to the pre- and post-natal departments.
‘Shall we talk to the people there about Mr and Mrs Lawrence?’
‘Not now. I want to see whoever’s in charge of security here to request CCTV footage from around the time of the Lawrences’ appointment yesterday, which I’m hoping includes their arrival and or departure from this site.’
They headed to the ground floor. Watts went to the inquiry desk. After five minutes a security officer appeared, listened to Watts’ request, made a note of it. He would have relevant footage located and delivered to headquarters as a matter of urgency.
They walked out into the damp December cold. ‘Tragic, isn’t it, Sarge?’
‘It is.’
Gazing down from the hospital’s high vantage point at heavy traffic, phone to his ear, he said,
