[Georgia 03] Fallen

trail off, willing herself to remember. “He was wearing a dark suit, charcoal. White shirt. He was very thin, almost gaunt. He reeked of cigarette smoke. I could smell it even after he left.”
    “Did you see which way he went?”
    She shook her head.
    “White? Black?”
    “White. Gray hair. He was older. He looked older.” She put her hand to her face. “His cheeks were sunken. His eyes were heavily lidded.” She remembered something else. “He was wearing a hat. A baseball hat.”
    “Black?” Will asked.
    “Blue,” she said. “Atlanta Braves.”
    “We’ll probably get some nice images of the top of it from the security cameras,” Amanda commented. “We’ll have to share this information with the APD. They may want to see if you can work with a sketch artist.”
    Sara would do whatever it took. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember earlier. I don’t know what—”
    “You were in shock.” Will seemed ready to say more. He glanced at Amanda, then indicated the double doors at the other end of the hallway. He said, “I think it’s this way.”
    In the morgue, Junior and Larry were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were two gurneys, each with a body, each with a white sheet covering the dead. Sara assumed one was the man she had found outside by the Dumpster and the other was the man who had shot the first, then tried to kill her.
    There was an older woman leaning against the door to the walk-in freezer. She looked up from her BlackBerry as they walked into the room. Her hospital badge was tucked into her pants pocket. No white lab coat, just a well-tailored black pantsuit. She was clearly on the administration side of the hospital. She was older, more gray than black in her hair. She pushed away from the freezer and walked over. Her posture was ramrod straight, her sizable chest out in front of her like the prow of a ship.
    She didn’t stop for introductions. She pulled a small spiral-bound notebook out of her jacket pocket and read, “The shooter’s name is Franklin Warren Heeney. APD found his wallet on him. Local boy, lives in Tucker with his parents. Dropped out of Perimeter College his sophomore year. No employment records. No adult arrest history, but at thirteen, he spent six months in juvie for breaking windows. He has one child, a daughter, six years old, who lives with an aunt out in Snellville. The baby mama is in county lockup for shoplifting and a Baggie of meth they found in her purse. That’s all I could get on him.” She indicated the other body. “Marcellus Benedict Estevez. As I said on the phone, his wallet was found in the trash by the Dumpster. I assume you’ve already looked into him?” Amanda nodded, and the woman closed her notebook. “That’s all I have for now. Nothing else has come down on the wire.”
    Amanda nodded again. “Thank you.”
    “I bought you an hour before the body boys come. Dr. Linton, the films you ordered for Estevez are in the transport packet. I’ve gathered together some tools that might be useful. I’m sorry it can’t be more.”
    She had done plenty. Sara looked over the four Mayo trays laid out beside the bodies. Whoever the woman was, she had some medical knowledge and was high enough up the Grady food chain to raid the supply closet without setting off alarms. “Thank you.”
    The woman nodded her goodbyes, then left the room.
    Will’s tone was sharp when he asked Amanda, “Let me guess, one of your old gals?”
    Amanda ignored him. “Dr. Linton, if we could get started?”
    Sara had to force herself to move or she would’ve just stood rooted to the floor until the building fell down around her. There was a pack of sterile gloves hanging from a cleat on the wall. She took out a pair and forced them over her sweating hands. The powder rolled into tiny balls that stuck to her palm like dough.
    Without preamble, she pulled back the sheet covering the first body, revealing Marcellus Estevez, the man she had found by the Dumpster. He had two closely spaced bullet holes in his forehead. Powder burns tattooed the skin. She smelled cordite, which was impossible considering the man had been shot hours ago.
    Amanda said, “Two rounds to the center of the forehead, just like our drive-by at the warehouse.”
    Will’s voice was low. “You don’t have to do this.”
    “I’m fine.” Sara forced herself to get on with it, starting with the easy stuff. “He’s approximately twenty-five years of age,” she mumbled. “Five-eight or