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Our replay assistant slumped into the security officer's chair. The guy was young, carried himself with boundless, fresh-out-of-college optimism, and smelled like his lean little frame had been carved from a stick of deodorant. One of Caelan's lot, I realized after he tried to fist bump the sheriff with a friendly, “Hey, bossman!”
Unsurprisingly, the sheriff ignored him in favor of the monitor.
“Audio's shit,” the tech added, turning his fist to me with a hopeful grin.
Feeling obligated, I bumped him back.
“So you shot the sheriff,” he continued, running the same hand through his dark curls. “Impressive. Name's Jorge.”
“Oh, the yogurt thief!” I said with more excitement than intended. “Nice to meet you! I’m Marcy.”
Flinging up his arms, Jorge swiveled in his chair to turn a look of horror upon his boss. “Dude!”
“Miss Davins is our teammate,” he said stiffly. “Off-limits from your tomcatting.”
Jorge pointed at me. “Off-limits temporarily.” A more accusing jab toward Caelan. “Wingman, all day, every day. You were supposed to talk me up on the ride over. You made her sound perfect.”
I bounced on my heels with a jolt of nervous energy. “He did?”
Caelan’s amber eyes remained trained on empty hall footage. “Can’t paint the first human in our department in a negative light.”
I tapped the notebook in his hand. “Don’t think you can paint a bat in a cave, sir.”
“I know, right?” Jorge wheeled closer. “Learn from my mistake, Marcy: never volunteer for his Pictionary team. I’d blame his primitive genes but even cavemen show talent.”
Caelan ruffled Jorge’s hair on his way past. “Wednesday ain’t far, Piglet.”
Jorge groaned. “Aw, no, not in front of Marcy, man.”
“What happens Wednesday?” I asked, curious.
“He drags one of us to the boxing club. This is my week to face the music.”
“Could I come?” With a face flush with mischief, I announced to the sheriff, “I could use the cardio.”
“Great workout,” the sheriff agreed through an impassive expression and a rub of his jaw. “Reckon I could let this here ham scamper on home to his pigsty if you’d like to go a few rounds.”
“That alright, Jorge?”
“Please! Look at these hooves, girlfriend.” Jorge set his skinny fingers on the armrest. “Silky-smooth. Unlike my barbarian compatriot, I’m a lover, not a fighter. Hence my, uh, office nickname.”
Instantly I pointed at Caelan. “Oh, tell me his.”
The sheriff raised a finger. “Don’t you—”
Jorge grinned. “Big Spoon.” He got out a victorious, “Ha!” before Caelan gently whacked the back of his head with the notebook.
“Piglet and Big Spoon,” I said, unable to contain myself. “I’ve gotta hear this story.”
“Yeah, see, we working this investigation together when—”
A bit rosy in the cheeks, Caelan spun the younger man toward the screens. “I’m fixin’ to leave here before sunset.”
“Sorry, boss.” Jorge fast-forwarded the video. Ticking seconds became flashing minutes. With the back of a ballpoint, he circled door 302C by the stairs. “Bed’s out of frame. No one in or out of the room except the deceased nurse in the hour prior to the event.”
Caelan let me step in front of him for a better view of the changing cameras and angles. Together we watched the scene unfold.
The corridor is empty until a female patient enters, limping and wheeling a racked IV drip. Dr. Walker and a pair of nurses, Noah and Alicia, rise from the nurse's station to greet her. They talk, then the doctor leaves with Noah. Alicia, a mother of two who’d recently earned her Masters of Science in Nursing—according to Rachel—walks alongside the IV patient before disappearing into a room two doors from Elliot Foster's.
