Adam's Witness Read online

  So much for ‘Ms. Rampling.’ And how many times had he said “hell” in the last ten minutes?

  Taking a deep breath, James responded, as quickly as he could, “Grace, er, Ms. Rampling was at Divas meeting Bruce Stephens of the Pride Chorus. I guess she wants to do a story about the choir. She left, and just a few moments later someone attacked her. Hit her on the head. Pretty hard, too, Sarge.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s alive, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t say she’s okay. Big wound on the head and a lot of blood loss.”

  “Where is she?” asked Adam, his voice rising again.

  “She’s in one of the ER rooms getting checked out. But Sarge. Adam,” said James, stepping in front of his boss and looking him directly in the face. “I’m sorry if this is out of line, but you have to calm down a bit. I think you have everyone a little freaked out.”

  Adam looked around, and finally noticed that every eye was trained on him and his constable.

  He cleared his throat, and in a slightly quieter tone said, “Sorry, James. She’s so — she’s our main witness in this case. And she didn’t deserve this.”

  “I know, Adam. Do you want me to find out how she’s doing? We’ll need to talk to her about the attack . . . if she’s going to be okay, I guess . . . ”

  “Yeah, let’s find out. Let’s go. She better be okay.”

  Chapter 9

  Adam and James strode down the corridor, in perfect step as if they were on a military training ground. Charlotte headed for the cafeteria. The constable’s den-mother instincts said three high-calorie drinks were in order, to keep everyone going on this bizarre night.

  “Excuse me,” said Adam to the nurse at the desk. “Sergeant Davis from the Saskatoon Police. I need to know how Grace Rampling is doing. She was brought in a few minutes ago with a head wound. Can you help me.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

  “Just let me check, Sergeant,” said the nurse behind the admitting desk, staring for a few seconds at the big, handsome sergeant. “I believe they’ve taken her straight in for an MRI.”

  Oh, man, that didn’t sound too good, thought Adam. The worst emergencies always took first place in the triage line.

  “How is she doing?” he asked, anxiety spilling into his voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t know, and I don’t think anyone will until after the MRI.”

  “We need to know if we can talk to her, and the sooner the better. She was attacked and we have to find the assho . . . person who did it,” said Adam.

  “I understand, sergeant. Just give me a few minutes to track down her doctor.”

  The nurse bustled off toward radiology, asking another nearby nurse to take her place. Adam and James, unaccustomed to not being in charge, stood shifting from foot to foot and trying not to look at each other as they waited. Adam knew by now that for some reason, he was not quite as detached from this case as he usually was. He was trying to keep the expression on his face from revealing that.

  Several minutes later the nurse reappeared. “She is in MRI, gentlemen. I’m afraid she is not conscious. As soon as she knows something, the doctor will come and talk to you.”

  “Has anyone called her family?”

  “Not yet. It’s only been a few minutes and we’ve been racing to get her stabilized.”

  “How bad is this injury?” asked Adam, alarmed.

  “It’s pretty bad,” the nurse admitted. “At the very least she will have a serious concussion.”

  “And at the worst?”

  “Let’s just see how she does, and what the MRI shows. It’s too early to speculate,” the nurse said kindly, observing the sergeant’s face. “You know this patient?”

  “Yes, we know Grace Rampling. She’s an important witness in a murder case, and now she has also been attacked, so you can see why we are very concerned.”

  “Oh dear,” said the nurse, her brow furrowing. “Well, we are doing our very best, and we will keep you informed. I promise,” said the nurse, peering up at Adam to emphasize her words.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “Much appreciated.”

  Adam and James were forced to retreat to the waiting room, as patients and nurses and gurneys flowed around them in the admitting area. There was no excuse for holding up the emergency room’s business.

  After several minutes of silence, Adam finally spoke.

  “You called this in,” he said to James.

  “I did. I was there.”

  “At Divas?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I was there with Bruce Stephens, and with Grace. They were meeting to talk about possibly doing a story on members of the Pride Chorus,” said James. He took a breath. “Sarge. Bruce is my spouse.”

  “The chorus guy? Isn’t he a banker or something?”

  “That’s right. Investment banker. We’ve been together for a couple of years. I thought I’d better tell you; it could be a problem if you call him in for an interview. I couldn’t be there.”

  “Damn right you couldn’t. Talk about a conflict. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “It’s only been a few days since the murder,” James pointed out, sounding a little defensive.

  “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you had a spouse. Of course your personal life is not really my business, officially. I just thought . . . maybe you would have told me.”

  James looked appalled.

  “I’m sorry, Adam,” said James, sincerely. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Adam turned to James, with the slight incline of the head that always showed he was considering or accepting someone else’s point of view.

  “It’s okay, James. I understand. I really do. But I’m glad to know, and always want you to feel you can tell me anything you want to tell me. You know you’re the best cop on the force, right? And I’m proud to work with you.”

  “Thank you, Adam,” James choked out. “That means a lot to me . . . ”

  The nurse was suddenly in front of them. “Gentlemen. It’s time to visit Grace.”

  “Here,” said Charlotte, emerging from behind the nurse’s shoulder with chocolate milk containers in both hands. “Drink this first.”

  *******

  Grace looked like hell. Adam was shocked when he saw her white face, auburn hair stained darker red with blood, and a big gash on her temple. She didn’t look at all like the smart, brave reporter he had met in the cathedral, rising from between the pews like some wild-haired Venus, nor the professional woman he’d bumped into at the coffee shop. She looked tiny, vulnerable and beaten up.

  His heart contracted. Damn it, he thought: what is it about this woman? Why do I feel like this, and so soon? And how is that going to help me solve this murder case?

  Well, it’s even more than that now, he realized. She’s a witness, but now also the victim of an attack, and, thank God, not dead. Did he have a serial killer on his hands — who just missed killing Grace as well as murdering the bishop?

  When I catch that asshole, he is so going to be charged with attempted murder for this, thought Adam viciously, his blood rising. Then Grace stirred.

  “Hi, Sharge,” said a tiny, slurred voice from the bed. Grace’s eyes opened, just a bit. “How are you?”

  “She’s very groggy, and she does have a concussion,” said the nurse, sotto voce. “Keep it short, please.”

  Adam forced a watery grin over his face, feeling it stretch unconvincingly over his teeth. He nodded at the nurse, acknowledging her request.

  “Hi Grace,” he said quietly, for him, abandoning the Ms. Rampling honorific. “How do you feel?”

  “Gross,” said Grace, honestly. “My head hurts awf’ly.”

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you. Can you tell me who, or how, at least?” he said as gently as possible.

  “Don’t know who. Stinky.”

  “Stinky?” repeated
Adam, trying to swallow a laugh burbling in his chest. The word sounded funny, even adorable, coming from a normally-erudite but now-befuddled Grace. “Did he smell awful? Was it a he?”

  Grace tried to nod her head, but groaned when it hurt and made the room spin.

  “Ugh. Feeling barfy again,” she managed.

  “It’s okay, Grace. I’ll come back later, when you’re feeling better.”

  “No, no, Sharge. It’s okay.”

  The nurse dove in and put a cool cloth on Grace’s forehead, then gave her some Gravol. “She won’t be awake long,” she warned the police officers.

  “He smelled awful. He,” added Grace for emphasis. “Low voice. Strong.”

  “Did you see him at all? Tall, short, skin colour, clothing?”

  “Uh uh. Dark,” said Grace. “Tallish. Could tell from by where voice was coming.”

  Great English for a reporter, thought Adam. But that helped.

  “Can you remember anything else?”

  “Called me a fucking fag-loving bitch. Noticed that.”

  All three police officers stood stunned, staring at Grace, shocked by the epithet. This was definitely no random act. The attacker knew Grace, or at least knew she was a patron at Divas.

  But that second possibility didn’t make sense, thought Adam. Why didn’t he attack her on the basis of being lesbian, then, as opposed to a “fag-lover?” No, this was personal. Someone knew she, Grace Rampling, was at Divas, and maybe followed her there from work.

  Adam and James looked at each other, both with alarm in their expressions. Did Grace need protection?

  For a second or two, Grace’s revelation had turned the room into a frozen tableau. Then Charlotte, who had been taking notes, broke up the scene by looking up at her colleagues, wide-eyed. “I’ve got it all, Sarge,” she assured Adam.

  On the heels of her words, there was a flutter of the privacy drape, and a considerably smaller, slightly younger version of Grace pulled it aside.

  “Oh, Grace,” breathed the tiny interloper. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”

  Grace’s sister beelined for the bed, completely ignoring the medical and law enforcement people in the room. She dropped her purse and pulled off her coat in one smooth movement and crawled right into Grace’s bed, half on top of her.

  Crooning and smoothing Grace’s sheets, blankets and hospital gown, Hope Rampling hugged her sister, murmuring, “Oh, honey, you look awful. I love you, are you okay? Oh, sister.”

  Everyone stared at the loving little scene, unwilling to move and break it up, but also a little amazed by its audacity. No one had ever seen that kind of single-minded beeline to comfort someone before. Hope didn’t seem to even notice the other six people crowded into the little draped-off ER room.

  “Hopey,” mumbled Grace. “So glad you’re here.”

  Hope’s face was screwed into an obvious attempt not to cry or scream. She just held her sister and crooned, “shhh, sister. You’re going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Adam cleared his throat, partly to get the sisters’ attention, and partly to clear the lump that had formed in it. No sign of hearing him came from Hope, so he continued.

  “Miss? Who are you? Grace’s sister, I assume?”

  Then Hope finally looked around, and up — way up — at the tall sergeant’s face.

  “I’m Hope Rampling. Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Detective Sergeant Adam Davis. I’m the lead police officer on your sister’s case.”

  “You’re going to find the bastard who did this, correct?” Hope instructed him.

  “There is no doubt, Ms. Rampling. I will find him,” said Adam confidently, drawing himself up to his full height. Not unlike Napoleon, Grace’s sister was clearly one little person you didn’t want to mess with. Even Adam felt her intensity.

  The nurse finally intervened. “The patient could use a little peace and quiet, and she’s going to be asleep soon anyway because of the medication. Sergeant, could you come back in the morning? Preferably very late morning? If you leave your card, I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  “Yes, nurse,” said Adam, more meekly and quietly than one might expect from him, handing over his card. “Grace, I’ll see you tomorrow. Please get some sleep, and take care.” He took a step toward the bed, his hand reaching for hers. Hope bristled, but Grace raised her hand slightly.

  “Tanks, Sharge,” she said, touching his hand. “Tanks, conshtables,” she added, trying to look at James and Charlotte around her bandages.

  “Nothing to thank us for, Grace,” said Adam. “See you tomorrow.”

  As the police officers slipped through the gap in the curtains, they heard Hope telling the nurse, “I’m not leaving. Don’t even try me.”

  They didn’t get very far after leaving Grace’s ER room. Standing in the triage area again, Adam started handing out orders.

  “Someone’s obviously out to get Grace. We need an officer here at all times, and when she goes home,” he said, then paused. He wasn’t willing to entertain the thought that she might not go home — and she did seem to be doing reasonably well, considering.

  “When she goes home,” he repeated, a little more loudly, “we’ll have to be there as well.

  “Charlotte, see what you can arrange. And get Bruce Stephens into the station, pronto, first thing in the morning. Sooner, if possible. I will interview him. James, see if you can round up all the stories Grace has ever written on human rights cases, especially relating to the LGBTQ community, or find someone else who can do it. And move those other two interviews; we have to deal with this first.

  “We have a hater out there.”

  Chapter 10

  Grace and Hope Rampling had agreed many years before: they were very glad the last child in the family was a boy.

  David. The giant killer, and their baby brother. It had biblical connotations, but it beat the hell out of Peace, or Constance, or Charity, or worst of all Chastity. God knew what excellent quality a third daughter would have been named for.

  Now the youngest, but by far the biggest, member of the family poked his head through the curtain.

  “Grace? Hope? Can I come in?” asked David.

  “Shurr you can, brother,” said Grace, opening one groggy eye. “But I’m not mush for conversashion.”

  David was at her bedside in two long strides. “Grace, honey, you just rest,” he said, kissing her forehead, then swallowing hard. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  He turned to Hope and gestured at the curtain. “Jesus, Hope. What happened?” he asked her as they briefly went into the hallway.

  “I don’t know exactly. She was apparently at Divas — some work-related reason — and was attacked as she left. That’s all I know. The police sergeant was here just before you came. Maybe he can tell us more tomorrow.”

  “Have you called the parents?”

  “No. Was hoping you would? How much longer are they going to be in Florida?”

  “Couple weeks, I think. I’ll call them, Hope. In the morning. It’s one a.m. in Florida. Let’s not freak them out tonight unless absolutely necessary.”

  “I can’t go through this again, David,” said Hope, her voice cracking and tears coursing down her cheeks. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  David wrapped his big arms around his tiny sister. “Me neither, Hopey. We just have to hang together, like we always have. We’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. I promise.”

  *******

  There had been another Rampling. Saint Paul.

  The eldest brother, a few years older than Grace, had decided to go into engineering, despite gentle entreaties from his lawyer parents to follow them into their profession. He wanted to build things. He spent hours as a child with his blocks, then his Lego, then the cushions from every couch and chair in the house.

  Paul eventually started using scrap pieces of wood to create pet shelters, tiny sheds, miniature doll houses for his little sisters. Yet his empathy, and the caring wa
y he treated his younger siblings, spoke to another calling. His sweetness earned him the nickname, Saint Paul.

  He did well in his first two years of structural engineering at the university, where he met Melissa — an arts student he often saw in the cafeteria. They soon connected at a campus dance and became an item. Then, in the middle of his second year, Paul proposed. He was madly in love with Melissa’s pretty face, the adoring way she looked at him. He wanted to marry her.

  Strangely, as it would turn out, it was falling in love that gave Paul pause about his chosen career. Love had become the most important thing in his own life; he wanted the world to feel it, the way he did for his fiancée. The only member of the family who was deeply serious about spirituality, Paul felt himself increasingly led by his faith.

  He decided. He was going to be a minister. He couldn’t wait to tell Melissa, and his parents and sisters and little brother. His family was not surprised. But Melissa looked at him strangely, out of big eyes with long, mascara-coated lashes.

  Why, she asked, would you want to do such a stupid thing?

  Paul blanched. He tried to explain how his love for her had inspired him to seek a more meaningful career, helping people. But Melissa tossed her head. Think about it, she said.

  Paul was confused by her reaction, but he had also made up his mind. He talked to his family about his decision, and they all said it was up to him; whatever made him happy would make them happy. His mother kissed him tenderly on the cheek. You are an amazing child, she said. We love you.

  Two weeks later, he told Melissa he would leave engineering and enter the Lutheran seminary. Melissa broke their engagement. She didn’t want to be a minister’s wife. Goodbye.

  Paul whirled out of her apartment. He called his mother, told her the news, and said he was upset, but okay. He was going for a drive to calm down before he came home.

  He climbed into his car and started driving, tears blurring his vision, anger and rejection and sorrow tearing his heart. He went north on the Prince Albert highway, wiping at his eyes. Distracted, he didn’t see a patch of ice and hit it at highway speed. The car spun around and flew off the highway, missing the first power pole on the southbound side. But it hit the second, smashing the car flat and ripping Paul’s body apart.