Page 61 of A Future To Remember

I spun the binder toward me and opened it up. A case file workup sheet was at the top of the thick stack of papers, and I skimmed it over.

Twenty-five years earlier, Deputy Lonnie Norris was called to the corner of Pell and Main Street, responding to a dispatch report of an officer down.

When the deputy arrived, he discovered a small crowd had gathered around the sheriff, who was lying half on the curb and half in the street, with three bullet wounds—one center mass, one to the head, and one through the side of his torso.

Among the crowd gathered around the sheriff was Dr. Ian Parnell, who indicated that there were no signs of life and the sheriff had expired.

EMS arrived on scene two minutes later, and the sheriff was transported to the same hospital I’d just been sprung from. Time of death for the sheriff was officially called at 22:28.

Deputy Norris—who had by default become the acting sheriff—also reached out to the other deputy on duty, Sky Peterson, who arrived to help process the crime scene.

After cordoning off the area, the two men searched for evidence until 03:51, then headed back to the station after finding only a lone bullet, no gun casings, and no other physical evidence that might help them track down the killer.

At the station, they laid out a plan to wait until morning to call in Evansville’s third deputy, Kevin McQuade, to bring him up to speed and make him the second lead investigating officer on the case, as he had nearly as much experience as Norris.

Before heading home to get a few hours’ rest, Norris contacted Idaho State Police, which offered to send additional investigators, but Norris eventually declined because it would’ve taken three days to put together a task force, and the town of Evansville would’ve had to foot the bill, which would’ve run around a hundred thousand dollars. As that was all that remained in the town’s entire budget for that year, Norris had no choice but to say no.

In the following days, Norris and McQuade took point on the investigation, leaving Peterson to answer nearly every call from dispatch and hold interviews for a new deputy to fill Norris’s slot.

Meanwhile, Acting Sheriff Norris and Deputy McQuade conducted interviews of their own, canvassing almost every home within walking distance of the curb across the street from Wanda’s Diner—which wasn’t even a diner back then; it was a laundromat. They turned up no eyewitnesses and uncovered no leads.

A preliminary examination of the sheriff’s body by the county medical examiner, Dr. Arnez, indicated that the first bullet struck the sheriff in the upper-left quadrant of his torso, transecting his pulmonary artery, puncturing his left lung, and exiting out the sheriff’s back. The second bullet hit him just under his right armpit, tore through his right lung, and lodged into the bone of his left scapula. The third bullet entered his right temple and exited out just below the left ear. The entry wound showed signs of gunpowder burns, meaning it was administered at point-blank range.

The bullet that had exited out the sheriff’s back was recovered two days later when Deputy Phelps found it lodged in a park bench directly up the slight hill behind where the sheriff had been standing. The bullet was a 9-millimeter.

The bullet that’d entered the sheriff’s right temple and exited out the left side of his skull was not recovered, but the one lodged in the sheriff’s scapula matched the one recovered from the park bench, solidifying the theory that the sheriff was murdered by a lone gunman.

I paused when I read the part where the bullet that’d exited the sheriff’s skull had not been recovered because of what I thought it meant, and that was that the killer had taken pains to locate that bullet and take it with him. The idea of searching the brain-splattered pavement for that bullet made me want to hurl.

Once that wave of nausea passed, however, I realized with no small amount of surprise that I could recall several different types of guns that used 9-millimeter bullets and whispered them under my breath: “Glock, Sig, Baretta, Smith & Wesson…” The list was long, and it threw me a little that I had that kind of knowledge. Where had I learned about guns?

I tried to push into the dense fog of my past to grab hold of that thin tether of knowledge, but the strand snapped, and nothing more than knowing about what guns used a 9-millimeter came to my conscious mind.

With a sigh, I got back to focusing on the report.

The ME, Dr. Arnez, speculated that the first bullet would’ve been a hundred-percent lethal within minutes. The second bullet caused immense damage but, with immediate medical attention, would’ve been survivable. The third bullet to the sheriff’s right temple was a hundred-percent lethal, instantly.

I paused reading the report for another moment, blinking as I thought it through. Then I stood back from the counter, my eyes unfocused, and imagined that I was the sheriff, facing my assailant and then reacting to the gunshot wounds as they struck me. The first bullet hit my left chest. If the gun came with a high-powered mag, then I would’ve recoiled to the left, probably lifting my right arm as I was thrown off balance. That was how the second bullet would’ve entered my right armpit, and that force would’ve probably thrown me completely off my feet to land on my left side. I then pretended I was the killer, using my fingers to form a gun, taking a couple of steps forward to shoot the sheriff lying mortally wounded on the curb.

I didn’t realize Cash was watching me pantomime all this until I looked up and saw his pale face, staring at me with wide eyes.

I grimaced. “Sorry. I was just walking it through.”

He nodded, blinking rapidly. “No. I get it. It’s just…you look like someone who’s done this before.”

It was my turn to stare at him in surprise. “You think I shot somebody?”

He shook his head. “No, Maddy, in spite of the amount of blood we found on the shirt you were wearing when you were brought to the hospital, I don’t think you shot anybody. There was no gunpowder residue on your coat or your hands.”

I gulped. “You checked?”

“I did. Had to be thorough.”

“Then what’d you mean by I look like someone who’s done this before?”

“You look like a cop, Maddy. That’s all.”

“Could I have been?” I was so desperate for a clue to my identity.