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“Head strike, mid-forehead. Do you suspect the shooter was showing off, as he was with the third victim at the rink?”
“I suspect the shooter knew Officer Russo would be wearing body armor as is procedure. He might have injured Russo with a body shot, but he wouldn’t have taken him out. The goal was to take him out. You’ll see the fourth victim was another body shot, and my information is the survivor was struck mid-body, but to the left. A few inches right, and she’d be lying here with the other four. She still may come to you.”
“All victims are equal in my house, but . . .” Morris verified TOD.
“You kill a cop, it changes everything,” Eve finished. “This shooter has to know that. There was a choice here, this was deliberate. He targeted a cop—and it may be he targeted this specific cop.”
“Yet didn’t stop there, but took another, and sent a fifth to surgery.”
“I think—” She broke off as she heard the shouts, the hysteria. She saw a woman struggling with a pair of uniforms at the barricade, weeping, fighting, screaming a single name over and over.
Nate. Nathaniel Jarvits—the second victim.
“His mother,” Morris said. “Would you like me to—”
“No, I’ve got it. Finish here, get the victims transported as soon as you can.”
She rose, walked quickly.
Not even wearing a coat, Eve noted. The mother had run out of wherever she’d been in her street clothes.
“Mrs. Jarvits. Mrs. Jarvits! Look at me, look here. I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Nate. Nate. Where’s my baby?”
“Mrs. Jarvits, I need you to come with me.” Where the hell was she going to take her in this mess? As she considered her best options, Eve started to take off her coat, but Whitney moved more quickly.
“Mrs. Jarvits.” He wrapped his own coat around her. “I’m Commander Whitney. Come with me now. Coffee shop.” He gestured. “I’ve had it cleared. I’ll take Mrs. Jarvits.”
“Please, where’s my son? Is he hurt? I need to see my son. He’s Nathaniel Foster Jarvits. He’s Nate.”
Whitney wrapped an arm around her, steered her away as Peabody jogged up.
“I couldn’t reach her. She must have seen a bulletin. I was able to contact the father, but I couldn’t reach her. She works a few blocks away.”
“She just ran,” Eve concluded. “She saw the damn feed and she ran. All right.” She took a breath to settle herself. “We’ll take the witnesses in the coffee shop. We’ll split them up. Jenkinson, Reineke.”
“On the way. Traffic’s insane. ETA ten minutes.”
“Any word on the survivor?”
“Nothing new.”
“Then let’s do what we do.” She looked over as Russo’s bagged body was lifted onto a gurney for transport. At least a dozen uniforms stopped, stood. Saluted.
Eve did the same. “Whitney’s giving a push on Russo. We’ll have full data and we’ll have it fast. He’s priority—and not just because he’s one of ours.”
She scanned the faces of cops, then her eyes narrowed as Roarke moved around them, walking toward her. Inside the barricade.
She should’ve figured he’d beat her own detectives to the scene.
“You didn’t need to drop everything and come here.”
“I’m here. Whatever you need from me, you’ll have. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Nothing he could have said could have so completely closed her throat. He understood. She hadn’t known Russo, but he’d been a cop, doing his best to serve and protect.
He’d died trying to protect.
