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Mitch took a step back from the car as it drove off. He looked up the dirt road to Johnny’s house. The lights were on.
Mitch stood, staring at it for a moment, then decided to check in with Johnny. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, likely complicated by his disability, but he’d been cordial the few times Mitch had met him.
He walked back up the dirt road toward the house. Even in the darkness with dimly lit porch lights, the house looked in need of repair. Mitch made a mental note to get a few of the officers together when this case was done and give Johnny’s house a paint job. It would be a nice thing to do for a veteran.
He climbed the few wooden, creaky steps to the front door and knocked on it.
When no one answered, he walked to the window, peering between the half-closed shutters. The television was on and a dirty plate sat on the arm of the sofa, like he’d left it when he finished eating a bedtime snack. Mitch’s eyes dropped to his watch—it was possible.
Mitch knocked on the door again, but there was still no answer.
If he’d just had company, why wasn’t he answering the door?
Mitch unlatched the side gate and let himself into the backyard. He peered into the kitchen window. The lights were on and the kitchen was tidy, but he couldn’t see Johnny. He walked to the next window, which was frosted, and guessed it was the bathroom. The lights were on, so Mitch took a step back. Johnny was likely showering and might have a heart attack if he saw a shadow at his window.
He went back to the kitchen window. Everything looked in place. There were no signs of a struggle.
Mitch started to leave, but turned back to the house.
Something wasn’t right about this. He knew it in his gut.
He walked to the back door and pushed on the handle. Surprisingly, it opened. He stuck his head inside. “Johnny!” he called out.
When he didn’t get a response, Mitch pulled his weapon, raised it, and entered. His eyes swept over the kitchen, but nothing looked too out of place. It was messy, but for a disabled vet who lived alone, it looked reasonable. It didn’t look like it had been ransacked.
Mitch moved toward the small hallway that led to the other rooms of the house. The bathroom door was open, but the shower was definitely on.
He crept forward, his pistol high, his finger on the trigger.
“Johnny!” he yelled as he neared the bathroom.
Mitch stopped at the door, taking a calming breath. The door was ajar and he peered in. He saw one leg first, then the other.
Mitch pushed the door open and rushed in; Johnny was on the floor, fully dressed.
“Johnny!” Mitch said, kneeling beside him.
He did a quick assessment; Johnny didn’t appear to be wounded, but his skin was clammy and his face was as pale as a white sheet.
Mitch put two fingers on his neck and felt a pulse. He lightly smacked Johnny’s face, but he didn’t stir.
He grabbed his radio. “Get an ambulance to Johnny Williams’s house. Now!”
“Copy. I’m on my way,” Tom responded.
Johnny’s chest rose and fell, so Mitch knew he was breathing on his own, but he was unresponsive.
He noted the broken shower door and glass on the floor, but otherwise there were no signs of a struggle.
“Johnny! Johnny!” he repeated, but didn’t get a response.
Mitch heard footsteps before he heard his officer’s voice.
“Mitch?”
“In the bathroom,” he said, knowing his voice would guide the officer in the small house.
“Is he alive?” Tom asked, kneeling beside Mitch.
