not get anything. And there are no traffic cams on this side street that could show us cars turning into the clinic. We’ll look later at other traffic cams in the general area during the time frame and try to identify the license numbers.”
“Who reported this shooting?”
“The first patient of the day, at eight. An older woman—Gladys Mills. She’s outside in a car with a female officer. She was shaken up and could only tell us she didn’t see anyone leaving the building or hanging around.”
Its location had made this place an easier target, Taylor knew. But he wondered whether this attack was random or targeted. “Any drugs taken?”
Nash frowned. “No. The drugs were locked up, and there are no signs the locks were tampered with, so we can rule that angle out.”
Taylor moved down the hall to the man by the rear door, dressed in a white coat. He stooped and examined the body, facedown, with an entry bullet hole in his back. “The only doctor here?”
“No, Dr. Noah Porter runs the clinic with one other doctor—a female, Dr. Kathleen Markham.”
“Is she one of the dead victims?”
“Yes. She was still in her office.” Nash gestured to a shorter corridor off the main one. “At the end.”
The door was open, but from this view Taylor couldn’t see the victim. “Are all the employees here today? Most clinics, even small ones, have more than six employees.”
“No. There are two not here if the information we’ve dug up is right. One is a male nurse, Colin Brewer, and the other is Sierra Walker, who manages the clinic. I have two officers tracking down the missing employees.”
“Good.” It was possible one of them or both were involved in the shooting or at the very least might have information that could help this investigation. “I especially want to talk to the office manager. This could have been done by a disgruntled employee—past or present. Knowing why will help us find this guy. Where are the other two dead victims?”
“There.” Nash pointed to the counter in the middle of the building where the nurses probably worked.
Taylor walked around a large booth to find two women on the tiled floor—one shot in the back, the other in the chest. From what he had seen so far, the shooter was swift and accurate—possibly methodical in his execution of the crime, as though he’d planned it for a while.
Nash received a call. His frown deepened the longer he listened to the caller. When it ended, he took a few seconds to gather himself, then said, “The sixth victim died on the way to the hospital. She never regained consciousness. Mindy Carson worked the front desk where she was found alive.” He started to walk away, then turned back to Taylor. “Look around. I’ll be in the lobby.”
As Taylor walked toward the female doctor’s office, he couldn’t shake his bad feeling, a growing hollowness in his gut. If this wasn’t a current or former disgruntled employee, then what drove a person to kill all these people who were healers trying to help others get well? The shooter hadn’t come in while patients were here. He’d done this before they opened the clinic. This wasn’t a random choice. The shooter wanted one or all of these people dead.
He stepped into Dr. Markham’s office, noting the lock on the door had been shot out, and paused a few feet inside, scanning the medium-sized room. A woman in her thirties, wearing a white coat, lay on the floor near a bank of windows that didn’t open. Trapped in her office with no way out. He covered the distance to the doctor, who lay faceup, an entry wound to her heart. She hadn’t suffered at least.
As he gazed at a face caught in a look of terror, he whispered, “Who wanted you dead?” He wished the victim could tell him.
The sound of faint whimpers wafted to Taylor. He stiffened and whirled around, every part of him on alert. But the room was empty. His gaze swept more carefully over the office, stopping at a framed picture on Dr. Markham’s desk of her and a little boy.
Did he imagine the noise?
Again, he surveyed the area, looking for any place to hide. The only furniture was a desk with two chairs in front and one behind, as well as a sideboard along the opposite wall with more photos of the doctor and the boy with a few including another woman. He strode over to the piece of furniture for a closer look. The sideboard had drawers down the middle, and cabinets on the sides with louvered doors. He opened the nearest cupboard. Files, books and magazines were crammed inside. He moved to the other one on the left and swung the door wide.
A child was curled into a tight ball, his head buried against his knees. Another whimper escaped the kid’s mouth as he tried to crouch even more into a protective cocoon.
Taylor squatted in front of the child. “You’re safe. I’m Texas Ranger Blackburn, and I won’t let anything happen to you.” A lance pierced his heart as he waited for the boy to trust him. Finally, the child looked up, and Taylor recognized him as the boy from the photographs. Dr. Markham’s son probably. He could only imagine the horror this young child went through when the killer came into the office. Did he see or hear anything through the slats in the cabinet door?
Taylor wondered who the other woman in a couple of the photographs was. She looked like Dr. Markham. She looked too old to be her child. A sister maybe?
“No one is going to hurt you. I promise. You’re safe.” Taylor held out his hand.
The brown-haired child didn’t move.
Taylor withdrew his cell phone and called Nash rather than leave the child alone to find the lieutenant. “Will you send a police officer to find Kathleen Markham’s residence and see if there’s a family member there?”
“Why?”
“I found Dr. Markham’s son in her office.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.” As Taylor disconnected, he held out his hand again toward the child. “Come on out. You’re safe.”
But the kid quickly turned his face away from Taylor.
He settled himself on the floor by the child. He didn’t want him to feel he was alone nor did he want to force him out of the cabinet. Taylor glanced up at the photo of Dr. Markham, the boy and a young woman who had long blond hair and a smile that lit her whole face. She had her arm around the kid, looking down at him. Suddenly a thought struck him. What if the boy was this lady’s son, not Dr. Markham’s?
Sierra Walker left the Premier Medical Clinic’s accountant’s office, relieved to get the necessary paperwork to him for the end of the year. She hurried toward her car, the cold wind whipping her long blond hair about her face and sending a shiver down her spine. Reaching her Mustang, she opened the driver’s side door and slipped behind the steering wheel.
She hoped Kat could figure out what was wrong with Ben. Probably a cold or possibly the flu. After her nephew had spent yesterday at the clinic, sleeping most of the time in one of the exam rooms, Sierra had told her sister that she’d take Ben with her today and work at home when she finished meeting with the accountant.
When she turned onto the street that led to work, the sight of police cruisers parked along the street in front of the clinic with lights flashing sent terror snaking down her spine. A small crowd stood behind a makeshift
