Among the Shadows Read Free Page A

to Maine’s largest municipal police agency. Unlike the original police headquarters, which Byron visited frequently when he was a boy, when his dad had still worked a beat, the current is a far cry from stations of old. Missing are the granite steps, lighted glass globes stenciled with the word POLICE , and the large wooden desk inside the foyer from which the duty sergeant could bark orders. In short, it no longer had any character. The veteran officers joked that the character is now on the inside.
    O’Halloran’s nurse was seated in Interview Room One, waiting for Byron to return with a coffee. She’d readily agreed to an interview. Haggerty had driven her to 109, leaving O’Donnell to sit on the house, which was now officially a crime scene. Diane monitored the interview from the conference room along with Detective Mike Nugent.
    Byron returned with two mugs of coffee, closing the door behind him. “Here you are. Careful, it’s hot.”
    â€œThanks.”
    St. John was attractive in a tomboyish way. Cinnamon hair, pulled back into a ponytail, nicely complimented her light blue short-­sleeve top and matching pants. Byron caught a glimpse of freckled cleavage as she bent down and removed a package of tissues from her purse.
    â€œThank you for coming in to talk to me, Ms. St. John. I want to make it clear again, for the record, this is completely voluntary on your part. You understand you’re free to leave at any time.”
    â€œBecca, please. And it’s not a problem. I’m happy to help anyway I can.”
    Removing a small notebook and pen from his suit jacket, he spent several seconds pretending to read over his notes. “How long have you been in nursing, Becca?”
    â€œAlmost ten years. But I’ve only worked for Pine Tree Hospice the last ­couple.”
    â€œBefore that?”
    â€œI worked at Maine Medical Center in the CCU. Sorry, Critical Care Unit.”
    â€œI would imagine with the job you have now, you see a great deal of death.”
    She nodded. “Yes. All of my patients are terminally ill.”
    â€œYou ever get used to it? Patients dying under your care, I mean.”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s part of the job.”
    â€œMust be tough, though,” he said.
    She appeared to be considering her answer while she toyed with the mug. “Am I suspected of doing something wrong, Sergeant Byron?”
    â€œWhy would you ask that?”
    â€œBecause, I’ve already given a statement to the officer at the scene and now you’re asking questions about how I deal with the death of my patients. Do you think I killed Mr. O’Halloran?”
    Byron was used to the idiosyncrasies of ­people when they were being interviewed. Many became combative, lied, or lawyered up, whether they were guilty or not. Seldom were they as direct as St. John. “Did you?”
    â€œOf course not. He was dying and nothing could have prevented it. It’s my job to make patients as comfortable as possible while they await the inevitable.”
    She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the tissue. Byron knew when it came to ­people’s tears, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between the genuine and the crocodile variety. And he’d learned from experience that women were infinitely better at manufacturing them than their male counterparts. His wife, Kay, certainly had been.
    â€œHow long had you been caring for O’Halloran?”
    â€œA few weeks.”
    â€œWere you assigned to him every day?”
    â€œOnly during the week. Another nurse from the agency covered the weekend shifts.”
    â€œWho was that?”
    â€œFrankie Mathers.”
    â€œAnd she was the only nurse covering the weekends?”
    St. John rolled her eyes. “Frankie’s a guy. Not all nurses are women, Sergeant.”
    He wasn’t in the mood for her feminist sermon, but his headache was threatening to