Joe Victim: A Thriller Read Free

treatment. He needs it now.”
    “What happened?”
    “He walked into a door,” somebody says, and a group of men start to laugh.
    “Yeah, he was clumsy,” another man says, and more men laugh. They’re bonding. They’re using humor to start coming down from whatever high they’re on. A high I gave them. Except for Schroder and Jack and the doctor. They look deadly serious.
    “What happened?” the doctor asks again.
    “Self-inflicted gunshot,” Schroder says. “Grazed him deep.”
    “Looks worse than a graze,” the doctor says. “You really need this many men around?”
    Schroder turns back and seems to do a mental count. He looks like he’s about to nod and say they could do with a few more, but instead he signals to about half the team and tells them to stay put. I’m pushed in a wheelchair and my hands are uncuffed only to be recuffed to the arms of it. They wheel me down a corridor and lots of people keep looking at me as if I’ve just won a Mr. Popularity contest, but the truth is nobody knows who I am. They never have. We pass some pretty nurses that on any other day I’d try to follow home. I’m put on a bed and cuffed to the railing. They strap my legs down and I can’t move. They strap and cuff everything so tight it feels like I’m encased in concrete. They must think I have the strength of a werewolf.
    “Detective Schroder,” I say, “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
    Schroder doesn’t answer. The doctor comes back over. “This is going to be a little painful,” he says, and he’s half right, getting the little wrong, but nailing the painful. He prods the wound and examines it and shines a torch into it, and without the ability to blink it’s like staring at the sun.
    “This is going to be more than a few hours’ work,” he says, almost talking to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear. “Going to need some real detailing here to give him any kind of functionality, and also to minimize scarring,” he says, and it sounds like he’s about to give an estimate then tell us how much it’s going to be for the parts. I just hope he has them in stock since mine is still out in the parking lot.
    “We don’t care about scarring,” Schroder says.
    “I care,” I say.
    “And I care too,” the doctor says. “Damn it, the eyelid is completely gone.”
    “Not completely,” I say.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s back at the car. On the ground.”
    The doctor turns to Schroder. “His eyelid is out there?”
    “What’s left of it,” I say, answering for Schroder, who then answers for himself by shrugging.
    “You want this guy out of here quicker, we’re going to need that eyelid,” the doctor says.
    “We’ll get it,” Schroder says.
    “Then get it,” the doctor says. “Otherwise we have to graft something else that will work. And that’ll take longer. Can’t have him not blinking.”
    “I don’t care if he can’t blink,” Schroder says. “Just cauterize the damn thing and glue a patch on his face.”
    Instead of arguing or telling Schroder he’s out of line, the doctor finally seems to realize that all these cops, all the tension, all the anger, that must mean something special. I can see it occurring to him, I watch through one good eye and one bloody eye and he starts to frown, then slowly shake his head, a curious look on his face. I know the question is coming.
    “Just who is this man?”
    “This is the Christchurch Carver,” Schroder answers.
    “No way,” the doctor says. “This guy?”
    I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. “I’m innocent,” I say. “I’m Joe,” I say, and the doctor jams a needle into the side of my face, the world shifts further off its axis, and things go numb.

TWELVE MONTHS LATER

Chapter One
    Melissa pulls into the driveway. Sits back. Tries to relax.
    The day is fifty degrees maximum. Christchurch rain. Christchurch cold. Yesterday was warm. Now it’s raining. Schizophrenic weather. She’s