“What did he do?”
Steve closed his eyes, his palms flat on the table in front of him. “He swung the gun directly at us and stopped next to the first sink. I swear he was startled to find us in there because he seemed to hesitate. Then he yelled for us to get out. He fired his weapon into the ceiling. Chase started to cry. I grabbed him up, and the shooter stepped to the side and gestured with his weapon for us to move past him to the door.” He opened his eyes, and Ava realized he had tears running down his cheeks. “I thought we were dead. All I could think about was holding Chase as tight as possible to me, that maybe my body would block most of the bullets and he’d survive.”
Ava’s stomach tightened into a hard mass.
“I ran. But when I saw the hurt woman with you”—he nodded at Ava—“I had to stop. But she couldn’t walk, right? She couldn’t move?” His eyes pleaded with Ava.
“She couldn’t put any weight on that leg. Even when I bumped it, she’d nearly pass out,” Ava assured him.
“I couldn’t carry her. I might have been able to help you get her upright and between us . . . and maybe we could have—”
“No,” said Ava. “It wouldn’t have worked.”
He swallowed audibly. “So I ran with my son.”
“Was there anyone else in the bathroom?” Zander asked. Ava thought the agent affected the perfect amount of concern in his tone. He skillfully kept the witness on task and focused.
Steve nodded. “An older guy came in and went in one of the stalls. He was still in there when I left. I briefly spotted him in the police area afterward and was relieved that the shooter had let him out.”
“Anyone else? What about in the back half of the restroom?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything, but I wasn’t paying attention. I had the impression we were the only ones when Chase and I first entered, but I didn’t walk to the back part and look. Plus Chase was singing so loud when we first went in—and it echoed like crazy. I remember thinking we were clearly announcing ourselves to anyone else in there.”
“Any other impressions of the shooter that you could share with us?” Zander asked. “You mentioned he seemed startled that someone else was in the restroom. Do you remember getting any other emotions from him?”
Steve’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure what you mean. Like did I think he was upset and about to shoot himself?” He looked from Zander to Ava, a touch of sarcasm entering his gaze. “I thought he was going to kill me. He fired a gun in a small enclosed space and yelled at my son and I didn’t take the time to wonder if he was depressed or suicidal.” The sarcasm evaporated, leaving anger seething in his dark eyes.
An ache shot through her heart for the man. How damaged is he? Will his son be all right?
Zander studied him and then pulled a business card out of his folder. He wrote something on the back and slid it across the table. “That’s my card. Email or call me if something occurs to you that you’d like to share.” He paused. “There’s the name of an excellent mental health group on the back.”
“I don’t—”
Zander held up his hand to silence Steve. “Hear me out.” He leaned forward, holding Steve’s gaze. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience and people who go through that shit can easily end up with post-traumatic stress disorder. You don’t have to be in a war to become a victim. For your son, you need to take steps so it doesn’t manifest in your home. It can sneak up on you and most of the time you can’t see it until it’s ripped a big hole in your life.” His voice quieted. “This group knows their stuff. You got health insurance?”
Steve nodded.
“Then go. Don’t do it for you, do it for your wife and kid. Catch it early or get a clean bill of health. Can you do that?”
The father picked up the card and read the back. He lifted his gaze to Ava and then met Zander’s.
“Yeah, I can do that.” He tapped the card on the table. “Thank you,” he whispered.
12
“Only old people eat this early,” Mason stated, tossing the menu to the side.
“I don’t let stereotypes affect my hunger,” answered Ava, biting back a grin. “You know as well as I do to eat when you can when a case is heating up. And I’m starving.”
She’d asked him to meet her at a restaurant on the edge of downtown Portland, where the foot traffic morphed from people in business suits to tourists in shorts. The pub offered a nice outdoor seating area with a great view for people watching. It was a bit out of his way, but they both knew the service was fast and the place was quiet. There were two other tables of diners, and the quiet created an insulated pocket of peace from the intensity of the investigation.
Taking time to connect was priority number one for their relationship. Their careers could easily swamp their lives, squeezing aside precious minutes spent with one another. She’d seen too many law enforcement relationships in which the marriage came second to the career. No marriage yet . . . but maybe someday. Mason had already walked the marriage path, and they were both stepping cautiously with this relationship. Nothing was hurried.
“How’d it go at the Yoders’?” She’d reviewed the entire menu even though she knew it by heart and always ordered the same Asian salad. She knew Mason would get the burger with the jalapenos and not touch his fries.