DAY FIFTY NINE

The new leads were processed.  The locations were posted.  There were new sightings.  Barb spent the day with an artist trying to come up with a composite of the shooter.  There was just not enough information, her view of the shooter was too brief and in too little light.  One thing was confirmed; the shooter wore an army field outfit including the army hat.  He was carrying a rifle that looked like an M1.  If the shooter had been able to get one of these that had not been modified it would fire in semi-automatic mode.  He could squeeze off shots as fast as he could pull the trigger and the 30.06 bullet had a fantastic hitting power, even if it didn’t explode.  The cartridge was big enough to handle an overload of powder to propel the bullet with extra energy and the chamber of the rifle was strong enough to handle the extra powder.   The shooter was not tall and seemed a little stocky.  Barb could not confirm that he had or did not have a limp but he had moved rather quickly out of the open part of the alley.  The other leads were followed up and returned no valuable information.  With Penny hurt she was alone in the office because Margie was still out with the flu.  She fumed that they had nothing for the evening.  Sometimes things happened to solve a case and sometimes leads just came to you but more often you had to be out there making it happen.

Jack Helm got about seven hours of sleep and at about 10:30 he was entering the hospital.  He decided to avoid the front desk.  He wanted to see Norma and the desk would probably intercept him and they might not let him see her.  The office types might stop him but the nursing staff knew him and would let him go almost anywhere.  Being a paramedic had some perks.  She should have been in surgery and out by the time he got off his shift.   She should be somewhat lucid by now.  “God,” he kept thinking.  “That could have been me.  I was just as exposed as she was.”

He rounded the corner from the parking lot and started for the door.  He found himself facing a young woman on crutches.  Her right leg was missing.  She was obviously an amputee.  In a half second he sized her up.  She was pretty, no, darn pretty, bordering on drop down gorgeous, at least compared to the girls he had dated.  She had on a skirt and sweater.  The sweater showed enough curves to attract attention.  The skirt was short enough that a couple of inches of her cast on her right leg, no stump, he corrected himself, was sticking out.  In the next second he realized she was the woman he and Norma picked up in the alley last night.  He stopped.  “Miss, is it Patricia?”