Page 191 of Bound By Fire
44
Ridge
The head nurse sitting across from me is a human male called Rowan Howe. He’s in his mid-forties, has neat hair, and is clean-shaven. He’s in pale blue scrubs with the hospital lanyard around his neck. He’s been answering my questions for the last ten minutes. He seems forthcoming and relaxed.
I glance down at my notes. “Let’s go back to the high-end equipment storage room for a minute. Who signs out from there most often?”
“Mainly the charge nurses. Sometimes one of the surgeons does, but that’s rare. Ninety percent of the time, it’s me or one of my counterparts, either from the hangar or the main hospital.”
“How often are you in that room on an average shift?”
“Once a shift. Maybe more, if it’s busy.”
“Walk me through the access procedure.”
He nods and tells me.
“Who has the code?”
“It’s not just a code. You need a lanyard, as well. It’s a double-entry system.”
“Have you ever given out your code or loaned your lanyard to someone who does not have access?” I ask.
“No way. That’s grounds for dismissal.”
“Have you ever been in that room and noticed anything that didn’t belong? Anything out of place? Anything that looked like it had been moved?”
“No.”
I ask a few more questions about the storage area. I ask about him seeing a cell phone in a drawer in that area.
He frowns. “A cellphone? No. Why would there be a phone in a supply drawer?”
“One more thing. Where were you on Wednesday night, the eleventh? Between roughly 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. on the Thursday morning.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Wednesday the eleventh.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls. “I was at home. I came off a long shift at six and went to bed early. I crashed all night. I was on duty bright and early the next day.”
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
“No, I live alone.” He shrugs.
“Did anyone see you? A neighbor, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so. I keep to myself.”
I have his address. I’ll have to check. He is of medium height.
“Last thing. What is your shoe size?”
“My what?” He blinks.
“Your shoe size. Humor me.”
“I’m a nine.” He looks down at his work shoes as if he needs to check. “A standard nine.”
I keep my face flat, but my pulse ticks up a notch. That’s the same size as the print found in the flowerbed.
This could be our guy.
