Free Color Blind by Colby Marshall Page B

“Detectives.” It was only a matter of time before the media swooped in and realized the two shooters at the park were the Gemini, but for now, the fewer who realized the FBI—and former FBI—were involved, the better.
    “And it’s my job to see my patients get their rest,” she said, her pudgy cheeks reddening to match the color of her frizzy hair. She turned and continued to file folders in the cove behind her. “What happened? I thought they said they’d arrested the nut who did this.”
    This chick clearly didn’t watch much TV. “The evidence points to multiple shooters.”
    The nurse clicked her tongue. “People are crazy these days. Imagine! Shooting people at a theme park! ”
    “We’d love to make small talk, ma’am, but we need to get these interviews rolling. Which room should we start with?” Richards asked, voice seeping with annoyance.
    “Listen, you—”
    “Twyla,” Jenna cut in after a glance at her name tag, “we definitely don’t mean to disrupt the order of your wing.”
    Hank took over. “Maybe you could check to see if any of the patients are awake?”
    Nurse Twyla shot a glare at Detective Richards, then turned back to Hank. “Well, I suppose I could check. I’m not makin’ any promises, though.”
    She waddled out the back of the nurses’ station and down the hall. As they watched her go, Richards grunted. “We could burst through that door and interview anyone we wanted, this case what it is.”
    Jenna smiled. Working as a doctor in a psych ward for several years would teach anyone not to mess with an overworked, underpaid member of the nursing staff. “We could. But what we could do isn’t always the best route. Trust me. Keeping friendly with the gatekeepers is a good thing.”
    Nurse Twyla ambled back toward them. “Only have one awake. He says he’ll speak with you, but I’ll be watching. You upset the balance in here, and you leave lickety-split. This way.”
    She buzzed them in, and they followed her down the hall. “Yancy Vogul—”
    “Twenty-four-year-old male, superficial gunshot wound to the left arm, hospitalized for observation only,” Hank said.
    “Why’s he in the ICU, then?” Richards asked.
    “People like you,” Twyla replied. She stopped at the next door they came to. “Keep it brief.”
    Jenna took the lead and passed through the already open door. Yancy Vogul lay on top of the covers, fully clothed.
    “You guys did bring pizza, right? I only agreed to this because she said you brought pizza,” Yancy said quickly, maybe a little nervous.
    Jenna took in his full appearance as best as she could but kept her focus on his eyes. “Mr. Vogul, we appreciate you speaking to us so late. I’m Dr. Jenna Ramey. This is S.A. Hank Ellis and Detective Richards of the OPD.”
    “Call me Yancy,” he said.
    He didn’t meet her eyes, though. Jenna followed his to Detective Richards, whose gaze was at the foot of the bed.
    “Oh, yeah, don’t worry too much about that,” Yancy said, tapping the side of his curved metal prosthetic foot with his hand. “Repels bullets.”
    Wisecracker. Fast talker. From the darting pupils, his tucked-in body language, both were covers for nerves, shyness. Maybe a touch of Asberger’s? Maybe just cool.
    “How are you feeling?” Hank asked, no doubt to draw attention away from the awkward focus on the young man’s disability.
    Yancy dry-laughed. “Better than a bunch of people, I guess.”
    PTSD was definitely on the table, especially if Yancy’s foot was MIA from an encounter with guns or explosives. Violence.
    “Yancy, this is a difficult question, but we’d appreciate it if you can tell us anything you might remember about what happened at the theme park, no matter how insignificant it seems. Anything strange you noticed, anything you saw right before—or during—the shots.”
    Yancy’s head stayed down toward his chest, but his eyes rose to study Jenna, a frown on his face. “I noticed lots of stuff, but