Confessions Read Online Free Page B

fan when this gets out,” the young man muttered.
    â€œDon’t look now, J.D.,” Trace drawled, jerking his head in the direction of the ranch house. “But it already has.”

Chapter Three
    T race arrived at the hospital on Ponderosa Street just as the technician he’d requested from the Department of Public Safety was pulling into the parking lot.
    They were forced to wait while the physician on call conducted a cursory examination of the wounded senator. After the exam, X rays were taken. Throughout it all, Alan Fletcher remained conscious and coherent.
    â€œThe wound isn’t life threatening,” the doctor advised Trace, “but I need to remove the bullet and stitch up any damage to internal organs.” He frowned. “Small caliber bullets have an unfortunate tendency to bounce around like pinballs once they’re inside the body.”
    â€œSounds as if you’ve spent some time on the front lines.”
    â€œI worked ER for eight years at Oakland’s Highland Hospital.” The doctor shook his head. “I figured I put all that behind me when I moved here.”
    â€œJoin the club,” Trace said dryly.
    â€œGetting back to the senator, there’s no way to tell how much damage was done until we open him up. And we’ll need to clean the wound to prevent peritonitis.”
    â€œI know the drill, Doc.” Trace glanced over to where the senator was lying on the gurney. A pretty blond nurse in a white pantsuit was holding his hand and assuring him that he’d be all right. “But since the guy’s not critical, I’ll need to test for residue before you take him into surgery.”
    The doctor, too, knew the drill. “Of course.”
    Alan Fletcher didn’t. “You want to test me?” he asked unbelievingly. “Why?”
    â€œIt’s nothing to take personally, Senator,” Trace said, accustomed to such protestations. “It’s strictly policy.”
    â€œIt’s policy to harass shooting victims?”
    â€œIt’s policy to test everyone involved in a crime. Once we eliminate you as a suspect, Senator, we can get on to the business of apprehending the perpetrators.” Trace had switched to the tone he used in the old days whenever it became necessary to appease police department brass.
    â€œWell, since you put it that way…” Beads of sweat glistened on the senator’s forehead and above his top lip. “Go ahead.” Alan Fletcher invited magnanimously. He held out his hands. “Do whatever you have to do.”
    â€œThank you, Senator,” Trace said politely. He watched as the DPS technician opened the kit and used a cotton swab to wipe a weak solution of nitric acid over the senator’s hands, concentrating heavily on the palm and the webbing between the thumb and first finger. Fletcher’s gold wedding band gleamed in the fluorescent overhead light.
    After she was done, the technician peeled the protective seal from a piece of paper, pressed it against those same parts of his hands, then sealed the samples in an evidence jar.
    â€œThank you, Senator,” Trace said again, once the test was finished and he’d gotten the wounded man’s signature on a consent to search form. This case was too high profilenot to be played strictly by the book. “Have you remembered anything else about the man who attacked you? Height, weight, clothing?”
    Fletcher shook his head, then winced as if the gesture were painful. “Sorry.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. Perhaps after your surgery, when you’re feeling stronger, things might come back.”
    â€œDo you think so?” The senator looked hopeful and sounded doubtful.
    â€œSure. It happens all the time,” Trace said, not quite truthfully. More often than not time only faded memory. He closed the notebook and returned it to his shirt pocket. “I’ll keep in touch.” The