Page 13 of Outsider

“When were you going to tell me about the gunshot wound?” I ask.

Giving me a withering look, she settles back onto the cot and pulls the blankets up to her chin. “What are you going to do? Take me to the hospital? Turn me in?”

A thread of worry goes through me as she pulls back the blankets and I take in the full extent of the bleeding. A red-black stain that’s soaked her shirt all the way to the hem at her hip. “How bad is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to look. Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“There’s no way around your seeing a doctor, Gina.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Let’s get something straight right off the bat. You are not in charge and you are not calling the shots. Do you understand?”

She looks away, seems to sag more deeply into the mattress. For the first time, she looks defeated, as if she’s come to the realization that she’s fighting a battle that can’t be won.

I fish my cell from my pocket, glance down at the screen, drop it back in. Everything we’ve discussed spirals in my brain. Allegations of police corruption. A voluntary confession that she was part of it. All of it punctuated by the fact that I haven’t seen or spoken to her in ten years.

The most pressing issue, however, is the gunshot wound. Unlike the way those kinds of injuries are depicted on TV and in movies, even a flesh wound can become life-threatening without immediate treatment.

I think about my significant other, John Tomasetti—who’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation—and another layer of dread settles over me. I’m hesitant to involve him at this juncture, at least until I have more information and a better handle on what happened last night in Columbus. I won’t be able to put off calling him much longer.

“Gina, do you have proof of any of this?” I ask.

“I have some audio. On my cell. It’s not great. It’s not enough. But it’s a start.” She gestures toward her coat, hanging on a chair back. “If you want me to play it—”

I shake my head. “We need to get that bullet wound looked at first. Let me make a call.” I’m thinking about Tomasetti as I pull the notebook and pen from my pocket. “I need to know who is involved. I need names. All of them.”

“Damon Bertrand. Nick Galloway. Half a dozen patrol cops in the unit. I don’t have all their names.”

An uneasy familiarity curdles inside me as I jot the names on the pad. Damon Bertrand was a patrol officer when I was a rookie. I didn’t know him well, but he was a solid cop, a few years older, well thought of, and on his way up. Nick Galloway was a patrol officer and also had a stellar reputation.

I look up from the pad. “Who else?”

She grimaces. “Ken Mercer.”

The floor shifts beneath me and for an instant it feels as if the gale outside has ripped the house from its foundation and spun it. When I resigned from the Columbus Division of Police, Ken Mercer had just made detective. He was a few years older. Ambitious. Charismatic. Everyone knew he would move up. He and I worked together a dozen times. We were friends. We were more than friends for a short time. He’s the one and only cop I slept with in the ten years I was with the department.

“In case you haven’t kept up with things, Bertrand and Mercer are detectives with the Narcotics Bureau. Galloway is a sergeant in the Patrol North Subdivision. Frank Monaghan is deputy chief.”

Deputy chief is one of the highest positions in the Columbus Division of Police, just below chief.

“They are the heart of this,” Gina says firmly. “They’re tight-knit and if you cross them, they will find a way to take you out.”

I get to my feet, look down at her, and sigh. Gina Colorosa was always larger than life. Back in the day, I’d looked up to her. She was ambitious and unafraid. Flawed and unapologetic. I’d wanted to please her. Be like her. Now I look at her and I see woman who betrayed not only herself, but the institution we loved, and the laws we’d sworn to uphold.

I think about Adam Lengacher and his children. Though I haven’t yet decided how much I believe of her story or what I’m going to do about it, I’m struck by the possibility that someone—law enforcement or some other unsavory individuals—is looking for Gina.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going until I ran out of options.”

“When’s the last time you used your cell phone?” I ask.

“I was still in Columbus.” She frowns at me. “Don’t worry. It’s a burner. No one knows about it.”

“I’m going to make some calls. See what I can find out about that warrant.” I send a nod to the bloodstain on her shirt. “We need to take care of that gunshot wound.”

She looks away, saying nothing.