Chapter 11 - NIGHTTIME AT THE CLINIC
By 10:30 PM, the neon skyline of downtown Dallas glittered against the pitch-black sky. Mark and I pulled the rented SUV into the shadowed alley behind the Harrison Medical Building—a sleek, five-story glass structure surrounded by manicured hedges and high-end security cameras.
“Ray called ahead,” I whispered to Mark, checking my phone. “He reached Detective Vance from the Dallas PD Homicide Unit. They are dispatching squad cars, but it will take them twenty minutes to get here with a warrant. We don't have twenty minutes.”
Through the tinted glass doors at the rear entrance, a faint amber light flickered on the third floor. Vanessa was already inside, rushing against time to incinerate or delete every trace of Sarah’s forged toxicology reports.
Mark held a heavy iron tire iron he had grabbed from the trunk. His face was set with a quiet, lethal determination I had never seen before. “Let’s go, Dad.”
Using my old police lockpick set, I made quick work of the service door’s deadbolt. The lock clicked open with a muted pop, and we slipped into the dark, silent service corridor.
We bypassed the elevators, taking the concrete fire stairs up to the third floor. Every footstep echoed softly against the walls, amplified by the tension surging through my veins.
When we reached the third-floor landing, I gently pushed the door open. The sign on the frost-glass door down the hall read: DR. ROBERT HARRISON, PRIVATE PEDIATRICS & TOXICOLOGY.
The door to the inner office was standing slightly open. Through the crack, the smell of burning paper mixed with the sharp odor of ozone from a high-capacity paper shredder drifted out into the hallway.
I motioned for Mark to stay behind me. I drew my .38 revolver, holding it close to my chest, and pushed the door open with my foot.
Standing in front of an open wall safe were Dr. Harrison and Vanessa.
Harrison—a slick, fifty-ish man in a tailored navy suit—was frantically shoving stacks of paper into a small metal incinerator box on his desk. Vanessa stood beside him, clutching a leather briefcase filled with stolen cashier's checks.
“Faster, Robert!” Vanessa hissed, her voice trembling with hysteria. “If the police get those original blood samples from the storage locker, we’re both going to death row!”
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“I’m moving as fast as I can!” Harrison snapped back.
“You won't be moving anywhere,” I said, stepping into the office and leveling the gun at Harrison’s chest.
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