"At work. Palmer Regional. I'm on break."
More silence, longer this time. Quick bursts of typing that sound urgent.
"Ms. Mitchell, I need you to secure that evidence and not discuss this with anyone else. We'll have an agent contact you soon to arrange retrieval. Can you provide a callback number?"
I give her my cell. She repeats it back, confirms the spelling of my name, asks for my direct supervisor's contact information. This is standard verification protocol, probably. She needs to verify I'm real, confirm the tip's legitimate, and ensure this isn't some elaborate prank.
"One more thing," she says. "You mentioned the files are encrypted. Have you attempted to access any of them?"
"No. Just looked at metadata. I'm not a tech person; wouldn't know how to break encryption even if I wanted to."
"Good. Don't try. Federal evidence needs to maintain chain of custody. An agent will be in touch soon to walk you through next steps."
She pauses, and more typing fills the silence, longer this time. "Ms. Mitchell, for your own safety, I need to stress that you should not attempt to share this information with anyone outside official channels. If you receive any unusual contacts or notice anything out of the ordinary, call 911 immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"An agent will contact you soon. Keep the evidence secure until then."
The call ends with a click that sounds final. I sit there staring at my phone, at the USB drive still plugged into the computer, atmy cold coffee and the deserted break room and the fluorescent lights that hum just slightly off-key.
For your own safety.
The same phrase probably appeared in Emma's case file before someone silenced her.
I did the right thing. I found what Emma hid, reported it, and followed protocol. It's what any reasonable person would do when they stumble across evidence that might matter to an active investigation. It's what she probably tried to do before someone stopped her.
So why does my stomach feel like I just stepped off a cliff?
I pull the USB drive and slip it back into my scrub pocket, then dump my coffee down the sink and rinse the cup. Muscle memory carries me through the motions: back to the unit, check the board for my next patient assignment, pull up charts. This is normal routine. This is a normal shift. The FBI knows who I am, where I work, and how to reach me.
An agent will contact me soon. That's what the woman said.
Emma's files stayed hidden in a locker nobody would touch, wrapped in superstition and three feet of empty space that might as well have been a crime scene marker. I pull them out, call the FBI, and hours later I'm getting safety warnings from a tip line operator who got my supervisor's name before she hung up.
I slip the drive deeper into my pocket and head back to the unit, where a GSW is rolling in and Sandra's calling my name. This is a normal shift. This is a normal Monday. Sandra's already assigning me to the GSW, and I'm pulling on fresh gloves for just another trauma.
The weight in my pocket presses against my hip while I snap the latex tight. Evidence that got the last nurse killed.
Somewhere, a federal recording has my name, my location, my supervisor's contact information. If the wrong people heard that call, they already know exactly where to find me.
2
MARC
The Palmer courthouse looks like every other government building in Alaska—practical construction, minimal decoration, built to withstand winters that would make weaker structures collapse. I push through the front doors into afternoon air that's finally lost some of winter's bite, testimony finished, another case moving through the system.
Arraignment hearing for a DUI I'd arrested outside Whitewater Junction last month. Simple testimony, routine questions, the prosecutor doing her job and the defense attorney doing his. The kind of work that keeps small-town law enforcement functioning—showing up, telling the truth, letting the courts handle the rest.
My truck sits in the courthouse parking lot where I left it this morning. I'm reaching for the door handle when Palmer PD's radio frequency crackles to life on the portable clipped to my belt. I monitor their channel whenever I'm in their jurisdiction, professional courtesy and practical cooperation between departments that share overflow calls when things get busy.
"All units, we have reports of shots fired at Palmer Regional Hospital. Parking garage, lower level. Caller reports possible active shooter situation. Any available units respond."
My hand freezes on the door handle.
Palmer Regional. Less than two blocks from here. I can see the hospital complex from the courthouse parking lot, the multi-level parking garage visible on the north side of the main building.
I key my radio to Whitewater Junction's frequency. "Dispatch, this is Wells. I'm in Palmer finishing court testimony. Responding to Palmer PD's active shooter call at the hospital."
