17
A little after noon, Tuck returned with tacos and information. We slipped into the back room for a few minutes so we could eat, and he handed me a photograph. I looked down at an image of the same syringes I’d found in this very room a couple of hours before. “Okay, so you took a photo of the bag.”
He jabbed at the photo with a salsa-drenched finger. “There.”
I leaned down and looked at the spot next to a slice of onion. “Is that a number?”
“It is. A batch number, and this batch was ordered by the hospital about three months ago.” He shoved the rest of his taco in his mouth and then wiped his face with a napkin. “And three syringes were missing from the bag.”
I felt my eyes go wide. “So the syringe that killed Bixley . . .”
“Yep, part of that same batch. The killer hid the rest of
