“GOOD CALL,” THE EMERGENCY room physician at Arlington Memorial would tell Joe forty-five minutes later.
Joe had arrived at Lana’s apartment complex in time to see her being hustled out of her unit on a gurney, one medic pumping the oxygen bag to assist her breathing through the intubation they’d done onsite at Joe’s insistence. Detective Stokes, a seventeen-year veteran with the Arlington police force, met Joe at his car. They’d watched as Lana was loaded up quickly and the ambulance dashed away, sirens blaring.
After handshakes and introductions, Stokes said, “I think you’re going to want to see this,” and had led Joe over to a cruiser.
Joe bent down to look through the window and saw a young man scowling at him from the back seat.
“Anthony Trume, also known as A.T. I think that i***
