Larson entered the hospital’s daycare center only minutes behind a pair of uniformed security guards. Two women, the children’s caregivers, were trying to explain the events to one of the uniformed security guards, while a nurse attempted to entertain the children and a second guard, on his knees, quietly interviewed three of the kids.
Larson pulled rank and removed the two teachers from the room. The more athletic and attractive of the two maintained her composure.
“He said he’d come back and kill us and our families,” she said calmly. “But we-I, actually,” she confessed, eyeing her hysterical friend, “felt the threat to Penny and her mom was more immediate. So we called security.”
Larson sought a description from her, wincing as he heard mention of the intruder’s police uniform, for it stirred up his own memories of the bus attack years before. If he’d harbored any doubt, any question that they were pursuing the same cutter, this initial description sealed it for him. As she went on to describe the man as Mexican or Hispanic, lanky, late twenties, early thirties, Larson nodded. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the man in the bus, but the general description combined with the razor and the use of a uniform was enough to further convince him.
He watched as his only verbal witness withdrew into herself. He recognized the aftershock of a guilty conscience, her second-guessing their cooperating with the man, her reviewing the alternatives they might have had, might have taken. Conscience is so quick to relive, so unforgiving and hypercritical of its own decision-making. Larson knew this about himself and could see it in her now, and knew better than to try to say anything comforting, for such things only solidified one’s convictions that the wrong choice had been made.
Seeing this as a scene that could quickly absorb him, Larson excused himself. The moment local police heard of a federal agent’s involvement, Larson would be delayed by questions he couldn’t answer. He turned and made for the door.
“I know where she lives,” the caregiver called out after him. “ Alice.”
Larson stopped and returned to her, sensing now the impending arrival of police and the need for quick information.
She spoke in a voice that sounded as if she were explaining this to herself. “I drove them both home once.”
From what Larson had learned, her colleague had been dragged off because of this same knowledge.
“Debbie didn’t need to tell him that,” the woman said. “Shouldn’t have told him. I wasn’t about to tell him.”
Larson took her gently by the shoulders. Human contact could have transforming results. He said softly, “I need the address.” When she gazed up into his eyes, Larson added, “With your help, we can stop him.”