Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

David resisted ripping away the switch as he flipped it to darken and silence the room.

Japanese rifle in tow, he drove to police headquarters after deciding-with little deliberation-to abandon any boycott of Sparky and his crime lab. He had no means of identifying firearms and, besides, he now possessed evidence of a more concrete nature, evidence that shouldn't be withheld from the authorities. Pissed off or not.

He was granted entrance to Sparky's office when he waved the rifle in the air before the receptionist and indicated its implication in a murder. It was four-fifteen.

"David, hello," Sparky said with no hint of annoyance. "I'll be right with you." It appeared as if Sparky hadn't noticed the rifle as he turned back toward a bench, extinguished a Bunsen burner and emptied a beaker of foul-smelling liquid into the sink. He wiped his hands on an apron, wheeled around and automatically latched onto the cloth-protected stock of the rifle as David thrust it toward his solar plexis.

"What's this?" the criminalist asked.

"I found it in Victor Spritz's garage. Sorry to barge in, Spark, but any chance of working on it before the day's out? It could be the Japanese model that did Coughlin in." David took off his scarf and gloves and held them in his hand.

Sparky rotated the weapon as he examined it, then placed it on the bench over two blocks of wood he had slid into place.

"I can do it right now. Hell, what's another fifteen minutes of backlog? Prints can wait-they're tough to lift from guns, anyway, but I can see if it fired the slug we have."

"Yeah, prints can wait," David said. "I suppose if it's the gun, the prints might be irrelevant."

Sparky gave him a look of benign condescension and said, "Not necessarily."

"Oh?"

"Someone else might have used it."

In his haste to have the rifle identified, David felt little embarrassment. "I can wait?" he asked.

"Uh-huh. Watch, if you want. Let me go get the slug first."

He left for a few minutes and returned with a shoebox from which he extracted a bullet with a four-by-four gauze pad cupped in his hand. "See," he said, "you guys aren't the only ones using these things."

David took two steps back and remained quiet as Sparky donned latex gloves, then worked deftly on and in the rifle, offering such mutterings as "groove and land count" and "rifling" and "direction of twist." He studied the bullet under a microscope, glanced back at the weapon and consulted a manual. He counted bullet grooves, examined cartridge casings he pulled from the box, and took photos of the rifle.

Finally, the criminalist confronted David and said, "No doubt. I don't need spectrography." He looked surprised.

"No doubt what?" David said.

"The rifle and fired bullet match."

"You're certain?" David's eyes pierced the criminalist's.

"Ninety-nine per cent, at least. I'd testify to it."

"Son-of-a-bitch! All along, I thought he was …" David looked about blankly and added, "God, I'll be … "

"Damned? Me, too. I've met him a few times and he always gave me the willies. You having him brought in?"

David knew that when his mind was sorting and collating and he was presented with a question, the crease above his nose deepened, and he felt it. "What-what's that?" he said.

"You bringing Spritz in?"

"If we can find him. Yeah, we've got to find him."

David put on one glove and paused. "One last thing-I always seem to be saying that-but, one last thing: you said your handwriting expert will be out of town for some time. Well, I really want to nail this guy and the more evidence, the better. And my guess is, the sooner the better."

"I'm not sure I can reach her, David."

"No, I don't mean that. I have a friend who does that sort of thing and I was wondering if I could borrow back a sample of the printing-you know, maybe the tape that was on the rock."

Sparky stared at David while running his tongue around the inside of his cheek. He remained silent as he searched through the box and pulled out a piece of tape that was glued to a tongue blade. He extended it to David with both hands but did not release it while he spoke. "You've asked me for several favors lately. Now, I have one to ask of you."

"By all means, shoot."

"Don't tell Nick I gave you this."

"Of course I won't." David wasn't surprised.

He snapped up the tape. Now all he had to do was come up with a friend who did that sort of thing.

David put on his other glove and was about to leave.

"Wait a minute," Sparky said. He left and in a minute returned with the sign from the EMS office. He handed it to David and said, "You'll need this for comparison. We're assuming Victor Spritz wrote it. "

David had missed teaching the karate class again-two days before-but told himself he was not to be denied his personal session with other black belts this night, Thursday.

It was one of those nights he needed right about now: rough-and-tumble on the mat, followed later by time with Kathy. A brief surcease from mounting questions. Both a decompression and a tune-up. He believed his mind had soaked up too much for one day and, although receiving the print evidence from Sparky was helpful, he sensed he was nowhere near solving the mysteries plaguing Hollings General over the past ten days.

And also plaguing David. Where were the snappy diagnoses of Medicine? The lucid paths to treatment and recovery? He had yet to make his first final diagnosis in this new world of detection.

On the climb to Bruno's studio at ten before five, he had a question for each step he took. Where is Spritz? Back in Cartagena? What about the drug connection? Has Kathy notified the Narcotics Unit?

Back to the print evidence. Who's to say the printing is Spritz's? The basis for comparison is the sign from the EMS office door. Couldn't Foster have put it there? Should printing samples be obtained from him? From Bernie? From Spritz's house? Or from Detective Chief Nick Medicore? He might want one from me! David puckered his brow as if everyone else's troubles had become his.

He reached his locker and sat with some relief, conscious of a sigh, receptive to the familiar gymnasium aroma that came down the hall like an invitation to follow where it led. He had time before the others arrived, so he made a slow ritual of changing into his judogi costume, then standing before the mirror attached to the end of the lockers. He adjusted and readjusted the black sash at his waist, gripped the carpet with his bare feet, and rotated his upper body from right to left several times. He stretched his head to his shoulder, a prizefighter awaiting the opening bell. He heard Bruno's tutorial voice next door.

David walked toward the main gym and, through the entrance to the beginners' room, saw a semicircle of young men standing at attention. Nine, he counted. They were clad in grey sweats. He recognized one of them, the one in the middle, the one with a swollen lip and purplish ear and wearing dark glasses: Robert Bugles.

Robert gave him a half-wave from waist level. David raised his hands in front, palms up, in a what's-going-on gesture. He had never interrupted a karate class before, but neither had Hollings General ever been racked with a string of murders, and anything or anyone connected to one of the victims could change his routine.

He waited for a natural break in Bruno's discourse and walked through the doorway.

"Excuse me," he said.

"David, you're here," Bruno replied. "Would you like to say a few words to the group?"

"No, no, that's okay. Sorry to interrupt, but I just have a message for Robert Bugles there. Could I see you after you finish?" David knew the beginners' sessions and his own ended at six. Robert nodded yes.

"Good, I'll be at my locker. Thanks, Bruno," David said, ducking out of the room.