Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

I picked up the staple gun. "You testfire a lot of these?"

Quarles handed us the headsets. "Gene Schaeffer also said if you didn't amuse me, I could go ahead and shoot you."

I decided against the peppy comeback.

Lopez and I put on our ear protectors. Quarles didn't fire down range. Instead he loaded the Lorcin and went to a large tin box on the side of the room. It looked like the industrial bait tanks they use to stock lakes-about a twohundredgallon model, with a hollow spout sticking up on one side, high enough so that Quarles had to stand on a stool to put the gun into the opening.

He fired six rounds-each a muffled boom and a flash of light in the tank's spout. He pointed at the floor. Lopez and I collected the ejected casings. Quarles dragged his stool around to the side of the water tank, opened the top, and fished around with a long piece of PVC pipe until he'd speared all the slugs.

"Get me a lobster while you're in there," I said.

I knew the comment amused him because he did not shoot me.

Quarles showed us six little mushrooms of copper and lead. The water had slowed them down so the shapes were almost uniform, the lower ends retaining perfect striations from the gun's barrel.

Lopez said, "They're just lovely. I figure we got about five more minutes before my sergeant gets here and makes us eat them."

We adjourned next door to Ben Quarles' office.

His window looked out on the asphalt parking lot, with a scenic side view of the DPS loading ramp. The walls were adorned with framed black and white photos of Geronimo and John Dillinger. A John Prine song was playing from the computer's speaker. On the shelf above Quarles' desk was a line of fired bullets, four Larry McMurtry novels, a red roll of evidence tape circled around a Play Doh can.

Quarles picked up a Ziploc evidence bag from his desk, pulled out a slug. "This is the one from your victim's head. They cleaned the cooties off it."

He threw it to me before I could protest. I looked down at it-a little bit of metal, small as a gumdrop. Quarles plucked it back from my palm, then put the slug and a test slug from Garrett's Lorcin under his comparison microscope.

The machine looked like an oldfashioned icecream blender from a malt shop-same size, same turquoise and chrome finish. Quarles peered into the lens, turned some knobs, and said, "Yeah."

"Match?" Lopez asked.

"Come look."

Lopez did, then turned away, his face stony. "Go on, Navarre."

The image in the microscope was the left half of one bullet jutted up against the right half of another. You could turn a knob to move the dividing line, seeing less of one or the other bullet, comparing size, lines, markings. The bullets rotated slowly, and in the microscope light they were beautiful-gold and silver, like a piece of jewellery highlighted in a homeshopping ad.

I was no expert, but even I could see that the ridges-the lands and grooves-were fairly well aligned.

"You've got a rightsix GRC on the projectile that killed your friend," Quarles said.

"That's the pattern of the spin, and the number of lands and grooves. The projectile we just fired from the suspect's Lorcin is compatible. The damage to the projectile is bad enough that Lopez's man is right-I couldn't swear it's the same gun, but it's definitely from a similar. 380."

I had expected that. It did not dampen my spirits too badly.

"The casing?" I asked, pushing my luck.

Quarles produced another Ziploc bag from his desk drawer, took out the brass I'd found in the lake. "It's a. 380, all right. I put it in the microscope earlier-the crimp marks, where the projectile fits in the casing, line up beautifully. These marks are on the base of the projectile, you understand. Not as mangled as the top."

"Meaning?"

"The casing fits the projectile from the murder."

"A casing in the lake," I said, "maybe a hundred yards from the scene. It was picked up by the killer, dropped in the water during his exit."

Proof. Goddamn, perfect proof that Garrett was innocent. I looked at Lopez for vindication, but Lopez was staring at Quarles, apparently realizing there was more.

"Ain't had the real test yet," Quarles said. "The BOB markingsbreech or bolt face-on this here casing. Give me one of the casings we just fired."

Lopez handed one over, and again Quarles adjusted the comparison microscope.

"Royal flush," he told us.

When it was my turn to look, I saw a circle of brass, cratered in the middle. Nothing exciting.

"The firing pin impression can't always tell you much," Quarles said. "They're circular, pretty much featureless, all the same. One thing, though-look at the outer ring. Those score marks. Now look at the other casing."

I saw what he was talking about-tiny breaks in the circle around the crater. They were similar on both casings.

I pulled away from the microscope. "But you said BOB marks all look the same."

"Mostly," Quarles amended. "For the same type of gun. Usually the firing pin strikes the back of a bullet in a Lorcin, you get a pattern of concentric circles that isn't very distinctive. This casing here, though, has some gaps in those circles-three distinctive gaps, maybe from the gun being cleaned improperly, I don't know. The thing is, your suspect's gun leaves the same kind of marks."

My chest turned cold. "Meaning-"

"This is ballistics. You don't usually get one hundred percent. But the chances of two guns making that same BOB pattern on a casing-they're astronomical. Without that casing you found, I couldn't be very certain, if I had to testify in court. But with the casing-well, the projectile fits the casing, and the casing fits the gun. I'd say your suspect's gun just got pinned to that murder about as well as you can pin it. About ninety percent."

Quarles treated us to a coffeestained grin. Then he noticed my expression. "I hope I helped. You ain't looking too happy for somebody just solved a case."

"He's ecstatic," Lopez promised. "You'll do a Drugfire search for matches on the casing?"

"Yeah," Quarles promised. "That'll take a few more days. Christ, Navarre, I thought I was repaying some favours. You look like I just stabbed you in the back."

John Prine started singing about flag decals on Mr. Quarles' computer.

Lopez looked out into the parking lot, where a maroon LeBaron was just pulling in. A large militarytype AfricanAmerican man in a coat and tie was getting out of the LeBaron, glowering.

"Come on, Mr. Navarre," Lopez told me. "Thanks for your time, Quarles."

In the hallway, Lopez said, "There's a back way through the CODIS office. Take it."

"A hundred yards away, Lopez. I showed you where I found the bullet. You know this is wrong."

His eyes were burning. "I know what ninety percent means, Tres. I know what it'll mean to my sergeant, who's about to walk through that door. And Tres-the bad things I said about Miss Lee? Forget them. Your brother is going to need all the help he can get."

At sunset, the top windows of Ruby McBride's dream house glowed orange.

Most of the yachts were out enjoying an evening cruise. The restaurant was nearly empty. The boat jockeys had little to do except smoke cigarettes, recline on their massive forklift, play cards at the lakefront.

I sat in my truck, idling at the bottom of Ruby's private driveway, trying to decide if I really had enough courage to face another human being.

I'd spent the afternoon at Jimmy's dome, hiding from reporters' phone calls, hiding from the news reports, finishing Jimmy's kiln at the waterfront.

Because of me, because of one brass casing, the investigation had gained lethal momentum. At 2:00 P.M., my brother had been formally charged with murder.

I should've called our sister, Shelley, in Wisconsin, broken her long, selfimposed exile from the family to give her the news. I should've called my mom in Colorado, ruined her vacation. As of yet, I hadn't done either.