Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

He got up, crossed over to the machine, and turned it on. "When we got this from ATF, one of the conditions was that we use it as much as possible. It costs a quarter of a million dollars, after all. So, along with encouraging everyone across the state to send us anything ballistic, we also made a file of all those old bullets."

He took the cramped office in with a general sweep of the hand. "It didn't hurt, either, that we could then throw out the chest of drawers." He paused. "Although part of me is a little nostalgic about that. It used to be fun poking through that collection, wondering about all the stories it contained."

He began typing commands, still talking. "Anyhow, as a result of all the data entry, we got a hit right off when we entered the test-fired bullet from the Blackhawk. The computer does that automatically-scans every new item with what it already has in memory."

He abruptly sat back and pointed to the screen. "And voila, see for yourself."

Joe looked over the scientist's shoulder at the split screen. There was no denying the similarities between the two color pictures of two matching bullets.

"I see what you mean," he said softly. "Were you able to raise the gun's serial number, too?"

Nash made a face and switched off the IBIS. "No, sorry. Whoever ground it down really went for it. Usually, they stop when they can't see the numbers anymore, not knowing about the visual echo underneath. But either this guy knew his metallurgy or he was just luckily heavy-handed. Anyhow, we couldn't get a thing. The FBI might give it a try, if you'd like. They have fancier methods than we do."

"You think it would be worth it?" Gunther asked.

Nash was appropriately equivocal. "I wouldn't dream of answering that, Joe. Could come home to roost. It ain't cheap, if money's a concern. Whose case is this, by the way? Bratt PD's or yours?"

Gunther looked at him in surprise. "Good point," he admitted. "I better clear that up. I'll let you know later if we should send the gun to the FBI."

Nash gave him a conspiratorial smile and asked, "You're not leaving right off, are you?"

"Why? You have something else?"

"Nothing earthshaking, but it's a nifty confirmation. Something they love in courtrooms, assuming this gets that far."

He returned to one of the desks, from which he extracted a white paper bag. What he laid out on the table was the Ruger Blackhawk, now disassembled.

He picked up the gun's frame and pointed to the slot where the hammer fit when the gun wasn't cocked. "We figured the misfire occurred because the hammer spur came in contact with Mr. Oberfeldt's head, thereby depressing the pin. That would've caused a vicious wound, resulting in a lot of blood coating the gun. At least that was the reasonable assumption." He held up the frame so Joe could see right into the empty hammer slot. "You can't see anything with the naked eye, but I thought that even if the gun had been wiped off later, some blood probably worked its way into the inner workings here." He straightened and smiled again. "And that's just where the folks up the hall found a sample. Its DNA matches the old samples on file from Mr. Oberfeldt."

Joe nodded appreciatively. "Nice work, Malcolm."

Nash poured the gun back into the envelope. "There's more, although now we're wandering into the land of speculation. I don't know if you fully appreciate what I just told you. Blood samples dating back thirty years are pretty rare; getting them in good enough shape to retrieve DNA is telling."

Gunther appreciated the other man's sense of drama. He'd clearly hit a home run and was hoping to stretch out the applause. "Telling in what way?" he prompted.

"Guns see a lot of action, no pun intended," Nash explained. "They get carted around, often get shot and cleaned on a regular basis. They get wet; they're exposed to heat; they're left out in the cold. Especially over a course of decades."

"All of which raises hell with any blood sample," Joe suggested.

"Correct." Malcolm Nash looked at him meditatively. "Which leads me to say that if I were a betting man, which I emphatically am not, I'd venture that up until the time Mrs. Purvis ended her marriage with that gun, it had been leading a peaceful, protected, sheltered life."

He stood up and shook Joe's hand, adding, "I give you that for what little it may be worth."

It felt as if Tony Brandt had been Brattleboro's police chief since Christ wore shorts, although he'd actually joined the department a few years after Joe. So long a tenure was rarely healthy. Even chiefs once considered innovative and far-thinking seldom managed to maintain that reputation as the years took their toll.

Brandt was the exception. A tall man who wore glasses and tweed jackets and had once smoked a pipe continuously until workplace rules prohibited it, he'd always seemed more like Mr. Chips than a lifelong cop. But a cop is all he'd ever been, and a cop who'd managed to avoid the trends in favor of changes that truly worked, from community policing to use of nonlethal weapons, to streamlining paperwork. It was he who'd made sure the department had a trained hostage negotiator, and despite the outcome of the Purvis shooting, no one was arguing that such programs hadn't improved law enforcement in Brattleboro.

He now sat in his corner office, his feet up on the cubbyhole-equipped desk he'd built himself in his garage, watching Gunther quietly as he had through the years, listening to what his old friend had on his mind.

For his part, Joe always felt comfortable in this role, knowing Brandt to be a thoughtful sounding board, although the absence of the fog of pipe smoke still threw him, apparently more than it did the ex-smoker in question.

"So," Joe concluded, having detailed his recent activities, "it looks like the Klaus Oberfeldt case is open again, or at least deserving of more digging."

"And you want to know if you can have at it or if I want to keep hold of it?"

"Something like that."

Brandt stretched his arms high above his head and let his hands come to rest behind his neck. "There's a no-brainer. It was your case to begin with, felony crimes is what VBI is supposed to do, and I don't have the time, money, or manpower to spend on it. I give it to you with my best wishes, and with full access to all our records."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"I do have a question, though," Tony said, "which has nothing to do with the actual investigation, then or now."

Joe felt a stirring in his chest, knowing where this was headed. He'd been there a dozen times himself ever since Oberfeldt's name had first resurfaced.

"Case or no case, that was a bad time for you, Joe, at least according to what little you've told me. You sure you're comfortable revisiting that ground? Someone else could check it out without a worry-leave you to get on with your life. You told me yourself you worried that the case went cold because you were sidetracked by what was happening at home. That somehow you felt you dropped the ball."

Leave it to Tony to put his finger right on it, Joe thought. He got to his feet and moved to the door, pausing there to answer. "That's one reason I want it."

"You didn't, for what it's worth," Tony added. "I wasn't around then, but I know that much."

"Drop the ball?" Joe asked.

"Yeah."

Joe smiled wistfully, all the memories so fresh. "With any luck, maybe I'll get to find that out for myself."

Back when Joe was playing catch-up on an assault that became a robbery and finally a murder six months later, he was married to someone he deemed the love of his life: a kind, gentle, funny, passionate woman named Ellen.

This wasn't exactly objective. She had been all those things, but she'd had her flaws, too. He just couldn't recall them. The adage has it that you can't compete with the dead. Over time, they just keep growing in stature.