Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“To where Sam Spelling was shot.”

Grant led O’Brien up the side entrance steps of the U.S. district courthouse in Orlando, a forty-year-old building. Dan pointed to the top step. “Spelling had reached this point. The federal marshals escorting him said Spelling had turned around and asked if it would be okay to smoke a cigarette over there on the side before he went in to testify. He was nervous. The sniper’s bullet caught Spelling about here,” he pointed to a spot between his heart and top of his shoulder. Bullet was a. 303 British.”

Dan took half dozen steps and pointed to the far left door. “That spot on the door, the one that’s been sanded, filled and painted over, is where we dug out the round after it passed through Spelling. Clean shot. Didn’t even hit a bone.”

O’Brien looked in the direction of a parking garage across the street. Then he backed up and stood next to the door. He marked his height at six two with his right hand, made a small line on the door with his pen, and used his driver’s license to mark off three-inch increments down to the spot that was sanded and painted. He looked at the place where Spelling was standing when he was shot.

Dan said, “I see where you’re looking. I almost hate to say it, but they combed the garage. It’s only nineteen floors. Spent two days up there. Metal detectors. Dogs. Nothing. Not even a sweat stain or boot mark left anywhere that we could see.”

“How well do you think they checked the roof?”

“That’s the first place they started.”

“Should have been the last. How about the third floor?”

“Out of nineteen floors, the largest parking garage in the city, why the third?”

“The building is about one hundred yards from this spot. Spelling was five-eight. If he stood right there, and the round hit here, the bullet dropped about a half inch. The shot came from between the second and fourth floors. Let’s go in the middle, to the third.

O’Brien parked his jeep close to the opening of the third floor that provided a view of the courthouse. He got a pair of binoculars out of the glove box and said, “Let’s try to see it from the shooter’s perspective.”

“I guess that would be the closest thing we got to a scope right now,” said Dan.

O’Brien walked to the farthest right-hand corner. “I don’t see any surveillance cameras in this vicinity.”

“Most are in the high traffic areas. We checked the hard-drives to see what came and went an hour before and a half hour after-on either side of the time Spelling was hit. Everything checked clean except the second vehicle to leave. Two minutes after the shooting. A blue van. Tag stolen.”

“Who was it registered to?”

“Guy’s name is Vincent Hall. Says it was stolen off his Mercedes.”

“Where was his Mercedes parked?”

“Third floor.”

“Where on the third floor?”

“Over there,” Dan pointed to a far corner.

“I bet the blue van was right beside the Mercedes. Perp may have arrived early-first thing-got here early to find the best spot. Check that on the tapes. He laid low here. Waited for Spelling to be paraded up the courthouse steps, and fired one shot. Guy’s damn good, an expert.”

O’Brien walked to the corner. A red Cadillac was in the spot closest to the corner and the large concrete pillars. He stared out the open breezeway across to the courthouse steps. He looked through the binoculars.

O’Brien surveyed the area. He found a crumpled cigarette pack. No sign anyone had been smoking. There was an empty five-gallon bucket of roofing tar. It sat adjacent to an opening between one of the concrete pillars and the steel girder. O’Brien squatted down behind the bucket. “Let me see the glasses from here.” Dan handed him the binoculars. “I believe the shooter used this bucket to steady the rifle. The bucket’s been left behind from some construction work. Have your department set up a laser right here. It should match the trajectory to the hole in the door.”

O’Brien looked down at a gutter with half-inch grates spaced to allow the water in but to keep most of the leaves and debris out. The gutter ran the entire length of the floor. He looked in one of the slots and said, “Too dark to see anything.”

“I’d doubt if you’d find a casing in there. Perp probably picked it up. Bouncing in one of these holes would be like hitting one of the ring tosses at the county fair.”

O’Brien heard a car door close. He looked over in the garage and saw a woman locking her door. “Dan, give me your badge for a second.”

“Sean, it’s one thing to be out here with me impersonating a cop. But if you take my ID, you’re busted. In case you haven’t looked…our skin color is a little different.”

O’Brien grinned. “They always look at the shiny badge first.”

Dan sighed, handing O’Brien his detective’s shield.

“Ma’am!” shouted O’Brien.

The woman, dressed in a business suit, turned to look. O’Brien approached her with the ID and said, “Police ma’am. We’re investigating a shooting. And we’ve run into a little challenge. Maybe you can help.”

“I’m late for court. I don’t-”

“May I borrow the mirrored makeup compact in your purse?”

“How’d you know I carry one?”

“Lucky guess.” O’Brien smiled,

“Okay, I suppose.”

She opened her purse. “Just take it.”

“Thank you. If you can afford to wait thirty seconds, I’ll hand it right back.”

O’Brien took the compact, opened it, and angled the mirror so the sun would reflect through the slots in the gutter near the bucket. He dropped to his knees, trying to peer through the grates. He moved the mirror slowly, like a small searchlight in the dark. He saw loose nails, a dime, leaves, and something the color of polished brass near a leaf. “Dan, would you get a coat hanger out of the back of the Jeep?”

The woman watched as Dan got the coat hanger out and handed it to O’Brien. He untwisted the hanger, fashioned a small hook, stuck it into the grate, and carefully lifted the shell casing up from the dark. O’Brien stood, the casing winking like gold in the sunlight. “Hand me an evidence bag,” he said. As he dropped the casing into the bag he said, “. 303, British Springfield. Sometimes you get lucky at ring toss.”

After O’Brien dropped Dan Grant off at the sheriff’s office, he placed a call to Florida State Prison at Starke. He was transferred three times and finally got the deputy assistant warden on the phone.

“Mr. O’Brien, I understand you’re on the approved call list. But each call has to be accepted by Charlie Williams. It’s not up to us…who he talks to.”

“I understand that. Can you get him to a phone?”

“Not a question of getting him to a phone, it’s getting a phone to Williams.”

“What do you mean?”

“Governor’s signed William’s death warrant. He’s moved from his cell on death row to a deathwatch status. Which means he’s down to extremely limited phone calls.”

“He still can speak with his attorney, right?”

“Are you his legal counsel?”

“I’m on his legal team.”

Here was an audible sigh. The assistant deputy warden said, “Guess we’re gonna have to install a phone in Williams’ cell. Media types are callin.’ CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, you name it.”

“I understand your frustrations. Part of the state system in Florida is due process up until an inmate is in fact executed. No one wants an innocent man to go to his grave.”

“Gimme your number. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

O’Brien drove east on I-4 and took it to Highway 46 toward U.S. 1 and Ponce Inlet. His cell rang. It was Detective Ron Hamilton.