Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

'Do the sneaker prints match any of the others you found inside the woods?'

'No, they don't.'

Darby stared at the grid map, thinking about the person who had shot their way inside the house and cut Sean Sheppard lose. If this shooter was part of the group she'd seen in the woods, why were they standing so far away from the others?

'That's all I have,' Randy said. 'Do you want to examine the evidence yourself, or would you like me to work on it?'

'I want to see one of the Smith and Wesson forties.'

He handed her a bag. He had bagged each spent round individually and marked it with a number to correspond to its location on the grid map. Christ, he's thorough.

Using a pen, she examined the spark plug. It seemed to be the right size. No irregular borders or markings.

'I want to run each one of these through the mass spectrometer.' She told him about the microstamp.

Darby checked her watch. Quarter to four.

'Mark and I won't leave until we're finished,' Randy said. 'I know this is a top priority.'

'I was just checking the time. I need to make some phone calls.'

'Well, we'll be here if you need us.'

'Nice work, Randy.'

'Nothing to it.'

Darby sat in her office chair, typing on her keyboard. She had, courtesy of Police Commissioner Chadzynski, a computer with direct access to the Boston Police Department's Crime Justice Information System, the same network used by homicide detectives and patrolmen.

She found the case file numbers for the murders of Donnie and Sue Sheppard. No details were listed. She looked at the date. April 13, 1983. Homicides prior to 1985 hadn't been transferred to the database. The murder books and physical evidence were stored in one of the trailers out in Hyde Park. She picked up the phone. The desk sergeant who took the call promised to deliver the murder books and the associated evidence to the lab no later than noon tomorrow.

A Google searched revealed that RES did, in fact, stand for Reynolds Engineering Systems. The company was based in Wilmington, Virginia. According to its website, RES was one of the leading developers of microstamping technology.

She had to wait on the line for more than half an hour while her call was transferred to various department heads. Each time she had to reintroduce herself and explain the reason for her call. Each time the person she talked to had to bump the call up to his or her superior. Finally, a vice-president came on the line, and after much discussion he put her in touch with the head of the division in charge of microstamping, a pleasant-sounding woman named Madeira James.

Darby went through the whole rigmarole of who she was and the reason for her call. James put her on hold. Ten minutes later she came back on the line.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss McCormick, but I needed to gather some materials and also check in with some people. Everyone here is, well, more than a little alarmed at the possibility that one of our microstamped prototypes is connected to a homicide investigation.'

'I understand.'

'Those codes you found stamped on the bullet, could you please give them to me again?'

She did.

'Okay,' James said. 'That bottom row of numbers, B4M6?? Those codes correspond to a batch of test ammo we ran on… Here it is, January 16th of last year. According to my notes, the ammo was used for an in-house demonstration.'

'Do you mean a demonstration for company executives?'

'It's possible. The bigwigs like to check in once in a while to see how their money's being spent. The demo could have been given to a law enforcement agency. We're trying to get everyone on board with the new technology, to show them how it will change ballistics identification. Of course, the gun lobbyists are fighting it tooth and nail.'

'I need to know the names of the people who were at this demonstration.'

'I don't have that information here. It's on the other side of the building, under lock and key.'

'You can't access it?'

'Not right now – the vault, as we call it, is about to close for the day. I have to fill out a form to access the records, and I need to get it signed by several people, including the president. I know it sounds like a bureaucracy – and you would be right – but the main reason is we have to be wary of corporate spying. There are four competing companies who are developing some sort of microstamping technology. Only one company will be chosen. We're talking, potentially, hundreds of millions of dollars, so you can see why we need the extra security.'

'The first row, GLK18. Is that the code for a Glock eighteen?'

'That's what I have here in my notes.'

'What do you know about handguns, Miss James?'

'Not much, I'm afraid. I'm just involved in the technology part.'

'The Glock eighteen isn't available here in the States.'

'I see where you're heading. We routinely test different types of ammunition on various weapons – handguns, shotguns, sniper rifles, you name it. Some are illegal, such as semi-automatic weapons, and because we can't purchase them, they're donated to us through various law enforcement personnel. It's all legal.'

'What about the FBI? Have they donated weapons?'

'They have. They're staunch supporters of microstamping. They want to make sure the stamping works on ammo used in various weapons. I seem to recall their bringing a handgun called… a Bar…'

'Barak,' Darby said. The double-action pistol, she knew, had been originally developed to be used by the Israeli Defence Force and was now used by Israeli police. 'When can you get me that list of names?'

'I'll fill out the paperwork tonight and get to work on it first thing tomorrow morning. I can give you copies of the sign-in sheets, if you want. What's the best way to reach you?'

Darby gave the woman her phone numbers and email address. She thanked her and hung up, about to head to ballistics to see if a Glock eighteen had been used in any local or national homicides, when her phone rang.

'Darby McCormick.'

'Miss McCormick, my name is Charlie Skinner.' The man's voice sounded as if his throat were wrapped in barbed wire. 'I'm the superintendent for MCI-Cedar Junction. I need to talk to you about the man who murdered your father.'

Darby remained standing, her heart thudding inside her chest as she watched the raindrops running down her office window.

Her beeper vibrated against her hip.

'Miss McCormick? Are you there?'

'I'm here.' She checked her beeper. Operations had paged her.

'Is this a good time, or should I call back tomorrow?'

'No, Mr Skinner, I'd like to talk now.' She had a strange cramping sensation in her throat. 'Can I put you on hold for a moment?'

'Of course. Take your time.'

She put Skinner on hold and dialled Coop's office.

'Do me a favour,' she said after he picked up. 'Ops just paged me and I'm on the phone. Call ops, get the details and talk to the detective. I'll meet you in your office when I'm finished.'

She picked up Skinner's line.

'Thanks for holding, Mr Skinner.'

'Please call me Charlie. I'm probably old enough to be your grandfather. Miss McCormick, the reason for my call is that John Ezekiel has requested to speak to you.'

'About what?'

'He said he has some information regarding a woman named Amy Hallcox.'

Darby sat on the edge of her desk. 'What sort of information?'

'He wouldn't tell me. He's under no obligation to do so. Isn't Amy Hallcox the woman who was murdered in Belham?'

'Yes. How does he know her? Did he say?'

'No, he didn't. But I can tell you she went to visit him yesterday afternoon.'

The day she was murdered.

'She came in at three thirty and spoke to him for an hour,' Skinner said. 'That's the maximum time we allow. Ezekiel is in Ten Block – that's our maximum-security wing – and since he's been on good behaviour, we allowed the visit.'