Faye Kellerman: Double Homicide

“What else?” said Wilde. “When the bullets started, there was mass panic. Asshole claims he was just there, someone else did the shootings, the only reason he was singled out was because he was from Ducaine.” Wilde frowned. “When we searched him, we didn’t find a weapon.”

“Find it anywhere else?”

“Hey,” said Wilde. “You must be a detective. Yeah, that’s the problem. We found weapons. As in plural. Lots of weapons.” He shook his head. “It’s like every idiot in the place was packing. Man, this one’s gonna take up lots of time. It would sure make it easier if someone confessed.”

McCain nodded. He knew the drill. Detectives would go through the confiscated firearms and try to pair each weapon to its owner using gun ID numbers-if they hadn’t been filed or acid-burned off-state reg numbers, latent prints. But prints were often hard to pull from a fired weapon, because when a gun was discharged, hands jerked and slid and stuff got smudged. Even so, Ballistics would be required to discharge each recovered firearm into gelatin blocks to get the tool markings. Hopefully, one set of markings would line up with the fatal bullet. It was tedious, tedious business.

“I’ll help if you want.”

“That’d be a good thing.” Wilde held up the paper evidence bag. “I’m gonna take these bullets over to the lab as soon as the ME’s done. Gomes found some casings downstairs where we think the perp fired off his rounds. The angle looks good, but the shooting team will let us know for sure. Where’s Dorothy’s kid?”

“With the other witnesses.”

“I’ll go talk to him.”

“Why don’t you let me do it, Cory?”

Wilde looked at him. “You’re a little close to this, Micky.”

“I can get more out of him than you can.”

Wilde snorted. Gave it some thought. “Not with Dorothy around.”

He was right, but it was going to be a trick to separate Mama Lion from her cub.

“I got an idea, Wilde. Why don’t you take the bullets over to Ballistics and get some shut-eye and Dorothy will wait for the ME. She’ll bring you up to speed in the morning.”

“That ain’t protocol, Micky. What’s she looking to get out of this?”

“She knows the mother-Ellen Van Beest.”

Wilde considered that. “You’re saying she definitely wants in?”

“I’m just making an educated guess about my partner.”

“And you?”

“We’re partners. Here’s the deal: I’ll help you mix and match weapons. And the sooner you get the rounds over to Ballistics, the sooner we’ll have information on the type of weapon fired. It’ll narrow down the search. Meanwhile, you can catch some shut-eye. You look like shit.”

Wilde glared. “Sure. Send her up here.”

“You could do worse,” said McCain. “Dorothy has a nose for reconstructing crime scenes.”

“Well, we need something. Man, it’s nothing but confusion.” Wilde shook his head. “So either you or her will let me know what the ME says?”

“You bet.”

McCain stared down at Julius Van Beest’s lifeless body.

Like he needed a doc to tell him that the poor bastard had been shot to death.

Dorothy Breton was a big woman, but it took McCain over ten minutes to find her. Interspersed in the throng were much bigger people: the giants of college basketball. They loomed over Dorothy, making her appear average height. Still, she was a presence, and it was her voice that McCain homed in on.

She was sitting at the bar, a hand on Marcus’s arm. A gesture of comfort, but it did little to calm the boy. His face was raw pain. He was shouting at her.

“I keep telling you I don’t remember, Mama! Why do you keep going over it again and again?”

“Because every time we talk, you remember more than you think.”

McCain elbowed his way through the crowd and took the seat next to his partner. “You’re wanted upstairs,” he told Dorothy. She threw him a puzzled look. “I told Wilde you’d be there when the ME came. No one’s bagged the hands yet.”

“You notice any powder residue?”

“Couldn’t see a damn thing in this lighting, but I didn’t smell it. Still, we need to assume and make sure. If the shysters go for the self-defense angle, and no one checked his hands for powder, we’re gonna look like asses.”

“Did you find a discharged weapon near him?”

“No, but there was a couple of shells in the area. Could be old ones, but we gotta check it all out.”

“So there is a possibility that Van Beest shot back… or shot first.”

“It’s possible.” McCain shrugged. “Anyway, Wilde just left to take the ammo down to Ballistics. The bad boys look like.32 caliber.”

“How many?”

“Four, I think.”

“Any other victims in that area other than Julius?”

“Not that I could tell,” McCain said.

“So someone unloaded on him.”

“We were told that there was conflict between Julius and one of the Ducaine players. The offending person left and returned later, spoiling for a battle. We don’t know who shot first or if Julius shot at all. That’s why we gotta go up there and bag the hands before the ME comes.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” Dorothy asked. “I’m busy.”

“I’ll take over what you’re doing.”

Dorothy glared. McCain shrugged her off. “I told Wilde that you got a nose for crime scenes. He said to send you upstairs and look around.”

“I got a nose for bullshit. Someone’s trying to get rid of me.”

McCain didn’t answer. Dorothy frowned and got up from her seat. As she walked away, she looked over her shoulder at her son. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Goddamn!” Marcus swore out loud after his mother was gone. “What does she want from me? I didn’t see anything!”

McCain put his hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “Maternal concern.”

“Fuck, I’m concerned, too.” The kid was yelling. “I’d help if I could, but I hit the ground just like everyone else after the shooting started.” Marcus’s eyes narrowed in defiance. “Can I go now?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

The boy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“C’mon, indulge me, Marcus.” McCain stood up. “Let’s take a walk. Looks like you could use some air.”

Marcus didn’t respond. Then, abruptly, he shot to his feet and grabbed his overcoat. “Anything to get the hell out of here.”

The deputy medical examiner was a child, although in Dorothy’s perception everyone under fifty was a child. But this one really was a baby with her fresh white face and her big, round “omigosh” blue eyes and her skinny body and little skinny wrists that were covered by latex gloves. Expensive coat, looked like cashmere or at least a blend.

Obviously a virgin, “cause after you messed up a nice piece of threads on human body fluids, you learned.

Dorothy walked up and introduced herself as Detective Breton from Boston Homicide, and the little girl said she was Tiffany Artles. “MD” on her name tag, but she was not using the title. Like she was embarrassed. Or patronizing.

All that did was further piss Dorothy off. If you’re a goddamn doctor with a goddamn degree, use your goddamn title. She wasn’t goddamn threatened.

Stupid people. Though for all she knew, Tiffany Artles’s MD was from Hah-vuhd.

It just showed how the city, as liberal as it was, really didn’t give a rat’s ass about the death of a black boy. If it did, no green-around-the-ears cashmere coat would’ve been sent.

Look at her, actually shaking as she opened her doctor’s bag. Of course, it didn’t help that Dorothy was glaring at her. She knew she wasn’t being fair, but she didn’t give a damn about that, either.