Michael Connelly - Blood Work

“Couple things… In both tapes the shooter says something-after the shots. He’s either talking to himself or the camera. There were no reports on that. Was anything done to-”

“There’s a guy in the bureau here who has a brother who is deaf. He took the tapes to him to see if he could lip-read them. He couldn’t be sure but on the first one-the ATM tape-he thought he said, ‘Don’t forget the cashola’ just as he took the money from the machine. On the other tape he was less sure. He thought he might have said either the same thing or possibly something along the lines of ‘Don’t fuck with the’ something or other. The last word was least clear to him on both tapes. I guess I never typed up a supp on it. You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

“All the time,” McCaleb said. “Would the lip reader know Russian if that was what this guy was saying?”

“What? Oh, you mean if it was Bolotov. No, I doubt his brother knows Russian.”

McCaleb wrote down the possible translations of what the shooter had said. He then drummed the pen against the pad and wondered if he should take his shot now.

“Do you have anything else?” Winston finally asked.

He decided it wasn’t the right moment to bring up Carruthers. At least not directly.

“The gun,” he said.

“I know. I don’t like it, either. The P7 is not your routine scumbag’s choice of firearm. It had to have been stolen. You saw I pulled reports on stolens. But like with everything else, I hit a wall. It got me nowhere.”

“I think it’s a good theory,” McCaleb said. “To a point. I don’t like him keeping it after the first shooting. If it was stolen, I see him throwing that thing as far out into the desert as he can about ten minutes after he takes down Cordell. He then goes and steals another for the next time.”

“No, you can’t say that,” Winston said and McCaleb envisioned her shaking her head. “There is no definitive pattern here. He could have been just as likely to keep the gun because he knew it was valuable. And you have to remember, Cordell was a through-and-through shot. He might have figured the lead wouldn’t be found or if it had hit the bank-like it actually did-it would be too mangled for comparison. Remember, he picked up the brass. He probably believed the gun had at least one more use.”

“I guess you’re probably right.”

They took a breather, neither one of them talking for a few moments. McCaleb had two more things on his page.

“Next thing,” he began carefully. “The slugs.”

“What about them?”

“You said yesterday that you’re holding the ballistics from both cases.”

“That’s right. It’s all in evidence lockup. What are you getting at?”

“Have you ever heard of the bureau’s DRUGFIRE computer?”

“No.”

“It might work for us. For you. It’s a long shot but it’s worth a shot.”

“What is it?”

McCaleb told her. DRUGFIRE was an FBI computer program designed along similar lines of computerized storage of latent fingerprint data. It was the brainchild of the crime lab in the early 1980s, when the cocaine wars that broke out in most cities, particularly Miami, were responsible for a jump in murders nationwide. Most of the slayings were by gunfire. The bureau, struggling for a means of tracking related murders and killers across the country, came up with the DRUGFIRE program. The unique characteristics of groove marks found on the spent bullets used in drug murders were read by a laser, coded for computer storage and entered into a data bank. The computer’s program operated in much the same way as fingerprint computer systems used by law enforcement agencies across the nation. The system allowed for the quick comparison of coded bullet profiles.

Eventually, the database grew as more ballistic entries were added. The program was also widened, though it kept the name DRUGFIRE, to include all cases referred to the FBI. Whether it was a mob killing in Las Vegas or a gang killing in South Los Angeles or a serial killing in Fort Lauderdale, every gunshot case sent to the FBI for analysis was added to the database. After more than a decade, there were thousands of bullets on file in the computer.

“I’ve been thinking about this guy,” McCaleb said “He hangs on to that gun. Whatever the reason, whether he stole it or not, his hanging on to it is really the only mistake he’s made. It makes me think we’ve got a chance of making a match. Looking at the MO on those tapes, chances are he just didn’t start popping people beginning with your case. He’s used a gun before-maybe even that particular gun.”

“But I told you, we checked for similars. Nothing on ballistics. We also put out teletypes and a request on the National Crime Index computer. We got blanked.”

“I understand. But this guy’s method could be evolving, changing. Maybe what he did with that gun in, say, Phoenix isn’t the same as what he did with it here. All I’m saying is that there’s a chance that this guy came into town from someplace else. If he did, then he probably used that gun in that other place. And if we’re lucky, the data is sitting there in the bureau computer.”

“Maybe,” Winston said.

She went quiet as she brooded over his proposal. McCaleb knew what the considerations were. DRUGFIRE was a long shot and Winston was smart enough to know that. But if she went for it, she would be drawing in federal involvement, not to mention acknowledging that she was taking direction from McCaleb, an outsider with no real standing in the case.

“What do you think?” McCaleb finally asked. “You only need to send them one bullet. You have, what, four of them from the two cases?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not so keen on sending our stuff off to Washington. I doubt L.A. will be, either.”

“ L.A. doesn’t have to know. You’re the keeper of the evidence. You can send one bullet if you want. And it could be to D.C. and back inside a week. Arrango wouldn’t have to know it was even sent. I already talked to a guy I know in Firearms and Toolmarks. He said he’d grease this one if we got him the package.”

McCaleb closed his eyes. If there was a point at which she might get outright angry, it was now.

“You already told this guy we’d be doing this?” she asked, annoyance in her voice.

“No, I didn’t tell him that. I told him I was dealing with a detective out here who was very thorough and dedicated and would probably want to make sure she left no stone uncovered.”

“Gee, where have I heard that before?”

McCaleb smiled.

“There’s another thing,” he said. “Even if we don’t get lucky with this, we’ll at least have the gun in the computer. Somewhere down the road, it might match up with something.”

She thought about this for a moment. McCaleb was pretty sure he had painted her into the corner. Like watching the cemetery for Luther Hatch. She had to go for it or she’d wonder about it always.

“Okay, okay,” Winston finally said. “I’ll talk to the captain about it. I’ll tell him I want to do this. If he gives the go-ahead, I’ll send a package. One bullet-that’s all.”

“That’s all it takes.”

McCaleb filled her in further on Carruthers’s need to get the package by Tuesday morning and urged her to get in with the captain as soon as possible. This created another silence.

“All I can say is, it’s worth the shot, Jaye,” he said by way of reinforcement.

“I know. It’s just that… well, never mind. Give me your guy’s name and his number.”

McCaleb clenched his fist and punched it into the air in front of him. It didn’t matter how long a shot it was. They were rolling the dice. It felt good to him to be getting something going.