Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

The flirter who’d escorted her seemed to try to think of some way to ask her out on a date but nothing occurred to him. He turned and left.

“He’ll see you now,” the PA said.

As Sachs stepped into Harry Walker’s office, she couldn’t help but smile.

A weapons manufacturer had to be narrow of face, unsmiling and suspicious, if not sadistic, right? Plotting ways to sell ammunition to Russia while simultaneously shipping to Chechnyan separatists. The head of Walker Defense, however, was a pudgy and cherubic sixty-five-year-old, who happened to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, putting together a pink tricycle.

Walker wore a white shirt, which bulged at the belly over tan dress slacks. His tie was striped, red and blue. He offered a casual smile and rose—with some difficulty; a screwdriver was clutched in one hand and a set of assembly instructions in the other. “Detective Sachs. Amanda?”

“Amelia.”

“I’m Harry.”

She nodded.

“My granddaughter.” He glanced at the bike. “I have a degree from MIT. I have two hundred patents for advanced weapons systems. But can I put together a Hello Kitty trike? Apparently only with great difficulty.”

Every part was carefully laid out on the floor, labeled by Post-it Notes.

Sachs said, “I work on cars. I always end up with an extra bolt or nut or strut. But things seem to run fine without them.”

He set the tool and instructions on his desk and sat behind it. Sachs took the chair he gestured at.

“So, now, what can I do for you?” He was smiling still—just like the middle manager who’d escorted her from the lobby but in Walker’s case the expression wasn’t a flirt. His grin hid both curiosity and caution.

“You’re one of the oldest manufacturers of bullets and weapons systems in the country.”

“Well, thanks to Wikipedia, why deny it?”

Sachs settled back into the comfortable chair, also leather, beige. She glanced at the pictures on the wall, some men at a rifle range, probably around the time of the First World War.

He told her, “We were founded by my great-granddad. Quite an amazing man. I say that like I knew him. But he died before I was born. He invented the recoil system of automatic weapons loading. Of course, there were a half dozen other inventors who did the same and he didn’t get to the patent office first. But he made the best, the most efficient models.”

Sachs hadn’t known about Walker Senior’s contribution but was impressed. There were several ways to get a weapon to fire repeatedly but the recoil system had won out as the most popular. A talented shooter can get off a bullet every few seconds with a bolt-action rifle. A modern automatic weapon can spit nine hundred rounds a minute, some esoteric types even more.

“You’re familiar with firearms?” he asked.

“I shoot as a hobby.”

He eyed her carefully. “How do you feel about the Second Amendment?” A provocative question wearing a gown of mere curiosity.

She didn’t hesitate. “Open to interpretation—the militia versus personal rights.”

The brief Second Amendment of the Constitution guaranteed the right of militias to keep and bear arms. It didn’t specifically say that all citizens had that right.

Sachs continued, “I’ve read George Mason’s notes, and personally I think his intent was that he was referring exclusively to militias.” She held up a hand as Walker was about to interrupt. “But then he added, ‘Who are the militia? They consist now of the whole people, except a few public officers.’ That means the right applies to everybody—back then every citizen was potentially militia.”

“I’m with you!” Walker beamed. “That’s nearly a direct quote, by the way. So, don’t trammel our rights.” He nodded.

“Not quite so fast,” Sachs added coyly. “It’s not the end of the argument.”

“No?”

“The Constitution gives us a lot of rights but it also lets Congress regulate us in a thousand different ways. You need a license to drive a car or fly a plane or sell liquor. You can’t vote until you’re eighteen. Why shouldn’t you have a license to own or shoot a gun? I have no problem with that. And it doesn’t conflict with the Second Amendment at all.”

Walker responded happily, enjoying their argument, “Ah, but of course if we get licenses, then Washington knows where the guns are and they’ll come in the middle of the night and take them away. Don’t we need our weapons to stop them from doing that?”

Sachs riposted, “Washington has nukes. If they want our guns they’ll take our guns.”

Walker nodded. “True, there is that. Now, we’ve been digressing. How can I help you?”

“We recovered a bullet at a crime scene.”

“One of ours, I assume.”

“You’re the only company making a four twenty spitzer boattail, aren’t you?”

“Oh, our new sniper round. And a very fine cartridge it is. Better than the four sixteen, if you ask me. Fast. Oh, fast as a demon.” Then he frowned in apparent confusion. “And the round was involved in a crime?”

“That’s right.”

“We don’t sell to the public. Only government, the army and police SWAT teams. I don’t know how a criminal could have gotten his hands on one—unless he, or she, fell into those categories. Where exactly was the scene?”

“I can’t say at this point.”

“I see. And what do you want to know?”

“Just some information. We’re trying to find the rifle this slug was fired from but not having any luck. We’re assuming they’re custom-made.”

“That’s right. The loads are too big to fire in retooled commercial rifles. Most of the shooters find somebody to make their weapons for them. A few do it themselves.”

“Do you know anyone who does that work?”

He smiled coyly. “I can’t say at this point.”

She laughed. “And that goes for information about customers you’ve sold these bullets to?”

Walker grew serious now. “If somebody had broken into one of our own warehouses—” A nod out the window toward nearby buildings. “—and the rounds were used in a crime, then I’d be happy to help you out. But I can’t give you customer information. We have gag clauses in all our contracts, and in most cases there’re additional national security requirements. To give you information like that would be a crime.” His face grew troubled. “Can you tell me anything about what happened, though? Was it a homicide?”

Sachs debated. “Yes.”

Walker’s face was still. “I’m sorry about that. I truly am. It doesn’t do us any good when somebody misuses our products and something tragic happens.”

But that didn’t mean he was going to help. Walker rose and extended his hand.

She stood too. “Thanks for your time.”

Walker picked up the instructions and screwdriver and walked back to the trike.

Then he smiled and picked up a bolt. “You buy a Harley-Davidson, you know, it comes already assembled.”

“Good luck with that, Mr. Walker. Call me if you can think of anything, please.” She handed him one of her cards—which, she suspected, he’d pitch out before she was halfway to the lobby.

Didn’t matter.

Sachs had everything she needed.

CHAPTER 61

IN RHYME’S DARK PARLOR, redolent of trace materials burned into incriminating evidence by the gas chromatograph, Sachs pulled her jacket off and held up the brochure from Walker Defense.

Ron Pulaski taped it up on a whiteboard. The glitzy piece sat next to the kill order.

“So,” Rhyme said, “what did it look like?”

“Pretty short and hidden between two buildings but I caught a glimpse from Walker’s office. There was a windsock at one end and what looked like a small hangar at the other.”