William Kienzle - Marked for Murder - The Father Koesler Mysteries:

It was not unheard-of for Moellmann to wisecrack during autopsies. Today, out of deference to Tully, whom he respected, the M.E. merely made factual observations as he conducted his examination. And, due to his Prussian demeanor, which dictated that his subordinates follow his lead, the morgue was uncharacteristically quiet this morning as the other doctors mumbled through their respective autopsies.

The clothing was removed and packed away for subsequent examination by the police crime laboratory. Powell's body lay naked on the shiny metal tray. Firm, young flesh. A kid.

Memory transported Tully to the events of last evening that had led to this. He could remember every detail. Indeed, would he ever forget?

Actually, Tully's squad had been investigating another crime entirely. As happened so frequently in Detroit these days, it was a multiple homicide connected with the drug traffic. Three dismembered male bodies had been found in plastic garbage bags in an alley in the north-central section of the city. All three were known drug dealers. Drugs-the most common current cause of gang war in this and many other cities in America.

There followed some intense investigation, calling in of markers, and clandestine meetings with snitches. Everything pointed to a crack house on Curtis not far from Livernois in the vicinity of the University of Detroit.

Tully and five of his squad placed the house under surveillance. This was not a drug bust, nor did they want it to become one. They were looking for David Powell. According to their information, it was Powell who had shot the victims, execution-style, before they were dismembered.

The weather had been pleasant enough for an evening in late July. A clear sky, a gentle breeze, not oppressively hot.

The six officers were in three unmarked cars, cruising the streets, occasionally parking, but making sure that at least one of them was keeping the house in sight at all times. The sort of duty that too often seemed unending. As it had last night.

There were times, as traffic in and out of the house was fairly steady, that the officers strongly suspected the information given them was, intentionally or not, incorrect. Maybe David Powell was not in the house. Perhaps he had never been there.

Then it happened. At about half-past nine, just as it was getting dark, Powell was sighted at the door talking with three young people who had just arrived.

In a matter of seconds, all three cars drew up in front of the house. Sergeant Mangiapane, first on the sidewalk, was approaching Powell.

Tully cursed silently. Of all the officers on this detail, Mangiapane most resembled the stereotypical cop. Large, and a good target, he was walking too quickly, too purposefully.

Tully was out of his car only seconds behind Mangiapane.

Everything happened quickly, too quickly to be assimilated at that moment. Only later, in retrospect, could events be pieced together.

Tully saw the flash of the nickel-plated pistol as it emerged from Powell's cardigan. Evidently Powell had no doubt or hesitation. In one motion the gun was in his hand and aimed at Mangiapane, who was only then going for his own weapon.

But Tully's .38 was out as he shouted at Powell. Later, it seemed it had been the shout that had momentarily distracted Powell. He wavered for a split second, unsure as to whether he should fire at the big white cop in front of him or at the guy who was yelling.

At that instant of indecision, Powell opted for what should have been a sure kill directly ahead: he fired point-blank. Mangiapane spun and fell heavily to the pavement. Was Mangiapane dead or alive? Tully's presumption was that he was dead. How could Powell have missed the kill at that distance?

No time to speculate; the next shot would be at him. But it was a shot that would never come. Tully, aiming almost instinctively, fired once. Afterward, he remembered the look of almost childlike surprise on Powell's face-as if he had but a moment to wonder that his life was over so soon. Then he tumbled down the porch steps.

Pandemonium.

One of the other cars called for backup. In no time, the street was overflowing with cops keeping order and bystanders attempting to upset order.

Tully was numb. Of the numbers of dead and dying he had seen in the course of duty, this one alone belonged to him. Once in his career as a police officer, once in his entire life thus far, had he fired at anyone. And he had fired only once. One bullet, one dead person.

Absently, he wondered about that bullet. Where had it hit Powell? Before he could check out the dead man, Tully had been whisked from the scene. With all the ensuing commotion, no telling what might have happened next.

It seemed an unspoken consensus that it was essential to get two people out of there. Mangiapane needed medical attention and Tully needed protection from the crowd.

Two EMS vans had arrived only minutes after the shootings. Mangiapane and Tully were packed into one and Powell in the other. Powell had no vital signs. But the technicians worked on him feverishly just in case.

Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital pronounced him dead on arrival.

Mangiapane's was a shoulder wound. He was rushed from Mt. Carmel's emergency room to the operating room. His condition was now listed as stable. That announcement was for the media's benefit; Tully had more detailed information. Powell's bullet had lodged in Mangiapane's right shoulder. The bullet had been removed during a relatively brief operation. The prognosis was complete recovery. After an indeterminate time for rehabilitation, Mangiapane should be as good as new.

The fact that Mangiapane had caught the slug in his right shoulder interested Tully. Since he himself had come from Powell's left, Tully reasoned, his shout had distracted the kid just enough that he had shifted the gun ever so slightly toward the sound. Thus the bullet caught Mangiapane in the shoulder rather than inflicting a more serious wound to the chest.

Tully's stream of consciousness led him back to the question of his own bullet, the fatal shot. He returned his attention to Doc Moell-mann and the autopsy.

The M.E. had finished checking the body for bullet wounds, either entering or exiting. There was but one wound. The bullet had entered and stayed.

Tully stole a glance at the body chart Moellmann and the other doctors used to diagram wounds and marks. There was a notation that the wound's shape was oval, which indicated that the bullet had struck Powell's body at an angle. Only natural since Tully had fired from ground level up toward the porch. There were no powder burns; Tully had fired from a distance.

Moellmann continued his examination. Tully had to admit his interest was marginal. Unlike any other autopsy he'd ever attended, he knew exactly what had happened, who had done what to whom and, in all probability, what the conclusion would be. About the only question left to be determined was the path the bullet had taken and where it had finally lodged. Moellmann would take his time tracking its course.

There were, Tully supposed, medical examiners who cut and hacked their way through bodies in search of bullets. But not Moellmann nor his associates. Moellmann's creed was to describe the wound path in anatomical order and to document the path of the bullet by following the track of the hemorrhage through the organs before they were removed from the body. This saved the time and trouble of relying on X-rays to locate the bullet.

While Moellmann measured and probed, Tully's interest strayed to a body on an adjacent table. The dead man seemed to have been elderly. Quite obviously his throat had been cut. Another straightforward probable cause of death.

Dr. Thomas Litka noted Tully's interest. Catching Tully's eye, he nodded toward the corpse. "Zoo, meet John Doe Number 26."