Kill Shot

by Susan Sleeman

  Olivia’s schedule showed back-to-back appointments that day starting at eight a.m. She couldn’t have been in Mobile and gotten back to her office for that appointment. Still, they would confirm her alibi with the client.

  “As the ViCAP report says,” Skinner continued, “we didn’t recover a slug, but one had embedded in a fence and was removed with a knife. We called in an SBI ballistics expert who placed the shooter at about eight hundred yards.”

  Rick respected the staff at Alabama’s State Bureau of Investigation and had no reason to doubt their accuracy, but he would still check it out. “Your thoughts on who might want to kill Santos?”

  Skinner leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Not too many shooters who can make that kind of shot, so we’re looking for a very skilled marksman.”

  Rick wished he could tell Skinner that he was way off base here, as his theory was likely driving his investigation, but Rick wasn’t free to mention the smart bullet.

  “You’ll see in my files that Santos had no connections to the local gun community,” Skinner continued. “And he was well loved. I haven’t located any one who has a grudge against him.”

  “Obviously someone does.”

  “Or he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  After Griffin had died the same way, Rick sincerely doubted that, but he couldn’t mention his reasoning, as he wasn’t about to lead Skinner to the team’s investigation. “What about financial issues? Gambling, et cetera. He have any problems?”

  “Nada. He was clean and responsible.” Skinner snapped forward and glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting in an hour, so let’s continue this at the scene.”

  Rick nodded his understanding, but he wasn’t moving before confirming the completeness of the report. A detective was only as good as his report-writing skills, and Rick wanted to know if Skinner had covered all bases.

  “Give me a sec.” In the folder he found witness statements. Clear photographs of the scene. Detailed evidence lists. Documentation of the scene and an evidence log. Missing were any video files and Santos’s service record book. Santos had separated from the marines years ago, meaning Skinner wouldn’t think military at this point, so the missing SRB made sense. Questioning it would only raise a red flag.

  Rick thumbed through the last pages. “No autopsy report.”

  “ME isn’t finished with it, but I attended the autopsy and my notes are in the file. Nothing remarkable other than the bullet removal and the tattoo that was in my ViCAP report.” Skinner got to his feet.

  Rick didn’t budge. “Still, I’ll need the complete autopsy report.”

  “I don’t know how it usually works for you, but around here the ME is on his own timetable.”

  “I’m sure a little prodding will speed him up.”

  “You haven’t met our ME.” Skinner held up a hand. “But before you go all demanding fed on me, I’ll give him a call to see if I can get a report today and e-mail it to you.”

  Having gained Skinner’s offer to help, Rick stood. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I may strike out.” Skinner started for the door. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to tell me why the feds are interested in my case.”

  Rick kept in step with Skinner. “As I told you on the phone, it has similarities to an investigation I’m working.”

  He glanced at Rick, his eyebrow quirked. “I’m going to read between the lines here the way we always have to do with you feds and assume you’re working a murder investigation.”

  Rick didn’t deny or confirm it.

  “If we have two deaths that are related, then we might be talking serial.”

  “I don’t know that our cases are related yet, so don’t jump to conclusions.”

  Skinner pressed open the exit door to the lobby where Olivia sat waiting. She’d have been far more comfortable at her friend’s house, but Rick couldn’t leave her on her own for safety reasons. Or for his team’s peace of mind while she was still a suspect.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  She got up and, thankfully, didn’t ask about the investigation. He’d warned her in advance not to share any information about Griffin. It was nice that she complied while they walked to the elevator, where Skinner left to get his own car. Rick had the address for the murder scene and would use GPS to find his way.

  In the car he waited for Olivia’s questions, but she didn’t speak. She hadn’t said much since their discussion on the way to Mobile, so he had to believe she was still frustrated with him. He didn’t usually stew over other people’s feelings, but Olivia’s silence for the drive to the crime scene bothered him more than he cared to admit.

  He parked behind Skinner and turned to her. “I’m sorry to make you sit in the car, but—”

  “I have no business hearing what the two of you discuss.”

  “I would have phrased it a little nicer, but yes.” He reached for the handle. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  Folder in hand with diagrams for the crime scene, Rick made sure to keep Olivia in sight as he met Skinner on the sidewalk near a telltale bloodstain. It was brown now and scuffed from foot traffic, and the average passerby wouldn’t have a clue that a murder occurred here except for an impromptu memorial holding flowers, stuffed animals, and candles.

  “Santos was facing south.” Skinner pointed at a fence due north of the stain. “Bullet lodged in the fence post. Or at least we’re assuming the damage was caused by the slug and removal.”

  Rick quickly estimated the distance and wasn’t surprised the bullet had traveled so far before lodging.

  “Of course, with it pried out of the wood, we can’t confirm caliber and had to rely on the ME’s evaluation. Which he readily admits is a guess.”

  “But you did confirm a knife made the pry marks in the fence.”

  He nodded. “According to the SBI expert, anyway.”

  “You doubt it?”

  “Nah, I don’t have the expertise to comment on the findings is all.”

  If there was any question about the bullet and removal, Brynn would put it to rest.

  “And the shooter’s location?” Rick asked.

  Skinner jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “We believe it’s the parking garage. Fifth floor. Address is in the report. At least that’s what the—”

  “—SBI expert said.”

  “Right. The details are all in my report.” He glanced at his watch again. “You’ll also note we swabbed a wad of spit found on the concrete in the garage. Was a good distance from where the shot was fired, and we doubt a shooter would leave saliva as a calling card, so we’re not thinking it’s from him.”

  Rick was skeptical about their conclusion, but there was no point in saying so. “Has it been sent in for processing?”

  He nodded. “But the lab’s backlogged, so it could take some time.”

  Rick flipped through the file. “Says here your tech took several swabs and only one has been sent off. I want our lab to process one as well.”

  “I’ll check with my LT and get back to you.”

  Rick nodded. “Are there any witnesses?”

  Skinner shook his head. “Not many people out at that time of day, and in this neighborhood, those who are don’t make for good witnesses.”

  “Then thanks for your time, Detective.”

  “My cell number’s in the report if you have other questions.”

  They shook hands, and Rick backtracked to the car. He opened Olivia’s door. “How would you like to take a short walk?”

  “It would be good to stretch my legs.”

  “Let me grab a few things from the back.” He opened the hatch and took out his tote holding necessary supplies.

  Back on the sidewalk, she joined him. “I assume the bag means you have a purpose for our walk.”

  “I want to see the shooter’s vantage point.” He started off.

  She didn’t comment, but when they reached the impromptu memoria
l, her footsteps faltered and she looked up at him. “You see death all the time. How do you handle it?”

  “Compartmentalizing.”

  “Classic defense mechanism.” She continued down the street. “But you should know, sometimes those compartments fill up, and when things overflow…” She shrugged.

  “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for that.”

  “Problem is, you often can’t see it in yourself.”

  “Is this a pitch for the value of counseling?”

  “Doesn’t take a psychologist to see it. Just someone who cares about you.”

  She was so on target, he felt like a .50 had slammed into his chest. He’d cared about Traci, and it hadn’t been hard to see the problems she faced. Fat lot of good it had done her.

  “Is it a blessing to be able to recognize someone’s issues or a burden? Like with your father when you couldn’t help?”

  “Both, I guess, but I’d say the blessing outweighs the burden, as most of the time I’m able to help.”

  He paused to look into her eyes, finding her sincerity and honesty refreshing. “You’re a special person, Doc.”

  Embarrassed at putting his feelings out there, he started off again.

  She caught up to him and took his arm. “You’re an exceptional man, too. You just have to let people see it. Like with your parents.”

  He groaned. “I’m not going back to that topic.”

  He picked up speed and heard her nearly running to keep up, so he slowed. At the garage he turned. “We’re headed to the fifth floor. I doubt our shooter would risk being trapped in an elevator, so I want to take the stairwell. You can ride up if you want.”

  “Lead on. The exercise after sitting all day is good for me.”

  He strode to the steps, and at the third floor he looked back. He expected she might be breathing hard, but she was holding her own.

  “I can keep up,” she said. “I may sit most of the day, but I counterbalance it with yoga and running.”

  Rick continued to the fifth floor and exited. He opened the folder and studied the diagram, then located the shooter’s supposed firing location. Rick dropped the folder and his tote bag. “The folder is off-limits.”

  “I hadn’t even considered looking in it until you told me not to. But now…” She grinned.

  Shaking his head, he dug out his spotting scope from his tote.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “A spotting scope.” He put it to his eye and focused. “It’s used by a spotter who partners with a sniper. When the sniper takes a shot, the spotter tracks the vapor trail so if the bullet goes wide, the spotter can help readjust the sniper’s position or aim. I’m using it to confirm the shooter’s location. I can do that by lining up the spot where Cesar was hit with the fence where the bullet lodged.”

  “Interesting.”

  She actually sounded interested. He looked up from the scope to find her rapt attention on him. “Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, let me get the scope lined up, then step in front of me.” He moved back from the half wall so she could slip into place. Keeping his arms locked in position, he said, “Come on.”

  She eased in front of him, his awareness of her nearly overwhelming. He felt her body heat, and her scent seemed to heat up, too. Or was it his imagination? She scooted around, brushing against him, firing off senses that had lain dormant for years. This was a bad idea. Very bad.

  “See it?” He choked the words out.

  “I do. It’s like…” She excitedly swiveled, and they came face-to-face, mere inches separating them. Her gaze met his, and interest flared in her eyes.

  She was close. So close. Her eyes darkened. He lowered the scope and cupped the back of her head to eliminate the distance to kiss her. Her eyes flashed wide, panic flooding in. She planted her palms against his chest. Shoved hard. She wasn’t strong enough to move him, but he wasn’t about to force himself on her, so he stepped back. She smoothed a hand over her hair and looked away.

  Great. She was trying to eradicate his touch. She felt like he’d assaulted her, and he hated the way his gut twisted. He should say something, but what? He’d read her wrong. Crossed a line she clearly didn’t welcome. A mistake. Big one. He wouldn’t further compound it by speaking. He tucked the scope back in the bag and moved away from her to closely inspect the top of the concrete wall.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice breathy.

  Interesting. Their nearness had affected her, too. Didn’t mean she wanted his attention, and she was determined to act like nothing had just happened. Fine with him. “I’m trying to find physical evidence that confirms the shooter put the bullet downrange from this location.”

  “Didn’t the local police tell you that he did?”

  He nodded.

  “But you can’t trust their assessment.”

  He glanced at her. “I can, but it would be foolish to do so.”

  “Because you don’t trust anything, or because you possess expertise that they likely don’t have?”

  “Expertise.” He ignored her other comment. No point in leading them back to the discussion in the car. He examined the wall, looking for what, he didn’t know. Maybe a hint of rubber from the tips of a bipod.

  “Mind sharing what you’re looking for as you search?”

  He froze. Was she trying to get information on the case, or was she really interested in investigative procedures? As she’d said, trust didn’t come easily to him, and as he stood there thinking about the shooter taking Santos out, he knew in his heart that she wasn’t involved in the murders.

  He still didn’t know if she was using her skills as a psychologist to put on an act with him—an act like the one Traci’s psychologist was so good at—or if Olivia was being earnest and really cared about him. Maybe sharing something simple like this could help him to trust her with more important things in the future.

  “I’m looking at the scene from an experienced shooter’s point of view to determine the best way to make the shot,” he said. “A large rifle is needed for a .50 caliber bullet, so the guy most likely used a bipod to hold the weapon and could have rested the bipod on the wall. But the most accurate shot comes with a shooter lying down. This stance naturally aligns your body with the target, putting you in a relaxed position for a better shot.”

  She moved closer to the wall but kept her distance from him. “But that couldn’t happen here because of the wall.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Explain, please.”

  He dug out his tape measure and rolled it out over the concrete wall. “As I suspected, the wall is about the average height of a truck’s tailgate. If it was me taking the shot, I’d open a tailgate, back the truck up to the wall, and lie in the truck bed.” He stepped back from the wall and looked at it for any missed evidence.

  “There.” He pointed at a black smudge on the concrete, then squatted to get a better look. “Paint.”

  “From a truck?”

  “Maybe. Looks about tailgate height.”

  “But couldn’t it be from any car that parked here?”

  “Not likely. A bumper would protect the vehicle. The car would have to sideswipe the wall to actually leave paint, and the parking block would prevent that from happening.”

  “So the paint could be from the shooter’s truck.”

  He nodded because he couldn’t share details about the Chick-fil-A guy’s having a white truck. Besides, they didn’t know if that guy was their shooter or if he owned more than one truck. He might even have borrowed one.

  Rick grabbed the folder to check the evidence list. “They took a sample of the paint, but they didn’t think it was related, and it was never processed.”

  “But you can get them to do so.”

  “With lab backlogs, it’s easier for me to take a sample and get Brynn to run it.” He grabbed his bag and withdrew a knife, envelope, and tape to collect the paint.

>   “Let’s say you do get this to Brynn. What good will it do?”

  He started working on the wall. “The FBI maintains a paint database called the National Automotive Paint File. It contains over forty thousand samples of automotive paint used by manufacturers on their vehicles. So Brynn can compare the sample here to the database, and if we’re lucky we’ll learn the make and model of the truck. Then we can look at traffic cams, store surveillance footage in the area, et cetera, and talk to witnesses to see if that make and model truck was spotted in the area on the day of the shooting.”

  “Which I suppose could give you a license plate number.”

  “Exactly.” He pocketed the paint sample, then reviewed the evidence list again and noted the location of the saliva. He measured it out, then used chalk to mark the average size of a pickup with open tailgate for reference, while keeping in mind that the shooter could have been driving a bigger truck.

  “What are you looking for now?” she asked.

  He explained the saliva mentioned in the report. “Detective Skinner doubts it’s from the shooter.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I’m keeping an open mind. My chalk line simulates a full-size truck with tailgate open. I want to see if the saliva was found in a logical location for our shooter if he’d used a truck.”

  “You know the size of a pickup off the top of your head?”

  “Along with many car sizes. You’d be surprised how often that information comes in handy.” He closed the folder. “If my angle is right, and the truck was full size, the driver could have spit when he got out of the cab.”

  “Why didn’t the locals figure this out?”

  “Because their ballistic expert must have overlooked the fact that the shot could have been taken lying down. Thankfully, it’s the first thing I thought of.” And more importantly, it suggested an experienced shooter who knew to lie down for the shot.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now I look to see where they recovered gunshot residue.” He picked up the file and stepped to the location where the residue had been recovered. “When a weapon is discharged, residues are expelled from the barrel onto nearby surfaces,” he said before she asked. “It can travel three to five feet, and gets progressively lighter the further it travels. The report shows a minimum amount of residue collected from the wall, which adds more credence to my findings.”