Cold Flash

by Carrie H. Johnson

“What do you mean he didn’t come back? How long has he been gone?”

  “He left at seven. He didn’t even fix us breakfast. He should have taken us with him. He left you a note on the kitchen counter,” Rose said.

  “Calm down. Nothing happened, right?”

  In unison they chimed, “Yeah. We’re big enough to care for ourselves. We are on the case to find out where he went and why.”

  My nieces took on more of me than I sometimes could handle. They started the Twofer Detective Agency in my honor. As investigators, they question, research, and detect everything, and I do mean everything. I liked that they wanted to be “like me” in that way.

  Rose said, “We know he got a phone call from Uncle Hamp. After he talked on the phone to Uncle Hamp, he left. From what we heard, we speculate that Uncle Hamp has troubles.”

  “You speculate, huh. Enough of the speculation.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison, standing at attention and saluting.

  “Hi, Miss Mabley,” Bethany said, emerging from the den. “It wasn’t nothing for me to come over,” she said, sashaying her way to the front door. Bethany’s round baby face—big wide eyes and dab of a nose—made her appear younger than fifteen. She was another version of striking, having a German father and Haitian mother, both musicians. “I’m usually available anytime, so just call when you need me.”

  Bethany agreed to come back in an hour if Travis had not returned. After she left, the twins sang, “Bethany likes Travis, Bethany likes Travis, and Kenyetta’s going to be pissed.”

  Kenyetta is Travis’s girlfriend since freshman year in high school. She ran away from her foster home and was living on the street when Travis brought her home and asked for my help. We found her a better living situation. Their friendship blossomed, not surprising since Kenyetta is a beauty—dark skin, long, thick coiled hair, and curvaceous frame. They have been bound together since.

  “Enough. Besides, how do you know Bethany likes Travis?”

  “We’ve been watching them talk to each other and interrogatin’ her and Travis, separately of course, about their associations.”

  I was sorry I asked as soon as the words escaped my lips. “C’mon. I’ll fix you breakfast,” I said, moving toward the kitchen while checking my phone. There were four missed calls from Travis. I tapped his name in my phone and waited. No answer.

  “We already ate. Bethany made us pancakes. We’re watchin’ Transformers,” they said, running back to the den. Their voices and footsteps echoed through the large newly remodeled five-bedroom Colonial that we had just moved into a week ago, which was still mostly decorated with unpacked boxes. Nareece and I had grown up in the house. I rented it out after my parents died, until the last tenants moved out a year ago. After everything that happened with Jesse Boone, I decided to remodel it so we could all live here together.

  I went to the kitchen and found Travis’s note on the floor. Bending to pick it up made me dizzy. I grabbed ahold of the counter and inched my way to an upright position.

  Moms, I’m sorry I had to leave the kids with Bethany. Uncle Hamp called and said he couldn’t reach you and he needed help. I had no choice. Travis.

  Considering Hampton’s earlier call to me, for help with his gambling debt, my feelings of relief at having arrived home curdled into worry.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was eleven o’clock by the time we got to the lab. The Firearms Identification Unit, aka “the lab,” is housed in the basement of the Forensic Science Center located on the southwest corner of Eighth and Poplar Streets in North Philly. The center also includes a crime-scene group for gathering evidence, chemistry labs for drug analysis, and DNA labs for hair, fiber, and blood analysis.

  The firearms lab is a maze of eight-by-eight cubicles with desks on three sides, allowing each examiner to section off their space to fit their needs. In mine, a library of research materials collected over the years is crammed on one side desk, tools for bench examinations—a stereomicroscope, magnifying glass, pliers, grips, screw drivers, wrenches, bullet pullers, hammers, and mallets—are cluttered on the other side desk, and two computers sat on the center desk.

  Fran owned the cubicle across from mine, Laughton’s old chair. Officer Benjamin Parker owns the cubicle next to mine. He’s the longest-reigning member, with twenty years. I’m second in that category with eighteen years as an examiner, twenty on the force. The other six members, including Fran, are newbies with two years or less of service. Three examiners are civilians.

  “Mabley, Parker, my office,” Lieutenant Pacini barked. Pacini is our commanding officer. He’s a bear—big, burly, and brash; at least that is what he puts out. I suspect his more bear-cubbish side surfaces for a chosen few. He stepped in nine months ago.

  Parker raced me to the lieutenant’s door—childish play spurred on by years of working together. I won.

  “First, Mabley, I know it’s been a long time coming, but you’re cleared of any wrongdoing in the death of Jesse Boone and one of our very own, Captain Butler.”

  I cringed. He was talking about his predecessor, Captain Iverson Butler, who I had known since my childhood. He was my father’s best friend. He saved my life more than once. In my obsession to put Jesse Boone in prison, I stumbled on Cap’s illegal activity of getting payoffs from Boone and other gangsters dating back twenty-plus years.

  “I’m sure it’s been the longest year of your career with Internal Affairs poking around anywhere and everywhere in your life to clear you of knowing about and participating in the captain’s illegal activities. That’s what happens when you go off on your own rather than going through the proper legal channels, like keeping the higher-ups informed and calling for backup.”

  In the few moments of silence that followed, Parker and I just ogled the lieutenant, as though what he said made all the sense in the universe. Not.

  Pacini cleared his throat, then continued. “Not judging, just saying. Make sure nothing of that nature happens on my watch, meaning you will keep me abreast of everything that goes on having to do with this department.” Another pause where I guessed he was waiting for an affirmative from us. None given. “Well, Mabley, you’re going to receive a commendation for taking down both men. Deservedly so, I’m sure.”

  Parker gave a few claps and said, “Yep, that would be about right. The department wants the publicity and does not care how it all went down, since Boone is dead and the whole police corruption piece can be squashed.”

  The lieutenant sat forward in his chair and clasped his fingers together in a pyramid-type fashion. “Because of your previous commander’s indiscretions, there’ll be an Internal Affairs investigation into the possibility that evidence in a number of cases was shipped directly to City Hall before being examined. The other examiners are new. Hell, there’s no one been around longer than a few years but you two. So Internal Affairs is going to be looking to you two for information and possible blame.” He bowed his head and nodded sideways. “A commendation in one hand and a complaint in the other.”

  “They can complain all they want. This office does its work,” I said.

  “We’ve been working like crazy to finish the examinations,” Parker chimed in. “It’s not like we’ve been shipping weapons to evidence storage without examining them. We do our job. No—we do our job and that of a dozen others that should be working here. The city can’t see its way to fulfill their end by hiring more people, but we’re expected to do all the work.” Parker plopped down in one of the chairs in front of the lieutenant’s desk. “This is not good for us. Sounds like the consensus is we don’t do our jobs.”

  “Nobody’s saying you don’t.”

  “That’s exactly what they’re saying.” Parker pushed back with a scowl that caused Pacini and me to turn our attention to him with raised brows. Parker being defiant? Mild-mannered, Mr. Peabody–style Parker? I have never in eighteen years seen Parker angry. It’s hard to imagine what his angry expression would look like. Parker’s eyes a
re close together until he looks cock-eyed. He also sports blow-fish cheeks and a mole that graces the tip of his nose.

  “What?” Parker said, staring us down. “Well, it is.”

  Pacini broke his stare and continued. “They want intel about how a case backlog of four thousand dropped to six hundred in a few years.”

  “So we should be getting praise rather than being investigated,” Parker said.

  “It appears the real issue here is some stolen gun parts. Allegations of a cover-up are surfacing in language that alleges your ex-partner, Laughton McNair, incited it.”

  “What stolen gun parts? We have not had any cases about that. Why would Laughton cover up something like that?” My voice escalated more than I intended.

  “An intriguing question,” Pacini said.

  Feeling a pinch of anger escalate to a full punch, I got louder. “Let them come, damn it. No one is doing anything wrong except working too many hours and getting punched in the face because of it. I have no knowledge of stolen gun parts, and Laughton McNair didn’t steal any. He wouldn’t.”

  I regretted the outburst. I got up and went for the door. “I got court,” I mumbled.

  Parker was at my back. When we got back to our desks, Fran was hunched over his with a bullet casing in one hand and a caliper in the other.

  “Parker, how many cases have you completed in the past couple of years?” I asked.

  Parker cocked his head to one side and did this thing with his mouth that changed its position to the side of his face. “Five hundred, give or take.”

  “Me too. And maybe another thousand, give or take, completed by everyone else.”

  “Yeah. The backlog should be a lot more than six hundred. Man, if the captain had some of these guys ship evidence right to City Hall . . .”

  “Could mess up a lot of prosecutions. But why the hell would Cap violate protocol unless he was covering up something?”

  “Damn, Muriel, the whole unit could be under scrutiny. All the cases we’ve worked on for the past few years could be jeopardized.” Parker scrunched his nose as though smacked with a putrid smell.

  “Pull Forrester in on this. He’s been here longer than the rest and can help you go through the logs if we can get our hands on them at this point.”

  “I’ll get them,” Parker volunteered.

  I knew he would.

  The US Courthouse was a seven-minute drive down Eighth Street from the lab. I pulled into the Bourse Garage on Fourth Street, and walked the quarter mile, stopping on the way for a coffee and bagel at the Bourse Café.

  I was testifying in the shooting death of Jennifer Humphries. Her boyfriend, Joseph Bonanno, said Jennifer committed suicide. The forensics evidence I was to testify about told a different story.

  Joseph is the youngest son of Angelo Bonanno, a hit man for the Cosa Nostra. Joseph says he was meeting Jennifer at the Windham Hotel. When he got to the room, the door was ajar, he went in and found her dead on the floor. The prosecution contends that Joseph blew Jennifer’s brains out.

  I sat outside the courtroom and pulled my phone from my purse to shut it off as the bailiff opened the courtroom door and called for me. I stood up and adjusted my skirt. My normal work dress is Dickies-style work pants and a golf-type T-shirt with the FIU emblem on the left chest area, and ankle boots. For court I believe the first impression of the jury and the defense attorney happens with my first step into the courtroom. So courtroom dress is a tailored suit and three-inch heels.

  “Officer Mabley, do you swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  Before I sat, and with my right hand raised, I replied, “I do.”

  The DA approached the stand. “Officer Mabley, you are an officer of the Philadelphia Police Department?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “To which unit are you assigned?”

  “The Firearms Identification Unit.”

  “Officer Mabley, a position in this unit requires a considerable amount of training?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Can you give us your background and training?”

  I should make a recording for every time I’ve had to present my qualifications to the court, I thought. In eighteen years, I had testified hundreds of times and regurgitated the same spiel each time. New court, another spiel.

  “My training began in the police academy, where I received extensive training on operations and care of my service revolver, with weeks of live-fire drills designed to build skill and knowledge in handling my weapon.

  “My duties as a firearms examiner are to process all firearms and firearm-related evidence that is turned in or confiscated within the City of Philadelphia. All evidence is examined and compared against all like evidence. My training is a three-year process of everyday on-the-job training, which includes the history of firearms and the invention of gunpowder. During this time, I worked under a senior examiner learning the makes, models and caliber of many different firearms, the proper assembly and disassembly of many types of firearms, revolver pistols, shotguns, and rifles, along with the operation of each firearm. A mandatory part of the training is to tour the New England area to visit gun manufacturers to witness the manufacturing process from the beginning: from raw steel that is formed through the heating and cooling process to add strength to the metal, to the shaping and cutting of the lands and grooves into the barrel, which gives the bullet stability in flight and makes it possible to identify a particular projectile back to one gun, to the exclusion of all others.

  “Some of the other areas I have been trained in and am considered an expert in are microscopy, which is the use of a comparison microscope, serial-number restoration, trajectory, blood-spatter analysis, distance determination through gunshot residue, and wound ballistics.

  “I am an armorer for Beretta, Smith and Wesson, Sig Sauer, Hi-Point, Ruger, and Colt. I am a member of the AFTE or Association of Firearm Tool Mark Examiners, an international organization.

  “I have studied with examiners from across the world and trained with the FBI, ATF, and the DEA. I have been an instructor at the Philadelphia Police Academy, the Philadelphia Office of the District Attorney for all new DAs, the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, and Widener School of Law.”

  “Is there any objection to accepting this officer as an expert?” the judge said.

  “No, Your Honor,” the defense attorney said.

  The DA approached the witness stand again. “Officer Mabley, did you have an occasion to examine the firearm that was placed on property receipt number 09572894312?” He handed the firearm to me.

  I looked over the firearm. “Yes, I did. Submitted on this property receipt was a Sig Sauer forty-five-caliber ACP with a serial number of FLD-28945.”

  “It has been previously testified that this firearm was collected from the scene in the area of Ms. Humphries’s body by Officer Ortiz of the Crime Scene Unit. What conclusion did you come to from your examination?”

  “I determined that the projectile submitted on property receipt number 26454768847 by Detective Barrows of the Homicide Unit was found to be a forty-five-caliber projectile weighing 185 grains and was fired from the firearm placed on property receipt number 09572894312.”

  “And you make that determination to the exclusion of all other firearms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Officer Mabley, you also visited the crime scene and did other studies that led to a conclusion of how Ms. Humphries died. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Can you tell us about the crime scene and then tell us about your testing and conclusions?”

  “The crime scene was contained to room number 809 at the Windham Hotel at 400 Arch Street. The firearm was found near the left side of the head of Ms. Humphries.”

  “Where were the injuries to Ms. Humphries?”

  “The projectile entered the left side of her head in the area of her temple and
exited on the right rear side of her head.

  “Since Ms. Humphries was shot on the left side of the head and was right-handed, it was likely that a person wanting to commit suicide would use their dominant hand. We wanted to know what would happen to the firearm if a small-framed woman used her nondominant hand to fire a large-caliber firearm. So, we used a police officer of the similar height and build as Ms. Humphries and using her nondominant hand, she tried to duplicate the incident.”

  I looked from the district attorney to the court and squirmed a bit when my gaze met with Angelo Bonanno’s. Like I said, he’s a hit man for the Cosa Nostra. This was a first for me, testifying in a case involving known Mafia members, so, yes, I squirmed.

  “We found that even though Ms. Humphries was familiar with the firearm, which was in the household, it would have still been impossible for her to fire the gun and have the action cycle complete. By that I mean, the firearm goes through a process each time the trigger is pulled, and at the end of the cycle the firearm is ready to be fired again. But, our test officer, an officer trained to shoot all calibers, could not maintain the grip on the firearm to allow the energy to be properly distributed and allow the firearm to recycle.

  “Second, our test officer could not duplicate the angle in which the bullet entered Ms. Humphries’s head. The bullet entered the left side and traveled in a slight downward angle. Due to the size of the firearm and the length of Ms. Humphries’s arm, it would have been impossible for this to have happened as the defendant stated.”

  The defendant, Joseph Bonanno, popped up from his seat and snarled at me. “She’s lying. Jennifer killed herself.” Bonanno is a short, beefy guy—standard Hollywood mobster issue. His legs barely cleared the table when he vaulted over it. The courtroom erupted in shouts and screams against the banging of the judge’s gavel. Officers wrestled Bonanno to the floor as he hurled death threats toward me. When they got him settled back in his seat, he blubbered like an angry child. His glare ripped through me with all its fury.