Full Metal Jack

by Diane Capri

  At the moment, one of the tables was occupied by a naked corpse.

  Kim’s view of the body was blocked by Chief Greyson’s back.

  An older man dressed in surgical scrubs, wearing a plastic face mask, was across the table and bent over the body. He glanced up briefly and then returned his attention to his work.

  Chief Greyson made the introductions. “This is Major Perry and Agent Otto.” No one offered to shake hands. “Dr. Dennis Baker. He’s the mortician here. He’s a pathologist. Also our local coroner.”

  As they reached the table, Kim had a clear and unobstructed view of the body. He hadn’t been on the table long. She pressed her lips and steeled her gut to avoid retching. The odor was overpowering.

  Price had been photographed, undressed, and partially cleaned up. Dr. Baker hadn’t started cutting for the autopsy yet, so the body was still intact.

  Kim’s shallow breathing paused. She recognized the corpse right away. She’d last seen him prone on the floor at Brannan’s. He didn’t look a lot different now from when she’d left him there. Except he’d been alive and breathing and not full of bullet holes then.

  “Luke Price,” she said quietly. “What happened to you?”

  Perry’s eyebrows arched all the way to his hairline. “This is Luke Price? The guy those charming rednecks were looking for earlier?”

  Chief Greyson frowned. “What rednecks?”

  Kim replied, “McKinneys. Same ones who were at Brannan’s last night. They came around hours ago asking about Price. Said he didn’t make it home last night, and they couldn’t find him today.”

  “He’s been right here. Hasn’t moved a muscle since Chief Greyson brought him in.” Dr. Baker deadpanned.

  Greyson scowled. “You figured out the cause of death, Dennis?”

  Dr. Baker shrugged. “Not a big challenge. Shoot a guy in the head, he’s usually gonna die.”

  “Did you recover the bullets?” Perry asked the sheriff.

  “Still looking,” Greyson replied. “We found him behind a dumpster full of garbage. It’ll take a while to sort through everything else in there to locate any evidence that might be useful.”

  “I’m no firearms expert, but it looks like small-caliber bullets to me.” Dr. Baker said, manipulating the body as he pointed out the holes, one at a time, “One in the kneecap. One in the head. Small, splintery entrance wounds and big messy exit wounds.”

  “Characteristic of a small-caliber, soft-nosed bullet. A twenty-two?” Perry said.

  Dr. Baker nodded. “I’d vote for a twenty-two. With a silencer, most likely.”

  “A silencer. Why?” Perry asked.

  “The bullets were slow coming out of the barrel. Lotta folks sleeping around town where you found him. Without a silencer, someone might have heard the shots,” Dr. Baker replied. “He would’ve made a helluva racket, too. Somebody shot me like that, I wouldn’t go quietly. Would you?”

  Kim silently agreed. That’s what a soft nose bullet does. It goes in and flattens out and becomes a blob of lead about the size of a quarter. Makes for a big exit hole. And a twenty-two made sense for a silencer.

  Plus, she hadn’t heard any gunshots in the night. Without a silencer, she would have heard them through the open window.

  “Why shoot him in the kneecap, though?” Perry mused aloud. “I mean if the shooter was going to hit him in the head anyway. The kneecap shot seems unnecessary, doesn’t it?”

  Dr. Baker shrugged. “All I can tell you is that the two gunshot wounds were inflicted with the same weapon and fairly quickly. There wasn’t enough time between shots to get anything much out of the guy. Which rules out shooting his knee to torture him for intel.”

  “Intel?” Kim asked, raising her eyebrows. “What would Price know about anything that would be worth killing him for?”

  Chief Greyson cleared his throat and cut off her questions. “Anything else we need to know right now, Dennis?”

  “Nothing yet,” Dr. Baker said as he lowered his plastic face shield and returned to his work.

  Kim continued to look at Price’s body. The shot through his kneecap would have caused excruciating pain. She grimaced just thinking about how much a shattered kneecap would have hurt.

  On the other hand, the shot through the head was quick and fast and painless. He’d have died almost instantly from that one.

  So the order was first the knee and then the headshot. It suggested that Price was coming at the shooter when the killer disabled him with the first shot to the knee.

  She cleared her throat and asked, “Chief Greyson, where’d you say you found the body?”

  “Behind a dumpster in the alley between Main Street and Brannan’s. About half a block from Toussaint’s,” Chief Greyson replied. “I haven’t had a chance to ask over at Brannan’s, but it happened after closing time. He was likely headed home and crossed the wrong guy along the way.”

  “Any idea on exact time of death?” she asked Dr. Baker.

  The doctor looked up and met her gaze. “Not yet. But if he was in Brannan’s until closing time, a safe guess would be after two o’clock in the morning. Maybe even later. But before six in the morning. Too much traffic in that area after daylight.”

  “Why later than two a.m.?” Perry asked.

  Kim nodded. “Because the Cardinals game was broadcast from San Diego last night and it ran into extra innings. So if they wanted to see the end of the game, they’d have been at Brannan’s until after two.”

  Dr. Baker gave her an approving nod and returned to his task.

  Greyson said, “Let me know if you find anything else worth mentioning, Dennis. We’re headed to my office.”

  Dr. Baker nodded but didn’t reply.

  On the way up the basement stairs, Kim said, “Let’s make a stop on the way back. I’d like to get a look at the murder scene.”

  “Crime scene techs are still out there right now. We’ll go later. The three of us first need to have a sit down with the mayor,” Greyson replied.

  They’d reached the parking lot. He pushed the remote to unlock his SUV and climbed inside.

  Kim reclaimed the front passenger seat.

  “What’s the mayor got to do with anything?” Perry asked from the backseat.

  Greyson started the engine and rolled out of the lot onto the side street. “She’s meeting us at the station. You can ask her yourself.”

  Perry joked, “I imagine the first thing she’ll want to know is whether Otto owns a twenty-two caliber pistol with a silencer.”

  “What? Why would you say that?” Kim asked, craning her neck around to glare at him over the seat.

  “Those McKinneys will want to know, too. They already suspect you of foul play where Price is concerned,” Perry continued. The more he talked, the more reasonable his accusations became.

  “Oh, for cripe’s sake.” Kim glanced toward Sheriff Greyson and shook her head. “Just to be clear, no, I don’t own a .22. And I didn’t kill Luke Price. And if I had, do you think I’d be sitting around waiting to be arrested?”

  Greyson lifted his eyebrows. Gruffly, he said, “For the record, and to cover my butt, where had you slipped out to when I met you in the lobby at Toussaint’s before dawn this morning?”

  “Seriously?” Kim demanded. “Why would I kill Luke Price?”

  “Luke Price was a nasty piece of work. You laid him out at Brannan’s a few hours before in front of his pals. Embarrassed the guy. Wounded his ego.” Greyson shrugged. “Maybe he came around looking for payback.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Kim said flatly.

  “We’re still gonna need to test your service weapon. Check the ballistics. Just to rule you out, so the killer’s defense attorney doesn’t crucify me when the time comes. The .22 is just a guess. Could be wrong,” Greyson replied.

  Perry chuckled in the backseat.

  “We’ll need to test your sidearm, too, Major,” Greyson said, looking into the rearview to see Perry’s reaction.

&nb
sp; The rest of the short trip continued in stony silence. When they reached the Carter County Sheriff’s Office parking lot, Greyson parked in a spot reserved for the county’s top cop.

  Two minutes later, they walked into the station. Greyson called a deputy over to take their weapons for ballistics testing. Not that they were happy about it, but to avoid unnecessary problems, Kim and Perry handed over their pistols. There was no chance either one of them had shot and killed Luke Price, and they all knew it.

  They followed Greyson toward the conference room where Mayor Elizabeth Deveraux waited. Greyson reached to open the door.

  Before she walked inside, Kim said, “Ballistics will prove my gun didn’t shoot Price. I’ll expect your apology.”

  Price grinned. “Me, too. What she said.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Thursday, May 12

  Carter’s Crossing, Mississippi

  2:30 p.m.

  “Man, it’s hot in here,” Hern said. He’d removed his shirt. Sweat glistened in his hair and slicked his torso. “I won’t miss working in this heat.”

  An equally sweaty Redmond replied, “That’s for damn sure.”

  The temperature inside the decrepit old barn had become stifling hours ago. The sun was high and breezes nonexistent. There were no trees to shade the metal roof, which seemed to cook the moisture from the air itself.

  They had no air-conditioning. Not even a fan. The generator wasn’t big enough to power the equipment and cool the air at the same time.

  He wouldn’t miss the wretched conditions in this place or Redmond and Hern. Not even a little bit.

  “Glad the Mississippi summer heat isn’t here yet.” He said as he wiped perspiration from his face and neck with a grimy bandanna and slipped it back into his pocket. He had pulled a bottle of water from the cooler and stood back to survey the area one last time.

  “You got that right.” Redmond drained the last of the water from his bottle and tossed it into the pit. “But it’s damn close enough. Let’s get this done and get the hell out of here.”

  He’d watched as Redmond finished running the remaining paper through the printers about an hour ago. He was close to the point of no return. Should he cut his losses now? Or could he afford to follow the plan and wait?

  He noticed that Redmond’s knife dangled from his belt, as it always did. Hern carried his weapons everywhere, too. Standard procedure for army personnel.

  Which was when he acknowledged that either Redmond or Hern could have killed Bonnie Nightingale. Both were trained Rangers. They both had means and opportunity on Sunday night.

  As far as he knew, neither had a motive to kill her. But that meant nothing, really. Either one might have done the job. Neither one had an alibi. That’s all Major Hammer needed to know.

  He’d put the last of the counterfeits into three duffle bags and stashed them in the cab of the truck. Nina would take them off his hands at the casino tomorrow and give him genuine bills in return.

  Hern had packed the coffins with the last of the real cash and nailed the lids shut.

  They had muscled the coffins into the hearse, which Hern had parked inside the barn.

  Two coffins full of greenbacks should be enough to carry him until he could access the money he’d stashed offshore when he arrived at his new home.

  Absently, he felt the hearse’s key fob resting in his pocket, securely nestled against his leg.

  They were ready to go. Only one thing left to do here. Destroy the evidence.

  The plan was to leave the fully-prepped hearse parked in the barn. He’d drive it to the helo pad at Kelham where the coffins filled with cash would be loaded in due course.

  The three of them would be the last men out of Kelham on the final day. Hern had been chosen because he was a pilot. He’d fly the helo to the private airstrip where they’d move to the Gulfstream and head out of the country.

  He’d worked on the plan for weeks, going over and over it with Redmond and Hern. The plan was solid. Nothing could go wrong.

  But now he’d been forced to improvise.

  Major Hammer had arrived to investigate Bonnie Nightingale’s murder. Only a matter of time before Hammer uncovered the truth. Not only about how and why Bonnie died, either. It wouldn’t take Hammer long to get around to Jasper’s murder, too.

  Which would lead him to the counterfeiting operation.

  Inevitably.

  He wouldn’t allow that to happen. He was too close to winning his private war with the army, and he had no intention of ending up in Leavenworth instead of paradise.

  He had been considering his options, which were limited at best.

  The smartest thing to do would be to escape now.

  Go before Hammer figured everything out.

  That was the smart thing, but not the best thing. Because if he did that, he’d be running for the rest of his life. Running was not what he had in mind for his retirement. Not even close.

  While he had been here cleaning things up, he’d worked out a new plan. Not as good as the original one, but it would suffice.

  Terminating Redmond and Hern now would level more weight on him over the next few days, but that couldn’t be helped. It was the smart thing. Do it now. Circumstances had changed.

  He’d searched for a better answer since he’d first set eyes on Hammer.

  But he’d come up empty.

  Hern had already dug a fire pit in a far corner of the barn. They had used the final ink and paper supplies today. The printers themselves were plastic. They had dumped everything remaining, along with as much kindling as they could salvage, into the pit, and soaked the pile with accelerant.

  He glanced around the rafters and the walls. The wood on this old barn was drier than a popcorn fart. It would go up quickly enough. The trash that remained tossed about the place was flammable.

  He nodded. Once the fire got going, the barn and everything in it would burn down fast.

  The abandoned barn had served them well these past few months. They had no further need of it. His plan had always been to torch the place on his way out of Carter’s Crossing for the final time.

  Moving up the destruction sequence might be enough to get Hammer out of the way until he could leave the country.

  Though he’d planned to leave the hearse here, fully loaded, until the last day, he couldn’t do that now.

  “Let’s get this fire going so we can get out of here,” Redmond said.

  Hern tossed the last of the kindling on the pile. “That’s the last of it.”

  Redmond had taken an ancient Zippo lighter off an old vet in a friendly poker game weeks ago. He flipped up the lid and rolled the striker to ignite the butane inside. Then he tossed the lighter onto the pile of debris in the pit.

  The accelerant ignited and quickly flamed.

  Redmond and Hern stood back from the pit, watching the fire, drinking more water.

  He approached quietly from behind, weapon at his side. Neither man turned around.

  He figured there was no one around within listening distance to hear the shots.

  He raised the Glock 17, held it steady, and shot Redmond in the back of the head.

  The noise of the gunshot was deafening inside the old barn. The bullets were full metal jackets. Cheap. Plentiful. The army had thousands of them. Easy to grab on the fly from Kelham. He’d have preferred hollow points. They’d have blasted Redmond’s head apart like a cantaloupe.

  As it was, the bullets he had worked just fine.

  Redmond’s body fell forward, into the flames.

  Shocked, Hern spun around, automatically reaching for his weapon. “Hey! What the—”

  Before Hern finished those words, the second round from the Glock hit him in the face.

  Hern’s head slammed backward and his skull and brains splattered all over the fire pit, causing the flames to hiss and spit. Half a moment later, his body crumpled to the ground.

  “Sorry, guys. Had to be done,” he said quietly.
No need to say more.

  He stood mesmerized by the fire for a few seconds. He glanced around the big, empty barn. Redmond had pulled the three trucks inside after Nina left and closed the big door, just in case she drove past. They wanted her to believe they’d already gone.

  He strode to his truck and removed the three duffle bags filled with counterfeits. He tossed two into the hearse.

  The fire had consumed most of the fuel in the pit already. Hern hadn’t built it to take the whole building down. But he needed the fire to spread farther and faster.

  He returned to the trucks. He wasn’t concerned about the trucks being identified later. His was stolen, and he wanted Redmond and Hern’s bodies identified quickly. The trucks would help with that.

  Using a hose he’d cut into three pieces, he siphoned gasoline from the trucks onto the ground around all three of the vehicles. He left the gasoline running.

  He dashed over to the fire pit where he’d left the third duffle close to the raging fire. He pulled the zipper back and dumped the counterfeits onto the flames. He trailed the paper onto the two bodies and closer to the gasoline near the trucks.

  Then he pulled a book of matches from his pocket and lit the gasoline.

  Soon, the two fires would meet. The remaining gasoline in the trucks might explode if he was lucky.

  He ran back to the hearse, jumped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. With his foot on the brake, he pushed the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator to rev the engine.

  He lifted his foot off the brake and the old hearse jumped forward toward the back wall of the barn. He could see daylight through the cracks in the old boards. When the heavy hearse slammed into the wall, the hearse broke through into the field.

  He drove around the barn to the two-track and toward the road. When he was two hundred feet away, the first big explosion shook the ground under him.

  “You’re a lucky sonofabitch, you know that?” he grinned.

  The second explosion shoved the hearse forward. He imagined he could feel the heat at his back.

  He kept the pedal pushed all the way to the floor.