“Yup. The street people say they saw nothing. The others, gawkers, came after we showed up.”
“Get your guys to canvass the crowd again and see if anyone saw a homeless person around the Lincoln. Make sure they check drainage grills and garbage cans for a weapon or clothing.”
“Already got them on that.” Briscoe tracked cops on either side of the street.
“Do you have a video recorder?”
“No.” Briscoe’s head swung toward Brad. “Why? Are you making a movie?”
“No. I want to record every person who is standing outside the police tape.”
“You think the gunman is watching?”
Brad shrugged. “You never know. I can’t think of a reason for the giant chauffeur-bodyguard to open the door unless he wasn’t threatened.”
Briscoe nodded. “Hooker or dealer … or homeless person.”
“Brilliant,” Brad said. “Homeless person.”
A police van pulled up and Sergeant Toscana stepped out and surveyed the scene. Briscoe rolled his eyes.
“She’s not that bad,” Brad said. “Give her a chance.”
Briscoe ignored Brad and peered across the street. “I see someone who can do the recording for you.”
“Great, who?”
Briscoe grinned and pointed.
Brad headed to the crowd around the crime scene. Several cops made sure the onlookers stayed behind the police tape. As he approached, a brilliant light blinded him.
“Detective Coulter, can you tell us what’s going on here?”
Brad shielded his eyes with his arm. “Ms. Andrus, tell your cameraman to shut the fuc—the camera off, please. We need to talk.”
Sadie straightened the lapels of her knee-length white parka. Black leather boots covered her legs up to the lower edge of her parka. She wore a white knit beanie with a pompom on top. “On the record or off the record?”
“The light?”
She nodded to the cameraman, and he extinguished the camera light.
“How was your day?” She smiled. Her white teeth accentuated by deep red lipstick. “I haven’t seen you since breakfast this morning.”
A couple of cops at the tape line grinned. Brad blinked a few times and glared at them. They looked away.
“I need a favor.”
“I already had dinner,” Sadie said. “Drinks later would be great.”
The cops grinned again.
“Will you shut up and listen?”
“Sure, since you asked so politely.” She flicked her auburn hair over her shoulder.
Brad stepped close enough to smell her citrusy perfume and whispered, “I need your cameraman to pan the crowd. Get a closeup video of everyone.”
Sadie put her hand on his arm. “Now, Detective?” Sadie’s voice was louder than it needed to be. “That sounds like fun. I’d love to.”
The cops had their full attention on Sadie and Brad.
Brad quickly stepped back. “It’s important.”
Sadie grinned. “Why do you need that, and why would we do that?”
“Off the record, it’s possible the killer is here.”
Sadie glanced around. “Why do you think that?”
Brad shrugged as he watched the gathering crowd. “A hunch.”
“And what do I get?”
“The scoop when I break this case.”
Large flakes of snow started falling. Sadie shivered and held her arms tight over her chest. “It needs to be better than your stupid lead this morning. That went nowhere. Who cares if a dealer killed another dealer? That’s community service in my mind.”
“Wow.” Brad shook his head and frowned. “So young, yet so cynical.”
Sadie glared. “Film for the scoop.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to call my boss.”
“Do it quick before the crowd gets bored or the snow chases them home.”
Chapter Sixteen
Coffee in hand, Brad entered the office of the medical examiner Sunday morning and headed past the vacant reception desk. He continued down the dull white hall to the autopsy suites. He peeked in the windows and doors until he saw a body on the table, then stepped inside.
Three people stood around the body—the medical examiner, his assistant, and Sturgeon. He wore green surgical scrubs, a green cloth hat and booties. He snapped photos of the deceased before the autopsy, then throughout the postmortem.
“About time,” Sturgeon said. “Did we ruin your Sunday morning sleep in?”
Brad didn’t know how Sturgeon could handle this. It was like imprinting the image in your mind forever. Brad did not need new images stored in that special file in his brain.
It had thrilled Brad to work in Homicide, but autopsies were something he had never adjusted to. He knew autopsies would be an essential part of the job, but he still felt queasy every time. It didn’t affect Sturgeon. Trying to convince your mind the person was dead and couldn’t feel anything didn’t work. Sturgeon suggested Brad should view it as evidence gathering and no different from any other part of a homicide. That didn’t work either.
Brad changed into the surgical greens. He’d become an expert at watching the autopsy, but not seeing. He forced his mind to happier thoughts. But sometimes they went to Maggie, and that was worse than the autopsy.
The bonus today was he got to view two autopsies. Shit. Recovering the bullets or fragments was a key part of the case. Well, it would be once they found a gun.
This body was that of Owen Judd. Only twenty-seven, Judd’s body had been abused like he was fifty. Scars dotted both arms, but no new injection sites. Maybe he was one of the rare ones who kicked the heroin habit. Or, more likely, he had found something better. Maybe cocaine.
The Y-cut was completed, and the ME was removing organs. Perhaps Brad would have a salad tonight.
The ME said, “I have one bullet. Made a mess of the heart.” He pulled the bullet out and set it in a tray filled with saline. The lead was in decent shape—a 9mm. With the blood and tissues washed off, Sturgeon put the bullet into an evidence bag. Further organs were removed, and the assistant weighed each one. The ME kept up a steady description of everything they were doing for the recording. Sturgeon continued to take photos.
Brad wondered if he should paint the farmhouse.
A second bullet was lodged by the spine. This bullet was in worse shape—it had mushroomed, probably from multiple impacts on bones. Rather than a complete round, it appeared like someone had used a potato peeler on it. It went into the saline, then into an evidence bag. An hour later, this autopsy was complete. Just in time. Brad needed a coffee.
The autopsy on the driver, Anthony Moss, went the same as the first. Brad was running out of cheerful places to take his mind. At one point, he drifted off and nearly fell from the stool. That would have been a disaster. He would never convince them he’d drifted off. They’d assume he’d passed out from the autopsy, and he’d never live that down. Sturgeon would take pictures before checking to see if Brad had a pulse.
Both bullets taken from Moss had disintegrated into fragments. From the four bullets, they had one that would give a proper analysis. But that was all they needed.
What Brad needed was fresh air. He left the autopsy suite and headed straight to the parking lot where Sturgeon joined him.
“I thought you were going to drop in there,” Sturgeon said.
“Just tired,” Brad replied.
Sturgeon grinned. “Sure. I had my camera ready.”
“I knew you would. Any thoughts?”
Sturgeon nodded and held up the evidence bags. “One bullet for analysis. They shot the chauffer from close, within a foot to eighteen inches. Owen Judd, from further away, but not much. The driver was shot first, then the shooter leaned into the car and shot Judd.”
“Both up close and personal. Besides the bullets, anything else to help us?”
“The bullet is our best evidence, but only if the gun has already been used in a crime.
If not, we keep it on file and check guns when we get them.”
Chapter Seventeen
After the autopsy, Brad headed to the TV studio. He sat at a monitor in a tiny viewing room off the newsroom of CFCN TV. The room was under six by six with a short table and a video recorder with a monitor. The soundproofing added to the claustrophobic feeling. Sadie arranged for the video, but Brad had to watch it at their station.
He sat with a technician in a viewing room. Brad had him run the tape in slow motion. Occasionally he’d have the tech stop, zoom in on a person, and then print the image. After three hours, everyone appeared suspicious. A half-dozen paper coffee cups littered the table and floor. He increased the volume as the news came on a TV.
The primary story was about the shooting downtown last night. It identified the dead as Owen Judd and Anthony Moss. Another part of the deal. CFCN got to break the news before the other stations.
The video showed Sadie at the scene with her back to the police tape and the Lincoln. Sergeant Sturgeon and his crime scene techs were labeling evidence and preparing the car for transport to the police garage. Staff Sergeant Jackson and Briscoe stood off to the side in conversation. They must have filmed this segment after he talked to Sadie. He didn’t understand how she could be relaxed and refreshed at that hour. He rubbed the stubble on his unshaven face.
The monitor switched to the weather report—freezing rain followed by heavy, wet snow. Perfect. Brad went back to the video of the crowd.
What type of people hung around a murder scene? Besides cops and reporters? Maybe crime writers. If that was it, there were a lot of crime writers in Calgary.
He set the photos across a table—at least three-dozen pictures. His selection had been less than scientific—people who appeared suspicious. He shook his head. He could see himself saying that in court. What a waste of time. He had these photos, but nothing to compare them to. Useless.
He stepped out of the viewing room, headed down the hall and knocked on an open door. Sadie glanced up. “Any luck?”
“No.”
“Remember, if you find a witness, you promised I get the scoop.”
Lobo had slept most of the day while Brad attended the autopsy and watched the video. Now that Brad was home, Lobo was ready for action.
Lobo sat at Brad’s feet, staring up expectantly.
“All right. I’ll get ready.”
Brad changed into his cold-weather running gear while Lobo raced around the house. When Brad opened the door, Lobo bolted down the path and out of sight. Brad shivered as a blast of icy air hit him. He glanced at the sky—overcast, and darkness was fast approaching. He and Lobo knew the path in daylight or darkness. He shivered again, then set a steady pace. The first mile passed with Brad running on automatic. One foot in front of the other, breathe in, breathe out. His body was in a rhythm, his mind resting. His brain started to function as he jogged down the hill to the dam.
Birds swooped low across the path; others chirped in the trees. Squirrels scrambled up trees and nattered at Lobo from branches overhead. The sun was over the horizon. At the water’s edge, he felt the icy chill.
Bits and pieces of the past few days floated around until the shooting last night clicked into place. A pimp and his bodyguard killed. Sadie was right. Who cares? Some rival was making a play for the prostitution business on the stroll. Out with the old, in with the new. By tonight, those girls would have a new boss. Maybe better, maybe not, but the trade on the street would continue and not miss a beat.
However, two men were dead. Brad was a cop—not any cop, but a Homicide cop. His job was to solve murders. Not just ones he thought were worthy of his attention, but all homicides. Still, it was difficult to get energy to address these two murders. Without having checked yet, Brad knew they would both have extensive police records that included assaults on women. It was a possibility that one of his ladies had had enough—bang. That could fit. The driver wouldn’t worry about a hooker approaching the car. He would be relaxed, even indifferent.
That fit to a point. But so far, they knew of four shots. All nicely placed in the two men in tight groups. Fatal shots. Not shots someone with a grudge could do. You don’t buy or steal a gun off the street and place your first four shots exactly where you want them to go. Hell, trained soldiers miss half of the targets they shoot at in combat. And shooting at a silhouette in a gun range is a lot different from pulling the trigger on a human. If he stuck with the hooker theory, then the hooker had some significant gun experience. That was worth following up. An arrest for possession of a gun—not uncommon with the hookers. Past military experience? Doubtful.
Lobo, full of energy, blasted past Brad as they ascended the hill. The squirrels chattered at Lobo, but today he didn’t care. He had the scent of something and hunted with his nose to the ground.
As they crested the hill, Lobo spotted two deer. They glanced at him, then raced off. They quickly put distance between them and Lobo, but he didn’t give up. Brad slowed to a fast walk and watched the race. Keep going. If the deer let Lobo think he had a chance of catching them, then Lobo would keep running and be exhausted by the time they got home. Lobo disappeared out of sight. Brad continued to the house.
Brad was outside the house when Lobo came panting around the corner. Lobo lay, all four legs splayed out. Brad grabbed Lobo’s water bowl from the back porch and set it in front of him. He didn’t stand as he gulped the water his human served him.
Brad headed over to a bench and sat, legs stretched out in front of him, arched his back, and closed his eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
Against his better judgment after the autopsies, and in the freezing rain, Brad was cooking steaks on the BBQ. It was refreshing to take a break from the cases and relax with friends on Sunday night. It had become a tradition. Sunday dinner with whoever could attend.
When Sam and Emma Steele arrived, Lobo followed them around the house. Charlie Zerr was in the kitchen, helping Annie with the salads and baked beans. Like she needed help. Brad sighed. It appeared those two were getting serious.
Sam Steele came out to the BBQ and handed Brad a beer. Steele and Brad were two of the original Tactical Support Unit members. Initially they’d been fierce competitors but had become best friends. They were built the same, six-one, a hundred and eighty-five pounds of pure muscle. Steele, at twenty-eight, was four years younger than Brad. When Brad had moved on from TSU, Steele had remained and was partnered with Charlie Zerr.
Steele tapped the neck of Brad’s beer bottle. “I heard you picked up an interesting call this week. I thought Archer had you sidelined.”
“Briscoe called me directly.” Brad drank thirstily. “Ah. I get to keep the case—double homicide. Pimp and his driver.”
“That’s called community service, isn’t it?” Steele leaned against the deck railing.
“You can say that to me but be careful saying that anywhere other than here,” Brad said.
Steele shrugged. “Still, maybe once we could win the game of attrition.”
“There’d have to be more than two deaths of asshats each week.” Brad flipped the steaks. “It would help if the courts locked these guys up when the crown presented a solid case. It seems defense lawyers and the shitrats are winning.”
Steele gulped his beer. “True. Hey, do you know what you call one hundred lawyers on a sinking a ship?”
Brad rolled his eyes. “No.”
“An excellent start.”
“If I were gone, who’d save your ass and cook your steaks?”
“Excellent point. I don’t mean you. Maybe a shipload of defense lawyers.”
“Now you’re making sense.” Brad gulped his beer. “We’re not the only ones frustrated. I talked with Jenni Blighe after court the other day.”
“Like, you talked in the hallway?” Steele grinned over his beer.
“We went for drinks.”
“I see.”
“Jesus, Sam. We worked together for a month on the snip
er case. Nothing there.”
“A month?” Steele’s eyebrows rose. “Continue.”
“Jenni works her butt off to present a well-thought-out case to the court, but the judges search for any fault in the case, and side with the defense. I haven’t seen her that mad since Jeter Wolfe was stalking her. I worry one day Jenni will have enough, and she’ll lose it in court, or worse.”
“She’s just venting,” Steele said. “Jenni knows she can talk to you.”
Brad stared off the deck to the snow-covered barn. “No, it was deeper than that. Jenni has changed a lot in the last six months. More cynical. I see it in her eyes.”
“Do you blame her?”
“Of course not.” Brad flipped the baked potatoes. “We’re all fighting a battle with the courts. It’s getting worse.”
“I heard that drunk who was killed had over twenty-five charges for drunk driving.”
“Perfect example. He was a danger to everyone—he should have been locked away.”
“Thank goodness for karma. It killed him before he killed someone.” Steele held out his bottle, and they clinked bottlenecks. “Hey, uh, I heard a rumor this morning.”
“Uh-huh. If you don’t hear a rumor by ten, start one? What did you hear?”
“A few cops from downtown were talking about this reporter who was, uh, especially friendly with a detective.”
Brad’s hand stopped mid-flip of a steak. “What did they say?”
Steele sipped his beer. “I’ll slow it down for you. Apparently … this reporter … mentioned … she hadn’t seen the detective … since that morning.”
Brad tossed the steak back on the grill. “Ah, crap.”
Steele’s eyes widened. “It’s true?”
Brad’s shoulders slumped. Damn Sadie. He did not need this shit floating around. He’d have a talk with her. Then he realized that was what she was hoping for. Or maybe she was just messing with him. Who knew what that woman thought?
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