‘‘Okay,’’ I said.
‘‘So,’’ he continued, ‘‘Phelps sees the shooter. In time to start bringing his gun up. The shooter and Phelps fire, at nearly the same time. By Johansen’s account the shotgun probably fired first. Phelps was likely startled. He certainly wasn’t sufficiently intoxicated to have it affect his aim to that degree.’’
Another bite of doughnut found its way into my mouth. Chalk it up to enthralled.
‘‘The first shooter, who is now under attack, fires a burst, which hits Howie just about dead center. The combination of the sound, the flash, and the impacts tend to have Howie Phelps thrown back by his own reflexes, assisted by the impact of the rounds.’’ He took a long swig of coffee this time. ‘‘All of which, by the way, struck the victim while he was more or less erect.’’
Aha! Cool.
‘‘And he would have remained erect . . . ?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Not much longer than a second, if that,’’ said Dr. Peters.
‘‘Five rounds in a second,’’ I said.
‘‘Less than a second, most likely,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘About as fully automatic as you get.’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘And,’’ he said, ‘‘the pattern of the projectile strikes are consistent with full auto. As was the distribution of spent cartridge cases.’’
Hester grinned.
So did Dr. Peters. ‘‘Making Hester correct in her on-scene analysis.’’
‘‘Once again,’’ said Hester.
Dr. Peters barked out a laugh. ‘‘Well, at least, not for the first time.’’
‘‘Let me interject something here,’’ I said.
‘‘Go right ahead,’’ said Dr. Peters.
I told him about my observations at the crime scene. About my theory that the shooters were hunting the cops, and not Howie. About how Howie’s presence had been a factor that was not predictable by either the shooters or the cops, and how Howie had prematurely triggered what I thought was an ambush for the officers.
Dr. Peters thought about that for a second.
‘‘I had a little experience in my Army days with that sort of thing. I think you’re absolutely right. Advancing to contact,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Quite reasonable.’’
I had been browsing the autopsy photographs as Dr. Peters was talking. ‘‘Can you tell the caliber of the rounds from the wounds or debris?’’
‘‘Ah . . .’’ Dr. Peters reached behind his chair and pulled out a manila envelope that measured something like a yard on a side. He pulled out a series of huge X-ray films. ‘‘Phelps. Let’s get these up to the light,’’ he said, promptly hanging them on a bank of X-ray viewing panels, and flipping the switch. Flash, blink, and we had our X-rays.
‘‘See the debris fields on this one,’’ he asked, ‘‘what we call the ‘snowstorm’ field?’’
I could. There were what appeared to be hundreds of particles scattered in rough fan shapes, widening toward the back of the body. Some were relatively large, most minute. Some were hazy, and I knew that those were very small particles of nearly vaporized bone. One large object caught my eye.
‘‘This,’’ I said, rising half out of my chair and stretching out my hand with my pen extended. ‘‘This looks like part of a jacket . . .’’
‘‘Good eye,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘You overweight people concentrate so well.’’
‘‘Hey!’’ I said. ‘‘You brought the doughnuts!’’
‘‘For your concentration,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Works with him every time,’’ he said to Hester.
‘‘I wish he’d had one before he lost his raincoat,’’ she said.
Dr. Peters pushed another doughnut toward me. ‘‘You might need this,’’ he said. ‘‘What that is, is part of a metal jacket from a projectile. Fortuitously, it contains the imprint of the tail of the round. A small, circular impression. It’s at the DCI lab now,’’ he added. ‘‘What was nice about it was that it wasn’t steel. Copper. Seemed to be a ‘boat tail’ round, as the diameter was slightly less than 7.62 mm. Commercial, probably a semijacketed soft point, judging from the jacket and the exit wound, which appears to have been the largest of the group. Which leads to another interesting point . . .’’
‘‘Mmmph?’’ I asked. Concentrating.
‘‘This isn’t the only round that struck the spinal column, as you can see. But the other one which did, here,’’ he said, pointing, ‘‘didn’t fragment the projectile at all, and left a rather neat, or at least relatively neat, exit wound, associated with tumble, but not with significant deformation.’’
‘‘Which means?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Well,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘I believe that the others may have been standard steel-jacketed military rounds, possibly manufactured in a Warsaw Pact country, exported, and mixed locally with commercial ammunition.’’
Well, like, wow.
‘‘How did you know that?’’ I bit.
‘‘Well, mostly from the printing on the recovered ammunition boxes,’’ said Dr. Peters with a laugh. ‘‘But it is consistent with the rest of it.’’
I just love it when he does that.
‘‘Nice,’’ said Hester.
Dr. Peters nodded, smiling.
‘‘A matchup with the cardboard ammunition boxes that we found,’’ I said.
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘the shooter mixed his ammunition in his magazine.’’
‘‘Specialists do that,’’ said Hester.
‘‘So do people who can’t afford a lot of ammo,’’ I answered.
We were quiet for a moment. I believe all of us were beginning to conjure up a picture of the shooter.
‘‘Shall we do Officer Kellerman?’’ asked Dr. Peters.
‘‘Sure,’’ I said.
‘‘Right. Well, here we have something a little different,’’ said Dr. Peters, opening the binder on Kellerman. ‘‘For one thing, as we already knew the day of the shooting, he’s struck by projectiles of two different calibers. Two of them 7.62 mm and three 5.56 mm.’’
‘‘You said as much that day, yes,’’ said Hester.
‘‘So,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘likely two shooters.’’ He looked up from his binder. ‘‘Because of the deformation, which we’ll get to in a minute, there will remain a possibility, however remote, of a third shooter. I don’t believe so, but in court this must be considered.’’
‘‘Understood,’’ said Hester.
‘‘It appears,’’ said Dr. Peters, pushing a copy of his autopsy diagrams toward each of us, ‘‘that the rounds struck at virtually the same time, from two slightly different directions.’’
We looked at the diagrams.
‘‘On the sheets there,’’ he said, ‘‘they’re numbered one through five. Two and five are the 7.62 mm rounds. They’ve come from what I believe are the shooters of Arthur Phelps, although, since Officer Kellerman was moved during the engagement, I can’t be positive.’’ He flipped through his notes. ‘‘Right, now one, three, and four are 5.56 mm, I believe. That shooter was to the left of the other shooter, and was firing, I believe, from the position Hester labeled as ‘three’ at the scene. Placing him also to the rear of the first shooter by about fifteen yards.’’
‘‘That would be about right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘And just a bit higher up-slope.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘Now, these projectiles strike at a slightly different angle in the horizontal plane, but without noticeable difference in the vertical. That’s one of the main reasons I think they were fired virtually simultaneously with the 7.62 mm rounds.’’
He reached back and pulled out a second envelope of X-rays. Dr. Peters hung them in place of the Phelps pictures.
‘‘One of the main problems here,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘is that Officer Kellerman was wearing a Kevlar ballistic vest. All that accomplished, with the type of rifle involved, was to deform the pr
ojectiles before they actually came into contact with his body. So,’’ he sighed, ‘‘the entry wounds weren’t the neat little round holes they were on Mr. Phelps. In fact,’’ he said, ‘‘they were already beginning to tumble, as well as being deformed. As a consequence, the path of the bullets to the point of exit was not exactly straight.’’
In looking at the X-rays, it was pretty easy to see what he was talking about. There were fragments, particles, missing rib sections, and debris paths that seemed to diverge from each other. It was really weird.
‘‘Four of the five rounds,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘penetrated the front panel of the vest, transected the victim, and exited through the rear panel of the vest. Or, at least, the most massive fragments did.’’ He pointed at a white blob on the X-ray. ‘‘This little bastard,’’ he said, ‘‘was one of the 5.56 mm rounds, and it tumbled enough to strike the rear panel of the vest in a flat attitude, with the long axis of the projectile being parallel with the plane of the vest.’’ He looked up. ‘‘It slapped the rear panel, flattened the round, but it stayed inside the nylon shell.’’
He pushed a photograph of a badly deformed bullet toward us. ‘‘This is the one. I sent it to the lab. But you can see that it’s almost intact. Remarkable, if you think about it.’’
He was right. But it had also hit the back of the vest hard enough to have imprinted the weave of the Kevlar onto the bullet.
‘‘The jacket’s peeled off this one, isn’t it?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes, but, unlike the one in Mr. Phelps, this jacket has come apart in so many pieces that they’re not distinguishable visually. A metallurgist, perhaps . . .’’
‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘And, unfortunately, the fragments in Officer Kellerman and in his vest are ballistically worthless. At least from an identification point of view. You could never match them to the weapon that fired them.’’
Well, I hadn’t really expected that they’d be worth much. But they were able to be used to tell the caliber, which was something.
‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘we have two shooters.’’
‘‘For all intents and purposes,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘that’s right.’’ He looked thoughtful. ‘‘But that doesn’t mean that there were only two of them present.’’
Hester and I just looked at him.
‘‘I’ve been thinking about your ambush theory. I’m sure you’re right. It fits well.’’ He looked right at me. ‘‘As I’m sure you know, most ambushes are L-shaped, if done professionally. The X shape is ideal, of course, but seldom achieved.’’ He stopped talking.
I didn’t know if I should say anything or not, so I just kept my mouth shut. So did Hester.
‘‘But the L would require at least three participants, wouldn’t it? While the X requires a minimum of four, I suppose.’’
‘‘Yeah . . .’’ I said.
‘‘And if we presuppose these are true professionals, they would be certain to know this. So they would bring at least three, possibly more people.’’
‘‘Hmm,’’ said Hester.
‘‘But in the L, only one side usually fires, at least at first. Depending on the initial fire to drive the quarry toward the other leg of the L.’’
Silence again.
‘‘But if they’re not set, or at least not set in an immobile position, but are moving toward contact, they will try to keep something of the shape they wish . . .’’
I wasn’t about to say a word.
‘‘Let me call someone I know,’’ he said abruptly. ‘‘I think we may be on to something here.’’
Twelve
ON TUESDAY, the 16th, we had a briefing for the investigative team. Every assigned officer was there, and we began to put together a case. Believe me when I say ‘‘began.’’ The upshot of the meeting was that we had two shooters. Confirmed. Minimum. We were able to pretty well eliminate Howler and Marks, at least from a list of shooters. We were about evenly divided as to whether or not they might know who had done it. The dope guys were strangely silent regarding anything of substance. Altogether sort of a down meeting. And, if you could believe them, everybody said they were unable to locate Marks. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure that the Feds weren’t stashing him in some safe house somewhere. If they were, it would fit into their criteria for ‘‘need to know,’’ and I was sure I didn’t qualify for the right list.
As the meeting broke up, Agent Dahl asked to see Hester and me for a minute.
‘‘We’d like to meet with just you two tomorrow.’’
‘‘What’s up?’’
‘‘I better let Nichols say,’’ he said.
After that, I was in a much better mood. It appeared that DEA/DNE had something important. Thank God, I thought, because we in General Crim. sure didn’t. Oh, yeah. Another down thought. The damned meeting had taken up so much time and energy I don’t think anybody got anything done that furthered the case that whole day. I know I didn’t.
Wednesday, the 17th, began as a day full of promise. I hit the office at 0830, ready to greet the narcotics team. Hester was there by 0900. We sat around for almost forty-five minutes before dispatch told us that Dahl had just called, and that they were going to be a little late. Dahl and Nichols walked in at 1145.
Off to a snappy start.
Nichols was pretty straightforward.
‘‘We have indications of some pretty strange involvement here,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t like it.’’
‘‘What kind of involvement?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘‘There seems to be something moving around in the background, but we don’t have any good shit rising to the top here. I mean . . .’’ He stopped. ‘‘Damn.’’ He grinned. ‘‘How about I start again?’’
‘‘Fine with me,’’ I said.
‘‘Right. Now, what we have is this: there is an indication of well-equipped, well-trained or experienced shooters acting in concert, very effectively, very efficiently.’’ He looked at us. ‘‘Okay so far?’’
‘‘Yep.’’
‘‘We know of, oh, maybe three or four groups who would be able to put together a unit like that on short notice. That means,’’ he said, ‘‘that they don’t have to go outside the group to find people like that.’’
‘‘No hired guns,’’ I said.
‘‘Right. No hired guns.’’
‘‘All right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘And?’’
‘‘And none of those groups are involved. Positive.’’ Nichols looked at the ceiling, trying to be as precise as possible. ‘‘Since that is the case, we are faced with the possibility that this is a group who have, so far, avoided becoming known to us.’’ He looked back down at us. ‘‘I don’t think that a group with those resources could have gone unnoticed.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t think so myself,’’ I said.
‘‘You have to understand what that entails,’’ he said. ‘‘The resources available at a few hours’ notice. The funds. The arms.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘We’d have heard of ’em.’’
‘‘So,’’ asked Hester, ‘‘who do you think that leaves? Who could do that?’’
‘‘Well,’’ smiled Nichols. ‘‘Us, for one. We could do it.’’
‘‘What? I don’t think I understood that,’’ I said.
‘‘We could. We didn’t, but we could.’’ Nichols looked mysterious.
‘‘Logically,’’ I said, ‘‘what that leaves is the possibility that it wasn’t engineered by some cartel or criminal organization. Maybe it was part of some other government?’’
‘‘Whoa there,’’ said Hester.
Nichols chuckled. ‘‘Yeah. That’s what I was thinking too. Not really time for an act of war, is it?’’
‘‘Christ,’’ I muttered. ‘‘A foreign power on U.S. soil. That’d do it.’’
‘‘No,’’ said Nichols, ‘‘not a foreign power.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘What it really means is that we h
ave no idea, at least not yet. None.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘And I find that very hard to accept.’’
‘‘Maybe,’’ I offered, ‘‘it was planned for a while. I mean, not the hit, but the setup?’’
‘‘They don’t seem to have been there long enough,’’ said Nichols. ‘‘Nice try, though.’’ He hesitated just a moment, and then apparently decided to go ahead. ‘‘We thought of that too. The plants were in the ground for just a few days. Still too fast and too remote for anybody but the best.’’
‘‘So,’’ asked Hester, ‘‘what’s the next move?’’
‘‘We keep digging,’’ said Nichols. ‘‘I’ve got help calls in to everybody but the National Archives, and they’re next. We’ll find out. What I’m afraid we really have,’’ he said, ‘‘is a group that can do this in other areas who’s moving into the narcotics business. We really don’t need that.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ I said, ‘‘but around here?’’
He grinned. ‘‘I know. Hard for me to believe too.’’
‘‘How much was that dope worth?’’ I asked.
‘‘Oh, not more than a hundred thousand on the street,’’ he said. ‘‘But as a message it may have been worth a whole lot more.’’
‘‘ ‘We can reach you anywhere,’ ’’ said Hester.
‘‘Exactly.’’
Lamar insisted I stick to the regular schedule, so I didn’t get worn out. Consequently, I got the 18th and 19th off.
Saturday, the 20th, I was called out early, and in uniform, for a bad car wreck about six miles north of Maitland. One killed, five injured. Two cars, one pulled out from a gravel road right into the path of the other. By the time we were finished with that, I’d lost six hours. Hester was off, since it was a weekend. I pretty much spun my wheels for the rest of the day.
Sunday morning we got a report of an agricultural chemical theft/burglary from a plant and warehouse just outside the Maitland city limits. Great. I got stuck with that one too. A whole lot of agricultural chemicals were taken, totaling something over $30,000. Usually, that doesn’t take up much room, as you can hold several hundred dollars of certain herbicides in one hand. Comfortably. This one had the added attraction of involving about three hundred pounds of chemical fertilizer. At least we were looking for a burglar with a container bigger than the trunk of a car. That’d help. We processed the scene all day, for very little in the way of evidence. There were so many cars and trucks in the yard of the place on an average day that there were no tracks of value to be found. Just as a for instance.
Known Dead Page 12
