Blood Quantum

by Jeff Mariotte

  By the lime the paramedics came, Nick had retreated to the street. It was paved in front of Torres's house, and someone had scraped his tires against the curb and left rubber in the street as he peeled out. After setting rulers next to the tread marks for scale, Nick photographed them. He had shot some pictures of the porch, too, but mostly just so he would remember the layout. The photos would have no standing in court at all, after everybody had moved around so much. Then he flaked some rubber bits off the curb into a plastic evidence bag, in case he had occasion later to match it to actual tires.

  In his experience, most people underestimated how truly unique a tire mark was. They thought if someone took an impression of their tires from a crime scene, all a suspect would have to do was point out how many similar tires were purchased in any given year. But Nick could point to all of the different variables in a tire track, the grooves and ribs, the sipes and lugs and slots, and show how an individual tire print was almost as good as a fingerprint at singling out a specific vehicle. He actually enjoyed being in court on those occasions, watching the faces of suspects when their certainty of exoneration turned into terror of certain conviction.

  As long as he was out in the road, he also took pictures of brass shell casings, ejected from the automatic weapons as they were fired out the window. One of the shooters had used 9 mm ammo, standard fare for urban thugs, but the other had been firing.50-caliber cartridges. That made Nick nervous, because that shooter was armed for war. He collected the casings, bagging each one individually and labeling each bag, just as he would if the evidence was intended for his own crime lab. The shell casings would have rifling marks that could be compared with any weapons recovered later, and they might carry fingerprints.

  When he had gathered all of the evidence he could get in the street, he turned his attention back to the porch. The paramedics had taken away all of the gunshot victims, and there were only a couple of tribal cops left behind. They paid little attention to Nick, interacting with him only occasionally and for the most part letting him do his work.

  Something about the shooting of Meoqui Torres bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. When he had arrived with Brass and Aguirre, Torres had been lying on the floorboards, and it had seemed cut and dried. But he had learned not to disregard his instincts in cases like this. He stood on the porch again, eyeing the scene, re-creating in his mind what he believed had happened.

  Torres had been leaning against the wall, shooting the breeze with his buddies, talking about Domingo's death, most likely, and how it would affect the tribe. Maybe Torres had even been sitting on the porch – not in one of the chairs but on the floor, back against the wall or cross-legged – and he stood up when that pickup truck came to a stop at the curb. Perhaps he recognized the truck, knew that the men in it weren't friendly. Either way, when the shooting started, that's where he was, standing there just beside the window. One of the first rounds struck him in the thigh. That had been one of those big.50-caliber rounds. Reeling from that shot, Torres had turned away from the street, and the next bullet, one of the nine-mils, caught him in the shoulder. He had fallen then, hitting his head against the corner of the windowsill.

  Nick realized what wasn't sitting right with him.

  He had found Torres on the ground a foot or so from that window. The wall behind the porch was pockmarked with bullet holes, but he couldn't see any that corresponded directly to Torres's shoulder wound. The window was open, and more rounds had gone inside, but Torres had been too close to the wall and too far from the window for the shot that hit his shoulder to have flown through that.

  So where had it gone? The shot was definitely a through-and-through, leaving a good-sized exit wound on its way out.

  Besides, if Torres had spun around so that he faced the house, he should have struck the window-sill with the front of his head, not the back. He might have continued spinning, the trapezius shot even increasing his momentum. But Nick was beginning to think it hadn't gone down that way after all.

  He went back to the Yukon and took out a dummy and some trajectory rods with built-in laser pointers. These would help him better visualize Torres's position and locate the bullet.

  Getting the dummy placed where he believed Torres had been standing at first, he inserted one of the rods into Torres's thigh. He wished he'd been able to get pictures of Torres's wounds before those guys had spirited him away, but he thought he remembered the positions well enough at least to get close to the mark.

  With the dummy and rod in place, he checked the laser beam. It shone straight into the street. Just to make sure. Nick walked over there, waving his hand in front of the beam to check its location. When he reached the street, he looked at where the beam landed in comparison with where the tire marks he'd found against the curb were. Based on that, he adjusted the dummy slightly and repeated the process. The laser ran straight through where the pickup's passenger window would likely have been. No one had mentioned the truck being jacked up, so Nick had to operate on the belief that it was a standard truck.

  That part done, he tried to reenact Torres's motions using his own body, then to duplicate what he came up with using the dummy. He imagined the brute force of that big slug's impact, the heat of entry, the shock that Torres must have felt as his thigh muscles were torn away. He would have fallen backward, spinning around -

  "Hey, you okay?" One of the tribal cops stood in the yard, a young woman with her hair in a long ponytail, watching him. Nick must have looked as if he was having some kind of seizure.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Just trying to re-create one of the shootings."

  "Is that what the lasers are for? That's pretty cool."

  "That's right," Nick said. "They're for determining trajectory, showing where someone shot from."

  "That's awesome." She turned away, as if she was afraid that she had intruded on some personal moment, and walked back to where a clutch of other cops stood together at the edge of the yard.

  Nick went back to what he was doing, trying to work out how Torres had spun. But no. That's where the theory fell apart. Now that he acted it out and tried to make the dummy go through the motions, he knew that Torres would not have spun away from the first shot. His damaged leg wouldn't have supported that sort of movement. He would have fallen back, past the window, bounced off the wall, and dropped to the floor.

  No matter how Nick tried to make it happen, that second shot, through the trapezius, had not come from the truck. It couldn't have.

  Which left only one option: the window.

  The people on the porch and inside the house had returned fire, they said. Nick had seen plenty of spent rounds out in the street and beyond to back up that story. He didn't think it would be possible to isolate which one had hit Torres, at least not without a lot of lab time testing each one for his DNA. But when he put the dummy through the paces he had laid out for it, the trajectory rods confirmed his theory. The shoulder shot had to have been fired from inside, behind Torres, and at pretty close range. Torres started to fall forward, hit the porch's front rail, and bounced off that. His legs gave way, and he fell back, striking his head on the windowsill and then slumping to the floor.

  Which meant the second shot was an accident, someone pulling the trigger as Torres fell into his line of fire…

  Or else someone had intentionally shot the activist from inside the house. Someone he had probably trusted.

  Torres had been taken to a clinic by some of his friends. One or more of those "friends" might not be so friendly after all.

  Nick tossed the dummy and the rods into the back of the vehicle and approached the young female officer who had spoken to him. "Hey," he said, "can you tell me how to get to that clinic they took Torres to? I've got a few more questions for him."

  Being deceitful with fellow cops tied his stomach up in knots. But he was on shaky ground – literally inside a sovereign nation, where he had no authority. He didn't know anyone but Aguirre and didn't know who cou
ld be trusted and who couldn't. Domingo had been the chairman, in charge of tribal government, including the police. If they were loyal to him and they thought Torres had something to do with his murder, what might they do to get back at him? Even the cop Aguirre had sent to watch over Torres might be in on the plot.

  Torres had trusted whoever shot him in the back. Nick wouldn't make that same mistake. Once the cop had jotted down directions for him, he jumped into the Yukon and tore off down the road, dialing Brass as he went.

  *

  Whenever Catherine was called into Conrad Ecklie's office, she knew she was in for bad news. But when Ecklie came to hers – especially when his narrow face had that lovely eggplant coloring to it that it did now – she knew the news would be even worse.

  "Have a seat, Conrad," she offered.

  "I'll stand. I won't be staying long."

  "Suit yourself."

  "You went to see Helena Cameron."

  She had already guessed that's what this visit was about, had known this chat was coming. She felt the way her daughter, Lindsey, probably felt when Catherine went into her room or took her aside for one of those critical mother-daughter "chats" about hanging out with the wrong people, using a fake ID to get into a club, doing poorly on a test, or committing some other infraction that seemed minor to teenager but major to that teenager's mother. "I did."

  "You told her that her son is dead. To be more precise, you told her that her head of security killed her son on her property last night."

  "I did tell her that," Catherine said. "Because it's true."

  "The way I hear it, you could have been a little more diplomatic about it."

  "And just how did you happen to hear it at all, Conrad?"

  "I heard about it from the mayor. As in the mayor of Las Vegas. He heard about it from Marvin Coatsworth, Mrs. Cameron's attorney. Do you have any idea how many times the mayor has called me directly over the course of my career?"

  "I don't have a clue."

  He held out his right hand, fingers splayed. "Not very many times, Cath. Not many times at all. I can count them on this hand, probably. And when he does call me, I don't like it. At all. It's never a good thing."

  "I'm sorry you got that call. But I had to see her, and I had to give her that information."

  "You didn't have to inform her yourself!" Ecklie argued. His facial color was fading, back to its typical hue, but Catherine could still see a vein in his neck bitching spasmodically. "Need I remind you, you are a CSI, not the lead detective on this case. From now on, if you want to communicate with Mrs. Cameron, you'll do it through Sam Vega, who will talk to Coatsworth. You know how to reach Sam, right?"

  'Yes. I do. But Conrad, you've done this job. You know that sometimes you have to see someone in person, to observe a reaction or to check for some physical attribute. No, I'm not a detective, but in this case, seeing her in person was crucial."

  "I know that's often the case. It isn't here, not anymore. You've seen her. You know what she looks like. That's all you get." He stared at her for a moment, as if daring her to disagree, to protest. It reminded her of something else Gil had told her about Ecklie once. "Some people avoid conflict, or shy away from a fight," he had said. "But not Conrad. Sometimes I think he seeks them out or intentionally incites them. It might even be good for his mental health – at least he isn't internalizing his anger. But it can be hard on everyone else around him."

  "Are you hearing me?" Ecklie asked when Catherine didn't respond.

  "Yeah, I hear you," Catherine said, deciding that she wouldn't avoid the conflict, either. She thought Gil might have been proud of her next statement. "Now you hear me. I'm sorry the mayor called you. I will make every effort not to contact Helena Cameron directly again. But by seeing her once, I obtained information valuable to the case."

  "The case is open and shut, Catherine. We know who the victim was, and we know who shot him and why. McCann won't be charged. What else matters?"

  "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. What was Troy Cameron doing at the estate? Where has he been for the last ten years? And more important, where is Daria Cameron now, and does her disappearance have anything to do with her brother's reappearance? That's the case, and there's nothing simple about it."

  Ecklie paused, then let out a long sigh. "All right, you made your point. I'm not going to second-guess you, and I'll back you up as far as I can. You know hat. But do us all a favor, and go through Vega and Coatsworth, from now on, okay?"

  "Okay, Conrad. I'll go through them if I can. And I won't disturb Mrs. Cameron if I don't absolutely have to. Good enough?"

  He nodded wearily, letting his shoulders droop and rubbing his temples with his fingertips, as if trying to ease a sudden headache. He hated backing down, but Catherine had made it clear that she wasn't going to. More important, she was in the right. Gil definitely would have loved this. "I guess it'll have to be."

  "Looks like it," she said. "Now, if you don't mind, I still have a lot of work to do."

  "Sure, get to it," he said. Halfway through the doorway, he stopped. "Just wrap it up tight, okay?" he tossed back over his shoulder.

  "No problem," Catherine said. "You can take that to the bank."

  *

  Doc Robbins was still in the morgue, which both astonished and pleased Catherine. He was a family man, and she knew he liked to get home after his shift to be with them. And although he never let on that it bothered him, he was a double amputee, and pulling a double shift had to involve a fair amount of pain on his part. He looked weary, and his shoulders were slightly hunched. He was probably putting more weight on his forearm crutches than he usually did.

  But it pleased her because he knew more about medicine than most MDs she had known, having been one himself before switching to a career as a medical examiner. She knew he kept up on the latest medical developments, too, even when they didn't appear to affect his work directly. She needed a doctor now, and she didn't think Hutch Boullet would be interested in talking with her any further.

  "Long day, Catherine," he said. Coming from him, it didn't sound like a complaint, simply an observation. He said it with a grin on his face, and he was one of the few men she knew whose eyes actually did twinkle when he smiled. She liked him a great deal, even though, for all the twinkling and smiling and genial conversation, there was something about him that he kept hidden, not just from her but from everyone.

  Everyone at the lab, at least. And she was positive that there were things about his working life that he kept from his family. He seemed intent on separating the two facets of his life, as if to guarantee that they did not start to impinge on each other, to flow together like two rivers joining. She couldn't blame him for that; she liked to keep Lindsey and her work, which so often involved violence and death, as far apart as she could. Nobody wanted to go home and tell the kids about the victim found facedown in a house with claw marks from a hammer on her head and insects infesting her body. You shared the good stories, the ones with happy endings, and the others you talked about only at work – or, for some people, on a therapist's couch.

  But she often wondered about the parts of Doc Robbins she didn't know, would likely never know. He was a sweet man, a kind man, and she would have liked a glimpse at the private man away from his morgue.

  "Ain't it the truth?" she said, aware that she had been silent for too long, and he was looking at her in puzzlement.

  "I won't waste your time, then. You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something I could do for you."

  "Albert Robbins, talking to you is never a waste of time."

  He performed a shallow bow. "Compliment accepted. I sense a 'but' lurking behind it somewhere, tough."

  "But… there is something you can do for me."

  "Name it."

  She described Helena Cameron's skin color and what she had heard about Daria's, what Dr. BoulIet had told her of Daria's condition, the congestion of her heart, the lines on the Cameron women's fingernails, and the britt
leness of Daria's hair and nails. Robbins listened quietly, nodding along from lime to time, one finger to his lips. "I don't know if it's some kind of a genetic condition or what," said Catherine. "Something passed from mother to daughter?"

  "I do have an idea, but let me confirm something," he said. He went into his office and returned with a heavy volume.

  "Do you want a hand with that?' Catherine asked. "Looks like it weighs a ton."

  "The publishers of medical reference books rarely make a priority of concision," Doc Robbins said. "If one word is good, ten are better. But I've got it, thanks." He opened the book on one of the stainless steel counters and started flipping pages. Catherine watched his back, appreciating his efforts. He must have had better things to do. Like getting out of there and going home.

  "Here we go."

  "You found something?'

  "I thought it was this but wanted to make sure. There's nothing worse than a doctor who doesn't double-check a diagnosis. Well, maybe there is, but not many things. Anyway, what you're describing sounds very much like selenium poisoning."

  "Poisoning," Catherine echoed.

  "That's correct, yes."

  "Not a virus or anything like that. They're not actually ill."

  "Not precisely, no. The only diagnosis I can think of that fits the symptoms you've described is selenium poisoning. Keep in mind that I haven't examined the patient myself, so it's obviously only a preliminary diagnosis. But I have some confidence that an exam would bear it out."

  "Would their family doctor reach this same conclusion?"

  "Not necessarily, at least not at first. A general practitioner would be most concerned about the heart and might, for a while, see the skin discoloration as jaundice, until the orange color became more pronounced. But it would take a while for anyone without forensic training to get to selenium poisoning."

  "I thought maybe that was it," Catherine said. "But it's been years since we've encountered it, and I figure medical diagnoses are best left to the pros. Is selenium poisoning always fatal?"