Brunelle cocked his head. “Dixon said you were.”
The sergeant pursed his lips in recollection.
“He said,” Brunelle tried to jog his memory, “that you tasked him to the crime scene log.”
“Oh, I did,” Norquist was quick to agree. Then he offered a plethora of exaggerated nods. “Yup, yup, yup. And I bet that’s why he thinks I was first. But I arrived about the same time as him and a couple other units. We all arrived about the same time.”
Brunelle shrugged. “Well, that’s probably good enough. Nobody ran inside without the others and started moving bodies?”
Norquist laughed. “No sir. That I would remember. And so would the poor sap who’d done it. I’d have written him up so fast he’d have been suspended before he got out of the house again.”
Brunelle grinned. “Glad to hear it. I think we’re done.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, counselor,” Norquist said as he shoved his massive body to its feet. “See you in court.”
“Yeah,” Brunelle groaned at the old joke. “Looking forward to it.”
*
It was about an hour later that Chen unexpectedly darkened Brunelle’s door.
“I’ve got it,” he announced.
Brunelle looked up from his computer monitor. “Is it contagious?”
“No, no, no.” Chen waved the joke away. “I’ve got the whole bullets, casings, gunshots thing figured out. The Campbell homicide.”
Brunelle leaned back and crossed his arms, incredulous but hopeful. “Okay, Dr. Watson, what’ve you got?”
“Hey, I’ve got the badge,” Chen protested. “I think that makes me Inspector Holmes and you Dr. Watson.”
“We’ll see. Let’s hear it.”
“Okay.” Chen sat down quickly, almost giddy. “Bullets tell you where the shots ended up, but casings tell you where they started—where the shooter was standing, or pretty close anyway.”
“I knew that,” Brunelle observed dryly.
Chen ignored him. “Your standard semi-automatic handgun ejects its casings in a pretty predictable way, a few inches from the shooter. The casings tell us where Campbell was standing when he fired.”
“But there are only four casings,” Brunelle reminded him.
“There were only four casings recovered,” Chen corrected, “from inside the house.”
“So, forensics missed a casing,” Brunelle challenged.
Chen smiled. “Or the fifth shot was outside.”
“Oh.” Brunelle liked that. “Go on.”
“The only explanation for the missing casing—at least the only one that doesn’t make our forensics team look like idiots—is that the fifth shot was outside and the casing was left out there, maybe in the street or a neighbor’s lawn. Someplace we didn’t know to look.”
“If it was in the street, it’s gone now,” Brunelle replied. “In somebody’s tire tread, most likely. But why fire a fifth shot outside?”
“What if it wasn’t the fifth shot?” Chen smirked. “What if it was the first shot?”
Brunelle really liked that. “Fired while she was approaching the house,” he imagined.
“Through and through in the leg,” Chen added.
“Casing drops in the busy road,” Brunelle continued.
“And the bullet flies off into the night.”
“She’s injured, but able to get inside.”
“He follows her inside and finishes the job.”
Brunelle nodded, then smiled. “Works for me.”
“And it’s probably true,” Chen offered.
“Nice bonus,” Brunelle joked. “Think it through. I want you to be able to sell it to the jury.”
But his smile faded a little as he realized the next step, or rather, where that next step would take place.
*
“Is Dr. Tanner available?” Brunelle asked the metal squawk-box in the small, receptionist-less lobby of the County Medical Examiner’s office. He also provided his name and title.
“One moment,” came the staticky reply through the box. Then a minute later, “Come on up.”
The elevator to his right dinged open. He obligingly entered and pressed ‘2’—the only choice.
“Second floor,” Brunelle thought. “Cadavers. Corpses. Invasive autopsies.”
He stepped off on the second floor and was greeted by the strong smell of cleaner. He knew that was better than the alternative.
“Dr. Tanner?” Brunelle knocked on the office doorframe. It stood right off the examination room with its three steel examination tables. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course, of course.” The tall, thin coroner called over his shoulder as he dug through a file cabinet in the far corner. With an “A-ha!” he pulled out two files rubberbanded together and slapped them down on his cluttered desk. “Here we are. Okay, I’m ready, counselor. Question away.”
Brunelle waved the suggestion away. “No cross-examination here, doctor. Just making sure I understand the case.”
“A noble goal,” Tanner inclined his head.
“Thanks,” Brunelle laughed. Then, unsure exactly how to start, he tried, “So, tell me everything.”
Tanner raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You did get my autopsy report, right?”
“Okay,” Brunelle conceded, “maybe that’s too broad. Just tell me everything about the gunshot wounds.”
“That’s still pretty broad,” Tanner protested.
“Humor me. I’ve got a little problem,” Brunelle confided. “There were five gunshot wounds between the victims, but only four bullets and four casing were recovered.”
“Hmm,” he considered. “What did your detective say?”
“He said it was a ricochet.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. To see if you can shed any light on it.”
He nodded and opened the top file. Jenny’s.
“I’m afraid,” he began, “that I probably won’t be very helpful. I can tell you about what’s there, but I can’t tell you what’s not there or why not. That’s not really my job.”
Brunelle shrugged. “Okay, tell me what’s there. Maybe that will make me realize what I’ve overlooked.”
Tanner nodded again and began flipping pages. “The shot to the abdomen was crippling. I doubt she could have moved much after that. And of course the shot to the heart was immediately fatal.”
“Of course.”
“The shots to the child were also immediately fatal,” he continued, “even if only because the child was so small. The shots were from a short distance, but any shot was likely to strike a vital organ.”
“How do you know they were only from a short distance?”
“Stippling,” he answered. “That is, powder burns. Gunpowder from the barrel stippled the child’s skin. That stuff can only travel about eighteen inches, so stippling tells me the barrel was close at the time of the shots, but not touching. If the muzzle had been touching the skin, there would be burn marks from the muzzle flash.”
“What about the mom?”
“There was some stippling on the pelvis wound, but none on the other two. And no contact burns on any of them.”
Brunelle frowned as he considered the information. “Can you tell anything from the angle of the shots?”
“I can tell you what angle the bullet went in,” he deadpanned.
Brunelle cocked his head. “Is that medical examiner humor?”
“No, we’re much funnier than that,” Tanner grinned. “What I mean is: when I see the body, it’s lying flat on a table. I can tell you that a shot entered at, say, a 90 degree angle to the body—like the shot to the mother’s chest—but that doesn’t tell you where she was at the time she was shot because the shooter could adjust his position too. That kind of shot could come from a person across the room shooting someone standing up, or from a person standing over someone else laying on the ground. You need information from the sc
ene to piece together what the gunshot wounds reveal.”
Okay, time to test Chen’s theory. “Could the shot to the leg have happened while she standing?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “Or lying down, or even hanging from the ceiling. It depends on where the shooter was.”
The lawyer in Brunelle took over. “Can you testify to a reasonable degree of medical certainty that the gunshot wound to the leg is not inconsistent with her standing on her front porch at the time of the shot?”
“I can say with absolute certainty that it’s not inconsistent. It’s a possibility … among many.” Then he frowned slightly. “That’s as much as I can say.”
Brunelle returned his frown with a light smile. He’d been more helpful than he realized. Time to wrap it up. “Anything else I should know?”
Tanner considered a moment before replying. “No. Sorry. There are limits to what pathology can divine, primetime television notwithstanding. Flesh is elastic and people move around. In this case, I can tell you there were five gunshot wounds. I can tell you what angle they entered. And I can tell you that the bullets were large caliber: .40 or .45 most likely, maybe 9 millimeter. But that’s about it. The entrance wound and bullet path of a 9 millimeter tearing through a prone person’s torso looks pretty much identical to that caused by a .40 caliber slug shot through a standing person, assuming the shooter moves position too.” He shrugged. “Sorry if that’s not very helpful.”
“Helpful enough,” Brunelle reassured. “And it’s the truth, so I guess that counts for something.”
*
A smile crept into the corners of Brunelle’s mouth as he dialed Edwards’ number.
“Jessica Edwards.” Even her voice was pretty.
“Jessica,” Brunelle chirped. “It’s Brunelle. I’ve got good news and bad news.”
He could practically hear the disarming hair-toss over the phone. “Is the good news that you’ve come to your senses and will accept my offer?”
“No, not at all,” Brunelle replied cheerily. “The good news is that I’ve figured out the whole four bullets, five gunshot wounds thing.”
She was silent for a moment—her features no doubt hardening—before she provided the obligatory, “Oh?”
“Yeah. The fifth shot was outside.”
A long silence. Brunelle waited.
Finally, she asked, “Outside?”
“Outside,” he confirmed quickly. “Through and through in the leg. She’s coming home. He’s hiding in the dark. He fires from God knows where. The casing drops next to God knows where, maybe gets imbedded in the tread of a passing car. The bullet goes through her leg and flies off into the night. She retreats inside, but he follows her and finishes the job. Five gunshot wounds, four bullets and four casings.”
Brunelle waited for a response. Receiving none, he prodded, “So what do you think?”
“I think,” came the icy reply, “that’s nothing more than speculation and conjecture.”
“Sure,” Brunelle beamed, “but it’s reasonable speculation and conjecture. Reasonable. As in ‘proof beyond a reasonable doubt.’ It’s cohesive enough to let the jury stop worrying about it and focus on the real issue: your client murdered two people.”
“So let me get this straight,” she hissed. “You want to execute a man based on speculation and conjecture?”
“Reasonable speculation and conjecture,” Brunelle corrected.
“Really, David!” She finally lost it. “How can you be so glib? A man’s life is at stake—”
“Hey,” Brunelle interjected, “I didn’t murder my ex-wife.”
“Neither did my guy!” she shouted. “I told you that. But you don’t care. You don’t care what really happened. You don’t care about justice. You just want to win your case. And you’ll get your cop buddies to brush aside their lousy investigation and send a man to his death based on ‘reasonable’ speculation and conjecture.”
“Look, Jess.” Brunelle was annoyed by the personal attack. “The bullet count doesn’t really concern me. This isn’t a self-defense case.”
“Of course it’s not a self-defense case,” she snarled. “I’m not saying there was a second gun. That’s not the point. The point is your cops did a crappy job. They jumped to their conclusion and then processed the scene—or didn’t—to support their conclusion. And another thing …”
She kept going, but Brunelle had stopped listening.
She didn’t get it. But, finally, he did.
“Sorry, Jess,” he interrupted. “I gotta go.”
Brunelle hung up on her protests. Then he dialed Chen.
“Chen,” answered the detective.
“Larry. It’s Brunelle. Listen carefully. Don’t interrupt. I need you to do exactly what I say.”
*
An hour later found Brunelle back at 123 Hopeless Avenue. There was no sound as he reexamined the rickety entertainment center and confirmed, by the dust, the absence of several inches of books. A stone bookend was also missing, its mate still upholding its end of the bargain.
The silence was eerie, almost artificial, as if it were straining to cloak the violence which had exploded inside the modest home. The only sound was Brunelle’s breathing and the light scuff of his finger through the dust on the shelf.
“Brunelle.”
Brunelle spun around. Norquist stood in the back doorway to the kitchen, grinning affably, badge on his chest, radio on his shoulder and a gun on each hip.
“Oh,” Brunelle said, trying to slow his racing heart, “It’s you. What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Norquist stepped into the living area and grimaced at the still stained carpet.
“Just doing some trial prep,” Brunelle answered. “That missing bullet thing has been gnawing at me, but I think I’ve finally got it figured out.” He glanced at his watch. “Chen’s supposed to meet me here.”
“Yeah, I heard the radio traffic.” Norquist waved vaguely at his shoulder-mounted radio. “He just got diverted to another call. Said he’d swing by when he was done.”
“Oh,” Brunelle said flatly. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”
Brunelle wasn’t sure how to take that. “Well, thanks for chaperoning me, I guess.”
“So,” Norquist prompted, “you figured out where the missing bullet went?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Brunelle walked toward the front door. “If the through-and-through to the leg was outside on the porch, then the bullet flies off into the night and the casing gets overlooked or lost. Especially if the shot was from a distance.”
Norquist nodded. “I like it.”
“I thought you would.”
Brunelle stepped to the door. “But there’s a problem. One casing was found here by the door and one was way over there by her body.”
“So?”
“So, she had powder burns on the wound to her abdomen, but none to the wounds to her leg or chest.”
Norquist shook his head. “I’m not following you.”
Brunelle started over. “We know the shot to the heart was probably the last shot because it killed her instantly. No reason to shoot again. But we also know that the shot to the abdomen was in close proximity because of the powder burns. And the casings tell us one shot was fired while Campbell was standing at the door.”
He put his back to the door and held his arms out as if pointing the murder weapon at the blood soaked corner.
“If the shot to the leg was outside at a distance, then what follows is this.” Brunelle walked to the blood stains. “He shoots her at close range in the abdomen—leaving powder burns—then,” he stepped backwards to the front door, “he walks all the way back here to fire the kill shot from ten feet, dead center through her heart.”
Norquist frowned and crossed his arms. “Okay. So what? Maybe he was gonna leave her to die, then decided to fire off one more round as he was leaving. That’s
possible.”
“It’s possible,” Brunelle replied, “but it’s not reasonable. If he wants to kill her, she’s not able to move. Why not just place the gun against her chest and pull the trigger?”
“Maybe he did and he kicked the casing to the door when he fled,” Norquist countered.
Brunelle shook his head. “No powder burns on her chest. No, the only reasonable ending to my first-shot-outside scenario is that he backs up and fires a perfect shot from ten feet.”
Norquist shrugged. “Sounds pretty good to me.”
“Sure, but you’re a trained marksman. Campbell’s a low-life slug.” Brunelle shook his head again. “No, it’s not quite right. I have to prove the charge beyond a reasonable doubt and it’s just not reasonable. I need a better explanation, one that fits with the physical evidence.”
“Good luck with that,” Norquist laughed.
Brunelle grinned. “How about this?”
He raised his arms again at the bloodstained carpet. “First shot is inside, from the door, through and through to the leg. That’s ten feet, so no powder burns. The casing drops here. And the bullet lodges in the wall there.”
Norquist looked at the bullet hole in the wall, about two feet off the ground. “But that’s the one that went through her heart while she was slumped against the wall.”
“Stay with me,” Brunelle urged. he walked the four steps to the couch. “While mom’s disabled, Campbell walks over and shoots the child twice at close range. Powder burns and the casings drop here. Matches the physical evidence, plus it meshes with his motive to make her suffer.”
Norquist frowned and shrugged, but didn’t say anything.
“Then he walks back over to her.” Brunelle stepped over to the bloody corner. “He bends down and shoots her at close range in the abdomen. One shot here, one casing here, and powder burns. He hurts her, but doesn’t kill her.”
“Why not?” Norquist demanded.
Brunelle’s turn to shrug. “He wanted to make her suffer, remember? I’d say he’d accomplished that.”
He squatted down and examined the blackish stains in the worn carpet, wondering if he’d missed anything.
“What about the shot through the heart?” Norquist demanded from behind him.
Brunelle kept his head bowed over the bloodstained cut-out. “It could have been a long range shot by somebody with marksman training. But I don’t think so. I think it was a close range shot, but the shooter put a towel or a rag between the muzzle and her chest. That would absorb the muzzle flash and powder burns, but also ensure a single kill shot.
Case Theory: A David Brunelle Legal Thriller Short Story (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series) Page 2
