Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  7

  Finley pulled on her gloves. The attempt at body snatching had seriously flared her curiosity. Who, exactly, was Jane Doe?

  She turned on her microphone and began her analysis of the remains, recording the pertinent information—date, location, starting time of analysis, and names of everyone present. Next she moved on to radiographing—obtaining dental images, and x-raying the entire skeleton, paying particular attention to the skull wound, which was almost certainly the cause of death.

  She retained two lumbar vertebrae in their original state before cleaning the rest of the bones and laying them out in a systematic manner—distinguishing left from right, inventorying each bone and tooth, and photographing the entire skeleton in one frame.

  Recording the condition of the remains, she moved on to the preliminary identification.

  Race—Caucasian, based on the victim’s phenotypic traits: shape of the head, nose and face, stature, and proportions of the upper and lower limbs.

  Sex—female, based on her assessment of the pelvis, femoral head, and skull.

  Age—thirty years plus or minus, based on dental development, tooth eruption, bone length, and the appearance and fusion of growth centers in the bone.

  Next she moved on to individual identification, searching for evidence of trauma and developmental anomalies, wrapping each stage up with supporting photographic evidence.

  Parker lounged on the open counter opposite her, watching as he always did. Griffin stood steadfastly still on the perimeter, and Declan paced and paced and paced.

  It took time to distinguish injuries from medical treatments and therapies from those resulting from trauma. Each bone examined for cracks or breaks. Each one examined for contact with metal or other foreign objects.

  She wrapped up her exam by noting the finishing time and turning off the microphone. She’d go to her office, replay the recording, and write up her official report.

  “Well?” Declan said.

  “Caucasian female. Age thirty, plus or minus. Major trauma to the front of the skull. Based on the measurements I took and the bullet collected, Griffin was correct in his assessment of the caliber size. The wound occurring perimortem with low velocity.”

  “Which would make that her cause of death?” Declan pressed.

  “It appears so, but the ME will make an official ruling based on my findings.”

  “How low a velocity? I mean, what kind of distance are we looking at?”

  “The entrance hole is circular, beveled internally, and sharply edged. The fracturing wasn’t rapid like we’d see in a higher velocity shot, though there clearly is no exit wound.”

  “Which suggests . . .”

  “With that caliber bullet, low velocity indicates distance, and the trace evidence found on both the projectile and her skull, I’d say the bullet passed through something or more than one something based on the two distinct trace fragments Parker will finish analyzing.”

  “Any other signs of trauma?”

  “Injuries, but ones that occurred years ago. I believe our victim suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta.”

  “And that would be?”

  “It’s a congenital bone disorder characterized by brittle bones that fracture easily. I count a half-dozen fractures from what appears to be her formative—childhood and teen—years.”

  “But that has nothing to do with her murder?”

  “It’s just another piece of the puzzle that helps us hopefully get one step closer to identifying Jane Doe’s identity.” She glanced to Parker. “Any results from the samples we took on site?”

  “Hair—blond. Blood matted and high in chlorine.”

  “A swimmer? Makes sense. Any contact sports would have been too dangerous with osteogenesis imperfecta. Hair follicle?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “I assume you’re running the blood sample?”

  “AB positive.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There were a couple types of particles around what appears to be the bullet hole through her cap.”

  “Any idea?”

  “It’s still running through the database analyzer, but the first appears to be glass.”

  “Glass?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t see any evidence of trauma to the head other than the gunshot wound. Hmm.” She frowned. “And the second?”

  “Tougher to say. We have only fine shards. Under the microscope it appears to be some sort of plastic, but again, it’s running through the database analyzer, and that takes time.”

  “Okay, so if the bullet passed through glass and plastic, let’s surmise for now, we’re talking a shot through two other objects with a direct hit to her apricot based on the skull trauma, which would have killed her instantly,” Declan said, glancing at Griffin.

  Finley’s brows arched. “Apricot?”

  “Medulla oblongata,” Griffin said.

  “We also know the velocity at impact was fairly low, which could indicate a shot from some distance.” Declan continued to keep his gaze fixed on Griffin.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, wondering where this was going.

  Declan exhaled. “I think we’re dealing with a sniper.”

  8

  Griffin swallowed. It had been one year, five months, and fourteen days since his sniper expertise had last been called on. At least tonight they were just asking for his knowledge, not his skill. But it was only a matter of time before Finley would learn the truth about him. About what kind of man he really was. One who couldn’t pull the trigger when it mattered.

  “Sniper?” Declan asked again.

  Griffin shook off his thoughts of Finley and focused on the task at hand. “It’s possible. It’ll help if I examine the bullet.”

  Finley nodded, confusion marring her brow. “Okay.”

  It wouldn’t be long before her questions came more rapidly. It was clear what he’d done for a living.

  Following Parker to his lab, Griffin pulled on a pair of gloves and studied the bullet under the light, tension searing through him. He exhaled and studied what had no doubt killed Jane Doe. “See the scarring around the base of the projectile?” he said.

  They all studied the area his finger pointed out.

  “That happens as a result of crimping during the loading process. I’ve seen this occur on 7.62 x 54 millimeter rounds, and that narrows down our weapon significantly. It could be an older Mosin, which is a WWII sniper rifle, but more likely you’re looking at a modern Dragunov.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “A sniper rifle still in use by Russian special ops.”

  “So if we’re dealing with a sniper,” Finley asked, “does that mean our sniper is Russian?”

  “No. It just means that’s his weapon of choice, which could indicate he was in service overseas in that region. Black ops, for example,” he explained, “often use the weapon of the country they are entering to distance themselves even further from U.S. affiliation. To blend in.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Griffin’s jaw tensed, but before he could answer Declan cut in.

  “So if we’re dealing with a Dragunov . . . you can determine distance based on velocity at impact?”

  Thanks for the redirect, bro. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Declan slapped him on the back. “Get on that.”

  “You got it.”

  Finley’s curiosity was nearly boiling over. He saw it in her eyes, the firestorm of questions poised on her lips.

  “Let me do some calculations,” he said, hoping to stall her inquiry. “Do you have a calculator I can use?”

  Parker retrieved one and handed it to him. “Be my guest.”

  Minutes later, Griffin looked up.

  “Well?” Declan asked.

  “I’d say you’re looking at a shot around fifteen hundred meters.”

  Declan’s eyes widened. “Fifteen hundred meters? Only a—”

  Griffin exhaled. “I’d say a
hundred guys worldwide could take a shot like that, but you also should take into consideration the fact that he used a standard round.”

  “Which means?”

  “A lot of snipers will load their own ammunition to exact specifications, each round minimizing ballistic variances. These guys can shoot a three-round group no larger than the size of a quarter at a thousand yards. The fact this guy made that shot with factory-load ammunition indicates rare skills.”

  “So we’re definitely dealing with a sniper?”

  Griffin rested his palms on his thighs. “I’m afraid so.”

  “What else can you tell us about him?” Declan asked. “Anything off of what we have so far?”

  “The bullet is steel-jacketed. He used a Russian rifle. Based on the forensics you presented, I’d say it was a calculated but quickly chosen shot to take. Going through glass, if that’s what we’re dealing with, makes the shot harder and containment sloppier. Shattered glass equals noise and debris. Certainly not ideal conditions, which leads me to believe he needed to take that shot then.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s your area of expertise.”

  “So what happened after the shot?”

  “Someone buried the body.”

  “The sniper?”

  Griffin shook his head. “Not usually part of a sniper’s arsenal.”

  “So it was important to take the shot right then and afterward hide the body?”

  “Yeah, so it appears, based on the evidence.”

  “Any chance we’re looking at a professional hit?”

  “Possibly, but if we were talking about a paid assassination—there are easier planned shots to take. Unless . . .”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless she spotted him, but at fifteen hundred meters away that’s impossible.”

  “You’re telling me if a sniper had you in his crosshairs, you wouldn’t know it?”

  A trained sniper might sense it—have a gut instinct—but the chances of the victim being a sniper were practically zero. There were female snipers, but they were by far the minority.

  “Results on the fragments are in,” Parker said, turning from the computer.

  “And?” Griffin waited. This was Parker’s area of expertise, and he was good at his job. If only he’d acquired his talent sooner.

  “It’s glass. Most commonly used in the automotive industry for car windows.”

  “Can you narrow it down to makes and models?”

  Parker nodded. “Already working on it.”

  “And the second fragment type?”

  “Plastic.”

  “Used in?”

  “It’s a translucent plastic that has a number of applications, but I should be able to narrow it down further too.”

  “Good,” Declan said. “You work on that, and . . . Griff?”

  He inhaled, knowing what was coming. “Yeah?”

  “You still have your connections?”

  “Yes.” They didn’t go away. Once a sniper, always a sniper.

  “Could you ask around? See if anyone heard anything about a hit in . . .” Declan turned to Finley. “Have you estimated time of death?”

  “Based on the soft tissue remaining, the state of the victim’s clothes, and the minimal root etching on her bones . . . I’d say we’re looking at under a year.”

  “Based on the larva remnants,” Parker added. “I’d say late winter, early spring,”

  “Which would explain why the grave was so shallow,” Finley said. “And why he covered it with rocks. He needed the extra coverage.”

  Griffin raked a hand through his hair. “I still can’t believe none of us noticed the smell.” A recent dead body had been decomposing in their park. On a hill he’d walked a thousand times.

  “The cold would have delayed decomp, hence the soft tissue,” Parker said.

  “But the summer months?”

  “Which is what the bug life shows. There was still plenty to feed off of in the warmer months, but the grave was located quite brilliantly. Up on a hill, shaded, not a lot of standing water, which keeps things dry and slows decomp. Even the rocks prevent rodents from digging in, and last March we had that horrific snow and ice storm. If she were buried not long before it, the snow would seal her in quite nicely.”

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “That almost sounds like admiration in your voice.”

  Parker shook his head. “No. Just find the man’s knowledge of body disposal and of the area quite intriguing.”

  “Which means we’re not dealing with a first timer,” Declan remarked.

  Familiar with the area. Something kicked around in Griffin’s mind. “We found a dead deer carcass up on Little Round Top last spring. April, maybe.” He wrinkled his nose. “The smell lingered awhile, even though we moved the carcass farther back into the woods.”

  Parker rubbed his chin, fingers moving across his ridiculous goatee. “Was the deer’s cause of death apparent?”

  “Our guess was hunter or poacher. Looked like it might have been an arrow wound to the heart, but scavengers had already gone to work so it’s hard to say.”

  “Let’s surmise it was a poacher,” Parker continued. “Why leave his kill?”

  “No idea. Maybe got startled off. Maybe was just in it for the sport—sadly we see that happen a fair amount.”

  “Could be Jane Doe’s killer knew the corpse would start decomp once the temperatures warmed so he provided an explanation.”

  “But that either means he hung around the month or two we’re talking about or returned to throw us off.”

  “That would be a truly frightening possibility,” Declan said.

  “Why?” Finley asked.

  “Because it indicates we’re dealing with a clever killer, one who thinks through every detail,” Parker began.

  “And one a lot closer to home than I’d care to consider,” Griffin said.

  “So”—Declan turned to Griffin—“your asking questions of your sniper contacts may prove our best lead. Ask about hits this past winter, early spring, and a sniper who prefers to use a Dragunov.”

  “I’ll ask around, but snipers aren’t exactly the chatty sort.”

  “What? A charming guy like you? Surely you’ll have no trouble,” Declan said with a cheesy grin.

  Griffin lifted his chin a notch. “Funny.” He could be charming if he chose to be, but snipers certainly weren’t the group to do so with. “I know a guy I can check with. He’s a retired Marine sniper. Served in Vietnam. Runs a shooting range about an hour outside of Gettysburg. Nice range. He knows the area fairly well, but just because Jane Doe was shot local or at least buried local, doesn’t mean the shooter is. Parker’s theory about him returning to the crime scene is just a theory.” Parker was great at those. Results were a different matter.

  Parker cocked his head. “Never said otherwise.”

  “How soon can you head to the range?” Declan quickly asked. Always the peacekeeper, or at least he attempted to be.

  “I can go tomorrow after my shift.”

  “Great.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll keep working the trace evidence,” Parker said, turning back to his equipment.

  “Let’s plan on meeting here tomorrow night,” Declan said. “Say . . . six? We can go over the progress we’ve made, share a bite to eat.”

  Parker and Griffin looked at each other, and after a moment’s hesitation Griffin nodded. If he could help bring a killer to justice just by asking some questions and relaying those answers, he was in. It didn’t mean he had to like the close proximity to Parker.

  “Sounds great,” Finley said, clearly wanting to remain in the loop.

  Declan stepped from the counter he’d been leaning against. “I’ll get started searching missing persons reports now that we have a description and key parameters.” He smiled, clearly enjoying all of them being together again. Of course he would.

  Declan waved and disappeared down the hall.

  “I should hea
d back to my office,” Finley said. “Got a lot of work ahead of me.”

  Griffin followed her out. “Can I wait and give you a lift?” He wanted to see her safely home.

  “Thanks, but I’ll be a while. I’ll have Parker give me a ride. He’ll be here just as late and lives not far from me.”

  Griffin swallowed, not wanting to think about Parker seeing Finley home for a multitude of reasons. “Okay. See you later,” he said, ducking out before she could respond. He’d feel better personally seeing her home, but maybe this way was better after all—it wouldn’t give her a chance to prod into his past.

  He maintained a quick pace down the corridor, the soles of his Merrill boots squeaking on the freshly mopped floor, the abrasive scent of Lysol wafting like a thick cloud in the air between the dropped ceiling and cinderblock walls.

  Within seconds, Finley’s springy steps echoed down the hall after him.

  He hung his head. He should have known better. She was far too inquisitive.

  “Hey,” she said, hurrying to catch up. “You left quickly.”

  “Wanted to let you get to work.”

  “Thanks, but the least I can do is walk you out. You probably just saved my life.”

  He hated to think of her being in danger, but his gut told him she still was—at least until Jane Doe was ID’d.

  “So you were a sniper?” Finley said.

  “Yes.” He kept moving toward the outer door, not planning on going into detail. Especially not the gritty ones that haunted him at night. Not the ones that would destroy any respect she might hold for him.

  “That must have been an unusual job.”

  Most people used interesting or hard. “That it was.” When he pushed through the metal door out into the parking lot, small flakes of snow—unusual for November—fluttered around them.

  She leaned against the stair rail, staring up at him with wide blue eyes. “Why the career change?” She asked so innocently, so sweetly, he didn’t have the heart to shut her out—at least not fully.

  He wrapped his scarf around his neck and tucked the ends into his pea coat. “Couldn’t do it anymore.”