The second victim was much like the first, except for the additional wound and track. We found only what we'd expected, and pending laboratory examination, there had been absolutely no surprises. Good news. But the slugs were so mangled I still couldn't definitely identify them as .22s. Then again, I'm not a ballistics guy.

At the conclusion of the autopsies, I had a brief meeting with Dr. Peters, while Nancy and Shamrock sat in the waiting room.

I had a question I just had to ask. "Doc, would either of the victims be capable of any significant movement after the shots were fired?"

"I don't think so," he said. "Although Victim Two might not have gone straight down."

"Dirk Colson," I said. "The one with two wounds."

"Right. The first one went well forward, and might not have laid him down immediately. Which may well have been the reason for the second. I would expect him to have been seated or kneeling. Didn't topple with the first shot. But both wounds came from just about the same angle, in just about the same spot. From the nature of them, not more than a second apart." He thought for a second. "The scene tells me that they weren't lying down when they were shot. The angles aren't right for that, given the clearance. And, if somebody's lying down, on a floor, for example, the shots would come in the front, back, or sides of the skull, not the top. And the one with the exit wound put the round into the wall. So, no, they were seated or kneeling, or standing. Not lying down." "Why were you thinking they were lying down?" "That's common in executions," said Dr. Peters. "Just as common as kneeling."

"You think that's for sure what we have here?" "Now that I'm certain of the contact wounds, and the track ... Yes. I should think so."

Ten.

Wednesday, January 14, 1998, 1708 It wasn't exactly a revelation, but there's always a certain sense of having sailed over a major hurdle, when the pathologist reaches a definite conclusion.

So, where did that leave us? Well, we were still in the creek, but with fewer holes in the boat.

"The lab results will be in a few days, I hope," said Dr. Peters. "There have been some problems lately ..."

True enough. The state kept cutting the criminalistics laboratory budget, reducing the number of criminalists and a.n.a.lysts every year. There was such a backlog that they were currently unable to guarantee processing marijuana samples within forty-five days, for example. Doesn't sound like much of a problem, but since forty-five days is the limit for a speedy trial, it meant that a savvy defendant could get you in court before you had any confirmation of evidence. As in "acquittal."

We would have priority. But it still would be several days, at best, before the toxicology report came back.

"Any real problems with that?" I asked.

"Well," drawled Dr. Peters, "unless somebody got to them with an aerosol that caused instant paralysis ... probably not."

"There's no sign of restraints," I said. "Is that going to give us a problem with the execution approach?"

"No," said Dr. Peters. "Not at all. The fact that there were no marks, I mean. Marks are caused by very tight restraints, by strong overpressure caused by someone resisting the restraints, or residue left by adhesives. And by length of time." He shrugged. "It's like wearing a belt with your trousers. It doesn't leave prominent marks when you take it off." He looked at me, and smiled. "Well, with some exceptions, of course."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He leaned back against a stainless-steel sink. "Don't forget that many things can restrain. Fear. Surprise. Dominance. The totally unexpected."

He described a case where a man had shot three women in the lingerie section of a department store. The three had been several feet apart, when the man came in and shot the clerk. He turned, and shot the customer she'd been waiting on, and then walked over to another clerk and shot her. Only the first clerk had died. She'd been his ex-wife. The other two victims had both been rooted to the spot by disbelief.

"He was quick about it," he said. "If he'd hesitated a few seconds, either of the other two victims probably would have reacted. But he shot all three within two to three seconds."

"Pretty efficient," I said.

"Remarkably so. And he never said a word. Lent an aspect of unreality to the whole thing. The other two women said in interviews that they'd been so immobilized by disbelief that they didn't even become afraid until after they had been shot." He shook his head. "The third woman took several seconds just convincing herself that she'd actually been harmed."

"I can see that. Environment, too, don't you think? If it had happened in a parking lot, they probably would have been more on edge in the first place."

"Precisely so. Even more if it had been at night." He began to take off his lab ap.r.o.n.

"Then," I said, "let me try this ... Okay, our two victims break and enter what appears to be a vacant home. They just gain access, when they're confronted. Let's say they claim to be cops, looking for a burglar. It's worked for them before, maybe even something they've planned to say."

"Yes..."

"So they're really prepared to talk their way out of the thing, and all of a sudden, somebody sticks a gun in their face and says, 'Kneel down and put your hands behind your head.' One of them says something bright, like 'What?' and gets shot for being reluctant. The other kneels, right?"

"I would," said Dr. Peters.

"And probably asks not to be shot."

"And ..."

"And, while he's asking, the captor walks around behind him and pops two into his head."

"Could have been," said Dr. Peters. "Sounds to me like you have a theory you've been working on."

"Well ... yeah. Sort of. Long way to go, though."

"I certainly couldn't rule that scenario out," said Dr. Peters.

"Sort of like 'Don't shoot, we're cops.' Then 'You're what?' 'Cops.' Bang Bang. 'Don't shoot me!' Bang, bang Bang, bang." I thought about what I'd just said. "You know what, I'll bet n.o.body had to say, 'Get on your knees.' I'll bet he did that spontaneously."

In my mind, at least, another little piece drifted into place. "The second victim ..." I said to myself. "Yeah ..."

"Elapsed time ... what ... five seconds? Hi. Boom Boom. h.e.l.lo. Boom, boom Boom, boom. You go in ..." I looked at the big wall clock with the sweep second hand. "Four seconds, maybe, if you have to wait for the first one to drop, and move to the second. All the way to ten minutes, once the second victim gets to his knees. Getting the first one dead, and the second one controlled is the key."

Back outside, where the air was fresh and cold, I met with Nancy and Shamrock.

"Well, that was fun." Nancy patted Shamrock on the shoulder. "I'm glad one of us is hardy enough for this."

"No problems," said Shamrock, who was busy ejecting the last roll of film from her "official" camera.

"Let's go sit in our car, and we can talk a couple of details," I suggested. "Where it's warmer."

Car meetings aren't the best way to do things, but cops have to use 'em all the time. It's cramped, the roar of the defroster m.u.f.fles things, and the coffeepot is usually several miles away. But we managed. Shamrock transferred the required film to us, and we went over the ground rules.

"No number of shots," I said.

"Sure," said Nancy.

"Either specific or vague. None of the 'several shots were fired,' or anything like that. Just 'shot.' That's plenty. And no caliber. Nothing about a .22, or a .38 or anything like that."

"Okay, Carl. Not to worry."

"Now, how are you planning to go about getting us what we want?"

"Interview, like a follow-up. You know. Back to the ones who mentioned cops being killed. Like I'm following up a lead. Get talking. At least let them know I'm interested." Nancy turned to Shamrock. "She'll get some shots. One or two, with the interview subject."

"Don't take any chances," I cautioned. Unnecessarily.

"Yeah, right," said Nancy.

"We'll wait for you to call," I said.

"Don't let me dangle this time," said Nancy. She kind of grinned. Kind of. She'd done this sort of thing before.

"Wouldn't think of it," I said. I smiled.

Back in Maitland with only a few hours to go before my shift ended, I picked up a call from Jake at the crime lab. He was looking for Art, but good old Art was busy calling around for a parka on another phone. Dispatch gave Jake to me. Jake, himself, was in his middle fifties, and a really great guy. I'd known him for years, and agreed with the rest of the entire state that he was the best a.n.a.lyst the lab had.

We talked for a few moments about how the case was moving nowhere fast.

"Things," I said, trying to be profound, "aren't always what they seem."

"For sure," said Jake. "Like that cartridge case we found in our vacuum bag. I never would have guessed that in a million years."

There was a stunned silence on my end.

"Hey, Carl, you there?"

"Yeah. Did you say you found a casing from the Borglan crime scene?"

"Sure. Didn't Art tell you? I told him this morning."

Well, in his favor, Art had been a bit distracted by other things.

"No, he must have forgotten. Good news, though. Now, all we have to do," I said, "is match it to one of a million .22s in the world ..."

"No problem," said Jake. "It isn't a .22."

"Pardon?"

"Not a .22, although you'd think it was. It's a 5.45 mm PSM cartridge. Very unlikely there'd be more than a handful of 'em in the U.S."

"What," I asked, "is a 5.45 mm PSM?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lamar perk up.

"Same thing we asked," said Jake. "Turns out it's a Soviet handgun, issued to troops of various sorts. Mostly KGB, NVD, and State Security. Very rare. Collector's item, I'd say.

"About a forty grain bullet," he said. "Not much, about two and a half grams. But ballistically about the equivalent of a .22 long rifle. The gun looks a lot like a PPK. Barrel just over three inches."

"Automatic, then?"

"You bet, Carl."

"And you only recovered one casing?"

"I think somebody beat us to the clean-up," said Jake. "They just missed one."

"Any idea how you'd go about getting hold of one of those PSMs?"

"Not a guess, Carl. No help there at all." He thought for a second. "Maybe a gun show? Or a collector's magazine?"

Well. In a stroke, Jake had pretty well eliminated anybody "average" in the area. I'd seen Cletus Borglan's gun cabinet, and nothing having any connection to a handgun had been in there. Not necessarily a complete negative, but another difficulty.

He said to have Art call him. Sure thing.

I hung up the phone, and looked at Lamar. "You know anything about a PSM?"

"It's Russian," he said. "That's about it." He folded a piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. "Notes on the PSM and the cartridge," he said.

"I'm kind of anxious to hear what Art has to say about this," I said. But alas, Art had slipped out, no doubt on the case of finding a warmer winter jacket.

When I got home, Sue and I had a nice, late, no-pressure kind of supper. We cooked together, making spaghetti and fat-free meatb.a.l.l.s, toasted garlic bread, a great fresh salad ... It was nice. I would have had some wine, but opted for soda instead. Legally, we were always subject to being called out, and if somebody got in real trouble, I didn't want to let them down.

We ate in our dining room, as opposed to TV trays in front of the tube while watching the news. Nice. No conversation about work. For either of us. For about two minutes.

"How are things going with Art?" she finally asked.

"Fantastic!" Well, as close as you can come with spaghetti in your mouth.

She gave me a look of disbelief.

"Well," I admitted, "it might have something to do with his not being around today."

"Well, just don't let him distract you too much when he gets back," she said. "I know you'll do your best, but he's just not as important as your business."

We cleared the table, and I sat down in my recliner, started to watch the news, saw that the d.a.m.ned warm front was still off to the west, and slept for about an hour and a half. That was unusual, but welcome.

"Still tired from being up for about two days, like a teenager," said Sue. "But you're not ..."

"I guess so." I stretched. "No, I'm sure not. The nap helped, though."

Consequently, when the phone rang at about 2115, I was almost ready to go. Full, not too tired, and a bit testy, but nearly ready. It was John Willis, the new guy. Like I've said, new but sharp. Respectful, as well. Not necessarily respectful of my enormous talent, maybe, but at least respectful of my age.

"Sir?"

"Hey, John. What's up?"

"Uh, could I pick you up ... I've got somethin' to show you, I think ..."

I went back to the living room, where Sue was reading. "Gotta go for a bit," I said.

"I thought so."