So maybe Howard didn’t commit suicide. In that scenario, whoever killed McGrath had also killed Howard and then framed the disgraced detective for McGrath’s murder.
It wasn’t the perfect crime. But it was close. That is, if we could prove it.
I got out of the shower and dried off. Bree came into the bathroom.
“Chief Michaels is going to need harder evidence than that letter to officially reopen the case,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “Can you help grease the wheels at the gun house?”
“Sure. How fast?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks. By the way, how’d your day go?”
I briefed her as I pulled on clothes.
When I finished, she sighed. “So we’re no closer to finding Tommy’s killer or the road-rage shooter.”
“Or the vigilantes, for that matter. Whoever they are.”
62
THANK GOD FOR Alex and Ned Mahoney, Bree thought the next afternoon as she and Muller hurried down a hallway to the Gun Room, the area of the FBI’s crime lab that was dedicated to the Firearms/Toolmarks Unit. The backlog for FBI testing was weeks long, and yet here they were in Quantico, marching in the front door on less than three hours’ notice.
“We’re here to see Ammunition Specialist Noble,” Bree told the receptionist who was inspecting their visitors’ passes.
The receptionist made a call, and several minutes later a petite woman in her late forties wearing a blue skirt, a white shirt, a white lab coat, and reading glasses on a chain came out to meet them.
“Judith Noble,” she said crisply. “You have friends in high places, Chief Stone.”
“We’re lucky,” Bree said. “And thank you for agreeing to help us.”
“Not agreeing wasn’t an option,” she said coolly. “What can I do for you?”
Bree handed over the evidence bag containing the.45-caliber bullets found in Howard’s storage unit as well as the bullets that had killed Howard, Tommy McGrath, and Edita Kravic.
“We need a comparison done,” she said. “Just to make sure we’ve gotten all our ducks in a row.”
The ammunition specialist glanced at her watch and nodded. “Long as things don’t get too complicated, I can do that.”
Noble led them back to her workstation, which was immaculate.
“How do you get any work done?” Muller said. “I need a proper mess to think straight.”
The ammunition tech said, “Thank God you’re not in my field, Detective Muller. Defense attorneys would crucify you on the stand.”
“Why’s that?”
“Firearms testing is like engineering,” Noble said, putting on gloves. “This is about precision, not chaos.”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t get a thing done,” Muller said and he smiled at Noble in a way that Bree found kind of strange.
Noble did not respond, merely took out the three bullets that had killed Tommy McGrath, the two that had struck Edita Kravic, and the single shot that had ended Terry Howard’s life.
“They’re all a match for this gun,” Muller said, handing over the suicide.45 in an evidence bag.
“Says who?”
“I dunno,” Muller said. “Someone here.”
“I can call up the report,” Bree said, pulling out her phone.
Noble held up her hand. “I believe you. So all you’re looking for is confirmation that the ammunition in this box matches these six rounds?”
“Exactly,” Bree said.
“It should be easy,” the tech said. “We have everything Federal makes in the SAF, the standard ammunition file.”
She looked at the end of the box. “Personal-defense grade, two hundred and thirty grain. Pretty standard for a forty-five semiautomatic.”
Noble opened the box, took out one of the fourteen remaining bullets, looked at it, and frowned. “That doesn’t match.”
63
“WHAT?” MULLER SAID. “You haven’t even looked at the others.”
“I don’t need to,” Noble said, miffed. “The unfired cartridges here might indeed match the killing rounds, but they do not match the labeling on the Federal box.”
“No markings around the primers, right?” Bree said.
Noble cocked her head in appreciation and nodded. “That is correct, Chief Stone. All commercially made handgun ammunition has a stamp indicating manufacture and caliber on the brass around the primer.”
“Which means what?” Muller asked.
“Which means that these are hand loads,” the tech said. “Someone bought the components-the brass, the powder, the primer, and the bullets-and built these to custom specifications.”
“We didn’t see any hand-loading equipment at Howard’s apartment or in the storage unit,” Muller said.
“He could have hired someone to build the bullets,” Noble said.
“So do they all match?” Bree asked.
“Give me a few minutes,” Noble said, and then she looked at Muller. “You neat enough to get coffee and bring it back?”
“On my best days,” Muller said, and he gave her that goofy grin again.
While Noble told Muller how to get to the cafeteria, he continued to moon at her. Bree happened to look at the ammunition tech’s left hand. No ring.
She fought not to laugh. Muller was smitten!
Part of her wanted to mention his kidney stones or one of his other ailments, but she took pity and said nothing when he hurried off.
“He’s an odd duck,” Noble said, starting to work on the bullets.
“He kind of grows on you after a while,” Bree said.
“Married?” the tech asked.
“Divorced.”
“Hmm,” Noble said, and she kept at her work.
Twenty minutes later, Muller returned. The ammunition specialist didn’t look his way. She stared at the image of a bullet on her computer screen.
He put the coffee in front of her, and she said, “The bullets in the box are a match for the used slugs. They’re all Bear Creek moly-coated two-hundred-grain RNHBs. Which are about as far as could be from the specs on the box. These were made by and for an expert to exact, competition-level specs.”
“You mean like three-gun competitions?” Muller asked.
“Or straight pistol on a combat range,” the tech said.
“That’s a problem, then,” Bree said. “As far as we know, Terry Howard never competed with a pistol, never built his own bullets, and was not a gun nut. Well, not a pistol nut.”
“Howard could have gotten the custom ammunition with the gun,” Noble said. “Bought them from the owner.”
Bree said, “Or maybe an expert shot, someone who competes with a forty-five handgun and builds his own ammo, killed all three of them and framed Howard to get away with it.”
64
THEY WAITED UNTIL the heart of the cloudy night before turning on night-vision goggles and climbing over the chained and locked aluminum gate.
Hobbes and Fender went over smoothly, making no sound. But John Brown’s bad knee was acting up again. As he straddled the gate, the chain clinked ever so softly.
Brown landed on the dirt road on the other side. A dog barked once, straight to the south, five, maybe six hundred yards. Brown saw in his night-vision goggles that Hobbes was holding up his hand for him not to move.
Another bark, and then nothing for five long minutes.
“Like a cat, now,” Fender whispered through a jawbone microphone, and he began to pad down the dirt driveway.
Fender wore fleece-bottomed booties over his sneakers. They all wore them and barely made a sound moving deeper and deeper into the property. The dog stayed quiet.
That wouldn’t last long with a trained canine listening and scent-checking the wind. For the moment, however, they had it made from a scent perspective. A sturdy breeze blew right in their faces. The dog’s superior nose was disabled.