Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ in the envelope. “We’ve got to re-create the shooting. Where Harlan first stood when he opened fire, who appeared to be his first victim, who was his next, and so on and so forth.”

      “How do we do that?” Martinez asked.

      “We’ll start with the floor plan. Draw each table and who sat where, using the reservations book. Who checked the book into evidence?”

      “Yo.” Marge held up her hand.

      Decker said, “Okay. We draw each table and label them. Next comes the brain work and the tedium. For this part, we’ll need basic geometry and gunshot angles. Since we couldn’t rod the victims, we’ll have to rely on Forensics.”

      Decker leaned forward.

      “Harlan was found dead at the bar. Don’t know if he started his shooting at the bar, but assume that he did. The bar area is off the entrance, correct?”

      Nods all around.

      “So assume he entered there and just started shooting. Here’s what we’re going to do. We ask ourselves … if Harlan started shooting from the bar area and was facing left, where would the first bullets have landed? Say they would have landed on table three. We look in the reservations book, find out who was at table three, and determine the nature of their wounds, if any. If it seems consistent with Harlan’s position, we go on to our next assumption. If it’s not consistent, we change our first assumption—”

      “I’m lost,” Martinez said.

      Decker said, “We’re trying to trace bullet paths using geometry. Go down the friggin’ list. If Harlan shot from the bar, where would his first bullets have landed? If that matches, we move on.

      “If Harlan had turned to the left and shot, who would have been his next hit?

      “If Harlan had turned to the right and shot, who would have been his next hit?

      “If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward, who would have been his next hit?

      “If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the right, who would have been his next hit?

      “If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the left, who would have been his next—”

      “This could take months!” Oliver blurted out.

      “Yes, it probably will take months,” Decker said.

      “Loo, pardon mah ignorance,” Webster drawled, “but just what do you reckon to accomplish?”

      “Let’s talk politics for a moment. There are bound to be lawsuits—against Estelle’s, maybe even against the city. Our police reports are going to be scrutinized with a microscope. And we’re going to be judged, folks. Every single one of us. You, me, and this entire beleaguered department.”

      Decker rubbed his temples.

      “I want every single bullet accounted for. Make sure that all the slugs came from Harlan’s gun and not some other outside source that we overlooked because we were too lazy—”

      “Outside source?” Marge grimaced. “You think there was more than one shooter?”

      “Who knows? Last count we’ve got thirteen dead, thirty-two wounded. Lots of damage for one guy, Margie.”

      Martinez said, “Harlan was packing a nine-millimeter automatic double action, Loo. Fourteen rounds per magazine—”

      “How many rounds did he fire, Bert?”

      Martinez was quiet. “Don’t know.”

      “Anyone?”

      No one spoke.

      Decker said, “Thirteen dead people, thirty-two wounded, and we can’t answer a simple question like how many rounds the fucker fired.”

      Oliver said, “So we’ll do a bullet count.”

      “We’ll do a lot more than a bullet count. I want this crime scene nailed. Every step and every shot that Harlan took must be checkbook-balanced.”

      Decker leaned back in his chair.

      “We’ll start tomorrow with the bullet count. Dunn and Oliver, you two take the corpses in the morgue as well as the shells and bullets left behind at Estelle’s. Check the walls, check the furniture, check the potted plants, turn the place upside down if you have to. I want every bullet, every shell, every empty magazine cited and bagged.”

      “Talk about tedium,” Oliver muttered.

      Decker looked at his detective—worn, disheveled, spent. “I don’t envy your assignment, Scott. The place gives me the creeps. But someone has to do it.”

      Oliver ran his hands through his oily black hair. “I’m not complaining, Loo. I’m just tired.”

      “I know.” Decker looked at Webster and Martinez. “You two go over to the hospitals, talk to the victims’ doctors. Have them help you get a bullet count from their patients’ medical charts or surgery dictation or even from the X rays. And if any of the victims feels like talking, you can start conducting interviews. Once we get the bullets accounted for, we’ll start analyzing the angles—”

      “Y’ever think of using a computer, Loo?” Webster asked.

      “Forensic reenactment.” Decker said. “Farrell’s working on a program for this as we speak. It’s a very useful tool, but first we’ve got to have data to plug into the computer. Then it’ll probably take months before he comes up with something. But that’s all right. We have time. If we’re meticulous in our calculations, maybe the computer will spit us back a step-by-step simulation of Harlan’s movements at Estelle’s.”

      Webster said, “Welcome to Cybermurder.”

      “Except the victims were flesh and blood.” Decker stood. “We start tomorrow. For now, all of you. Go home.”

      As Decker pulled into the driveway of the ranch, he noticed the living-room light shining through the bay window. Immediately, his heart took off. Not that it was late—quarter after ten. Still, when Rina waited up for him, she always kept vigil in the kitchen or their bedroom.

      He shut off the Volare’s motor, jogged to the front door, and opened it. His wife was asleep on the living-room couch. On the floor was his dog, Ginger, nestled among piles of loose papers. Next to the sheets were a calculator, pens, pencils, and a couple of ledgers.

      Instant relief. Everything was all right.

      Then came the curiosity. What was Rina working on? He considered rifling through the pages, but discarded the thought. All in due time. For now, let her sleep.

      He regarded the room. In dim light, it seemed worn, his furniture over a decade old, purchased during his divorced days. The buckskin couch had been rubbed shiny in spots, the coffee table was scratched, the two wing chairs had faded. Keeping guard at the bay window was Rina’s pine rocker purchased after Hannah was born—the only new thing standing.

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