Today, however, was not normal. Not typical, no. Not regular or routine by any stretch of the imagination. Today Megan had turned on the speaker volume control thinking she wanted to leave every line of communication open, and it was for this reason that she heard the chime that signaled a message had jumped into her queue. It was the tenth she’d opened in under an hour. Eight of the previous messages were work related. The last had been a nasty bit of junk mail that managed to squeeze through her software filters and, because she was distracted, trick her into opening it with a moderately devious subject line that would have been otherwise identified for what it was by her mental antispammers to prompt a quick delete. All nine were long-term or short-term ignorable.
Until this one.
This turned out to be the message Megan had sought and dreaded, and nothing could stop the cold slide of ice that began to work through her intestines the instant she read its subject, causing her to break into visible shudders as she opened it with a hurried click of the mouse.
Much as she’d tried prepare herself, nothing.
“Don’t think I have to reconstruct what happened back here,” Erickson was saying. “You can see for yourselves.”
Ricci and Thibodeau stood with him outside the rescue center’s back door, studying its demolished lock plate and frame.
“Somebody fired a lot of rounds,” Ricci said. “Wanted past the door in a rush, didn’t care about surprising anyone with the noise.”
“Right,” Erickson said. “We can thank this rain for making the ground damp enough to give us some decent shoe impressions to photo and cast. There were four attackers from the looks of things, came around from either side of the main building in pairs. Your boss’s daughter must have left those kennels out behind us, seen them closing in, and hurried through this entrance to try and get away from them.”
Ricci had closed his umbrella and crouched to examine the door frame.
“You must’ve pulled a lot of slugs out of this,” he said, running a latex-gloved finger over the pocked, splintered wood. “What caliber?”
“Nine mil Parabellum,” Erickson said. “The ammunition was fragged, but the spent cartridge casings we recovered told us right off.”
Ricci glanced over his shoulder at Erickson.
“Big, deep punch for nines, even fired up close,” he said. “There a brand name on those casings?”
Erickson gave a nod. “Federal Hydrashok.”
“Premium make.”
“That’s right.”
“Expensive.”
“Right.”
“You able to tell anything about the guns from the ejection pattern?”
“Not definitively.”
Ricci responded to the cop’s knee-jerk hedge with a look of overt impatience.
Erickson hesitated a moment, exhaled.
“Off the record,” he said, “I believe the weapons used outside this door were subs.”
Ricci considered that.
“Outside,” he repeated.
Erickson nodded.
“Were shots fired inside?” Ricci asked.
“The shop seems a different story.” A pause. “Put on those booties from my kit and I’ll show you.”
Erickson led the Sword ops through the entrance and back rooms to the area behind the sales counter.
“Be careful where you step.” He motioned to several dark brown splatters on the linoleum that had been bordered with tape. “The stains were partially dry when I arrived yesterday morning. Maybe a couple of hours old. It was clear on sight they were blood, but I swabbed and did a Hemodent test to confirm.”
Thibodeau studied them a moment, then raised his eyes to Erickson.
“You know whose blood?” he said.
The detective appraised his grave features, the cheeks pale above the dark beard.
“Julia Gordian’s purse was left on the countertop,” he said. “She carried one of those Red Cross donor cards, and her type matches.”
Perspiration glistened on Thibodeau’s forehead in the chill dampness of the room.
“Une zireté,” he muttered under his breath.
It is something atrocious.
Erickson was still looking at him. If the literal meaning of the words eluded him, their underlying emotions were easy to translate.
“I’m not saying anything for sure, but it doesn’t appear she was shot.” The cop knelt, pointed to the rust-colored stains. “The bleeding wasn’t that heavy—”
“No spray patterns like you’d expect from a bullet wound, either,” Ricci said.
Erickson glanced up at him.
“Right,” he said. “From the way the drops struck the floor and their cast off angles… you see these streaky lines trailing toward the wall… I’d guess she fell back against it in a struggle and got cut or something.”
As he spoke Ricci shifted his eyes to a much larger stain crusting the floor of the shop.
“Must’ve been a more serious wound left that one over there,” he said, gesturing across the counter top. “You have a theory to explain it, too?”
Erickson straightened and turned to him.
“The main thing you need to know is that our tests fixed the blood group as different from Julia Gordian’s,” he said.
Ricci regarded him curiously.
“Any bullets or casings picked up in the storefront?”
“No.”
“Ideas how the blood got there?”
“We’re still narrowing down the possibilities.”
Ricci tipped his chin toward the front entrance without taking his eyes off Erickson’s face.
“I can see from here that door got kicked in,” he said.
Erickson nodded.
“Wouldn’t have been hard for a strong man,” Ricci said. “It seems pretty lightweight.”
Erickson nodded again.
“Means there was probably a fifth perp,” Ricci said. “At least a fifth.”
“Right.”
“So maybe the blood stain was left by whoever came crashing through the door.”
“I told you we’re looking at the possibles.”
“You going to have more for us on them soon?”
Erickson took a moment to answer.
“We’ll see what develops,” he said. “Meanwhile, it would help if you could come up with the names of anybody who might have grudges against your employer, knowledge of his family… whatever you think is relevant.”
Ricci’s gaze remained fixed on the detective.
“Share and share alike,” he said. “I want to take another quick swing around the grounds before we leave. Got any problem with that?”
Again Erickson was quiet.
“I doubt you’ll find much that can add to what you know evidence-wise, but can’t see why not… with some stipulations,” he said. “The residence downhill is still being processed, and we’re considering whether to extend the crime scene to the woods. That puts them off limits.”
“Howell off-limits, too?” Ricci probed.
“Couldn’t stop you from talking to him if he were here, but he’s staying with family.”
Ricci grunted.
“Okay, what else?”
“I stay with you,” Erickson said. “Acceptable?”
Ricci nodded.
“Come on,” Erickson said. “We’ll start out back, work our way down to your car. So I can do you two fellas the final favor of seeing you off.”
The Sword ops showed no hint of amusement in their expressions.
A moment later they all went out into the rain.