“What I guess I meant was how much would the bullet mushroom going through the glass? How soft is that lead up front?”
Torrez shrugged slowly. “Some, I guess. We’d have to try it.”
“Do that,” I said. Eduardo nodded silent agreement. “And we need to work on some theories about why there are no rifling marks.” I turned to the sheriff, who was keeping his own counsel, one index finger hooked over his mouth as if he needed to keep the zipper tight. “What do you think, Eduardo?”
“You know,” he said slowly, “I saw a guy once.” He stopped as if that explained everything, and both Bob and I waited patiently. “I was elk hunting up north, and there’s this big shooting range up there? Just south of Raton. We were camping there, and did some sighting in with our rifles one morning. There was this guy there trying to shoot some targets, and his rifle brass was just blowing up, you know. He’d shoot, and man…” Eduardo’s head shook in wonder. “I looked at the fired casing, and it was split open all along the neck in about five places. Just blown out. You know why?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said.
“He had a.300 Weatherby Magnum rifle, you know. A nice gun. And you know what he was shooting in it? He had a box of .270 Weatherby Mag ammo. At a hundred yards, he was getting a group like this.” Eduardo held his arms in a circle a yard across. “That was good enough for him.”
“An idiot,” I said. But Eduardo wasn’t reminiscing just to waste time. “So you’re saying that maybe a.27 caliber bullet skipping out the barrel of a.30 caliber gun wouldn’t be marked up much by the rifling?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I mean why would it be?” The sheriff’s deep shrug was eloquent. “We didn’t recover the bullets he was shooting, but he used up a whole box. I can’t think why they would be marked, can you?”
I looked back at our specimen. “So if this passed out a larger barrel-something larger than.308-it wouldn’t be marked. That’s what we’re saying? I have just one problem with that theory. This bullet,” and I jabbed a finger toward the microscope, “shot a really tight one shot group, Eduardo. Damn tight. Right through the middle of the grader’s windshield, and right through Larry Zipoli. One perfect shot. If that’s what the shooter was aiming at, he sure as hell didn’t have a group the size of a bushel basket.”
Eduardo nodded judiciously and shrugged. “I’m just saying…that’s one way to explain why no rifling marks.”
“I’d like to see that,” I said. “Most of the time, I wouldn’t think the wrong ammunition would even chamber in a gun.”
“That’s true only some of the time,” Bob Torrez said. “But any cartridges that share the same parent case could.” He shrugged. “A.270 is just a necked down.30–06. The ass end of the cartridge case is common to both. A.270 slips right into an ’06.” He almost smiled, hilarity for Bob Torrez. “Not vice versa, though. You can’t put an ’06 into a.270.”
“I’d like a list,” I said. “And a list of theories. I mean, there’s something here. Rifles have rifling, don’t they. That’s why they’re called rifles. Smoothbores that are actually meant to shoot jacketed rifle bullets could be counted on one hand, right?”
“I would think.”
“I want a list,” I repeated.
The sheriff looked at his watch and grimaced.
“And there are some sabots bein’ experimented with,” Torrez offered. He pronounced the word sabeau, and the French sounded odd from a guy for whom slang formed the foundation of his vocabulary. “There’s a nylon sabot that covers the bullet and pulls it out the barrel. That would give you a.25 caliber bullet comin’ out of a.30 caliber gun, or a.22 out of a.30, even. I don’t know anybody who makes one for a.30 caliber bullet out of something bigger, unless it’s something the military is workin’ on.”
“A sabot. That’s high tech, sort of. Uncommon, anyway.” I sighed. “And something to pursue, then,” I said. “Come day light, we need every set of eyes out on Highland. Right now, we have no witnesses, no definitive tracks, no diddly squat.” I stabbed a finger at the specimen under the microscope. “That’s what we have. One God damn bullet.” I looked at Bob Torrez, expecting him to offer up a simple answer that I would believe. He remained silent.
Chapter Six
I had a list of things to do a yard long, but a little Post-it note on my desk blotter drew my attention. Marilyn Zipoli would like you to stop by. Dispatcher Marcus Baker, Deputy Scott Baker’s brother, had taken the message at 7:33 p.m. The sheriff had taken care of family notification earlier, and I had seen no point in duplicating his efforts until I had something definite to tell the grieving widow.
Eduardo, Bob Torrez, and I had dithered and talked the evening away, and now it was pitch dark and 9:05. I would have gone home, but to do what other than drink too much coffee and wish I had a cigarette, I didn’t know. I dialed Zipoli’s number and waited for seven rings before a voice answered that sounded as if the young lady was standing ten feet from the phone.
“Zips…this is Rori.” Zips?
“Rori, this is Undersheriff Bill Gastner. May I talk with your mother for a moment?”
“Sure. Just a sec, sir. She’s outside talking to somebody.” The phone clattered on a hard surface before I had a chance to say anything else, and I listened to various background noises for a moment. A door slammed, and I heard footsteps and then a scuffling as the receiver was picked up.
“This is Marilyn.” She sounded out of breath.
“Marilyn, Bill Gastner. I know it’s late, but I wanted to get back to you.”
“Late, my heavens, what does the time matter?” she said. “Unless we can turn the damn clock back.”
I didn’t know Marilyn Zipoli well, just as a pleasant face and name behind the counter at the bank, doing her part to keep the community moving forward. I was able to remember her well enough to recall the brilliant flash of her smile with which she favored each customer, no matter how cranky we might be. And somehow, she didn’t seem the perfect fit for Larry Zipoli-but who’s to predict chemistry. And the Marilyn I knew wouldn’t talk about a “damn” anything.
“The sheriff was out to see you earlier,” I said. “I apologize for not coming over myself.”
“Yes, and I know that was hard for him. Tony came too. I appreciated that.” Something interrupted her. It might have been a tissue to the nose, or a heavy sigh that threatened tears, maybe a little niece pulling at her skirt. “Is there any chance that you can break away from what your doing and come over for a few minutes?”
“Of course. How about right now?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“I understand that. Give me five minutes.” I hung up and sat for a moment, deep in thought. “Huh,” I said aloud. There’s a statistic somewhere-if I rooted through the files long enough, I’d find it-where the folks who collect such data claim that the majority of homicides involve family members. Domestic disputes turn ugly, and somebody steps in front of a bullet or knife or tire iron propelled in anger. And if we spread our definition of “family” just a little bit to include the loose groups of punks, gang bangers, border-ducking hoodlums or just drunken thugs, the net catches the majority of folks who belong behind bars.
I was willing to bet my paycheck that Marilyn Zipoli hadn’t taken the family rifle in the closet, driven out to where her husband was grading Highland Avenue, and fired at a puzzled Larry as he sat in the big Cat. But something was niggling at her, and she obviously felt that I needed to know. Why she hadn’t told Eduardo Salcido when she had the chance was another puzzle, but evidently she was comfortable talking with me.