"I was getting in some firewood," his father said.
"This time of year?"
"Beats doing it during the summer, when it's hot, man," Mr. Newton pointed out reasonably. "Also lets the wood season some. I'm a construction worker. I walk iron, and it's a little slow right now, so I went out for some wood. The boy's off from school today, so I brought him along. While I cut the wood, Leon likes to fish. There's some big ones in the quarry," he added with a wink.
"Oh, okay." Shaw grinned. "Leon, you ever catch one?"
"No, but I got close last time," the youngster responded.
"Then what?" Mr. Newton nodded for his son.
"My hook got caught on sumthin' heavy, you know, an' I pulled and pulled and pulled. It come loose, and I tried real hard, but I couldn't reel it up. So I called my daddy."
"I reeled it in," Mr. Newton explained. "When I saw it was a gun, I almost crapped my drawers. The hook was snagged on the trigger guard. What kinda gun is that, anyway?"
"Uzi. It's made in Israel, mostly," the ballistics expert said, looking up from the weapon. "It's been in the water at least a month."
Shaw and another agent shared a look at that bit of news.
"I'm afraid I handled it a lot," Newton said. "Hope I didn't mess up any fingerprints."
"Not after being in the water, Mr. Newton," Shaw replied. "And you brought it right here?"
"Yeah, we only got it, oh" — he checked his watch—"an hour and a half ago. Aside from handling it, we didn't do anything. It didn't have no magazine in it."
"You know guns?" the ballistics man asked.
"I spent a year in Nam. I was a grunt with the 173rd Airborne. I know M-16s pretty good." Newton smiled. "And I used to do a little hunting, mostly birds and rabbits."
"Tell us about the quarry," Shaw said.
"It's off the main road, back maybe three-quarters of a mile, I guess. Lots of trees back there. That's where I get my firewood. I don't really know who owns it. Lots of cars go back there. You know, it's a parking spot for kids on Saturday nights, that sorta place."
"Have you ever heard shooting there?"
"No, except during hunting season. There's squirrels in there, lotsa squirrels. So what's with the gun? Does it mean anything to ya?"
"It might. It's the kind of gun used in the murder of a police officer, and—"
"Oh, yeah! That lady and her kid over Annapolis, right?" He paused for a moment. "Damn."
Shaw looked at the boy. He was about nine, the agent thought, and the kid had smart eyes, scanning the items Shaw had on his walls, the memorabilia from his many cases and posts. "Mr. Newton, you have done us a very big favor."
"Oh, yeah?" Leon responded. "What you gonna do with the gun?"
The ballistics expert answered. "First we'll clean it and make sure it's safe. Then we'll fire it." He looked at Shaw. "You can forget any other forensic stuff. The water in the quarry must be chemically active. This corrosion is pretty fierce." He looked at Leon. "If you catch any fish there, son, you be sure you don't eat them unless your dad says it's all right."
"Okay," the boy assured him.
"Fibers." Shaw said.
"Yeah, maybe that. Don't worry. If they're there, we'll find 'em. What about the barrel?"
"Maybe," the man replied. "By the way, this gun comes from Singapore. That makes it fairly new. The Israelis just licensed them to make the piece eighteen months ago. It's the same outfit that makes the M-16 under license from Colt's." He read off the number. It would be telexed to the FBI's Legal Attache in Singapore in a matter of minutes. "I want to get to work on this right now."
"Can I watch?" Leon asked. "I'll keep out of the way."
"Tell you what," Shaw said. "I want to talk to your dad a little longer. How about I have one of our agents take you through our museum. You can see how we caught all the old-time bad guys. If you wait outside, somebody will come and take you around."
"Okay!"
"We can't talk about this, right?" Mr. Newton asked after his son had left.
"That's correct, sir." Shaw paused. "That's important for two reasons. First, we don't want the perpetrators to know that we've had a break in the case—and this could be a major break, Mr. Newton; you've done something very important. The other reason is to protect you and your family. The people involved in this are very dangerous. Put it this way: you know that they tried to kill a pregnant woman and a four-year-old girl."
That got the man's attention. Robert Newton, who had five children, three of them girls, didn't like hearing that.
"Now, have you ever seen people around the quarry?" Shaw asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Anybody."
"There's maybe two or three other folks who cut wood back there. I know the names—I mean their first names, y'know? And like I said, kids like to go parking back there." He laughed. "Once I had to help one out. I mean, the road's not all that great, and this one kid was stuck in the mud, and… " Newton's voice trailed off. His face changed. "Once, it was a Tuesday… I couldn't work that day 'cause the crane was broke, and I didn't much feel like sitting around the house, y'know? So I went out to chop some wood. There was this van coming outa the road. He was having real trouble in the mud. I had to wait like ten minutes 'cause he blocked the whole road, slippin' and slidin', like."
"What kind of van?"
"Dark, mostly. The kind with the sliding door—musta been customized some, it had that dark stuff on the windows, y'know?"
Bingo! Shaw told himself. "Did you see the driver or anybody inside?"
Newton thought for a moment. "Yeah… it was a black dude. He was—yeah, I remember, he was yellin', like. I guess he was pissed at getting stuck like that. I mean, I couldn't hear him, but you could tell he was yelling, y'know? He had a beard, and a leather jacket like the one I wear to work."
"Anything else about the van?"
"I think it made noise, like it had a big V-8. Yeah, it must have been a custom van to have that."
Shaw looked at his men; too excited to smile as they scribbled their notes.
"The papers said all the crooks were white," Newton said.
"The papers don't always get things right," Shaw noted.
"You mean the bastard who killed that cop was black?" Newton didn't like that. So was he. "And he tried to do that family, too… Shit!"
"Mr. Newton, that is secret. Do you understand me? You can't tell anybody about that, not even your son—was he there then?"
"Nah, he was in school."
"Okay, you can't tell anyone. That is to protect you and your family. We're talking about some very dangerous people here."
"Okay, man." Newton looked at the table for a moment. "You mean we got people running around with machine guns, killing people—here? Not in Lebanon and like that, but here?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Hey, man, I didn't spend a year in the Nam so we could have that shit where I live."
Several floors downstairs, two weapons experts had already detail-stripped the Uzi. A small vacuum cleaner was applied to every part in the hope there might be cloth fibers that matched those taken from the van. A final careful look was taken at the parts. The damage from water immersion had done no good to the stampings, made mostly of mild steel. The stronger, corrosion-resistant ballistic steel of the barrel and bolt were in somewhat better shape. The lab chief reassembled the gun himself, just to show his technicians that he still knew how. He took his time, oiling the pieces with care, finally working the action to make sure it functioned properly.
"Okay," he said to himself. He left the weapon on the table, its bolt closed on an empty chamber. Next he pulled an Uzi magazine from a cabinet and loaded twenty 9-millimeter rounds. This he stuck in his pocket.
It always struck visitors as somewhat incongruous. The technicians usually wore white laboratory coats, like doctors, when they fired the guns. The man donned his ear protectors, stuck the muzzle into the slot, and fired a single round to make certain that the gun really worked. It did. Then he held the trigger down, emptying the magazine in a brief span of seconds. He pulled out the magazine, checked that the weapon was safe, and handed it to his assistant.