The absence of exit wounds was intriguing. The accuracy meant the shooter was not far away when he pulled the trigger. Normally at that range, the bullets would likely have penetrated the chest cavity, if not the skull, and exited. That this didn’t happen meant he’d possibly used a silencer, which dramatically reduces not only the sound but the velocity of the shot. This theory was born out too by the absence of 911 calls reporting gunshots or of ShotSpotter alerts. Despite what you see in the movies, silencers aren’t that common. Muggers and your average thieves rarely have access. Organized crime and professional triggermen, yes.
So, as Sanchez had speculated: the shooter was likely a pro.
No spent shells. The gun might have been a revolver, which would leave none — and despite the gap between chamber and barrel, it was somewhat quieted by a silencer. A semiauto, conversely, would have ejected brass. Then again, pros always took the empty shells with them. He found, however, where the brass would likely have ended up — to the right of where the shooter stood — and six to eight feet away he took samples of the dirt from where the flying shells would have landed.
Gilligan’s own weapon, a common Glock 17, was on his hip. No extra mag on the opposite side of his body, which told Pulaski that he didn’t do much fieldwork. You never ventured out of the office without at least one extra magazine.
Pulaski then began on the spiral ham. His comprehensive search.
There were a half-dozen footprints, but much of the site was hard-packed clay and gravel and grass, none of which yielded any impressions.
He dropped off what he’d collected at the bus and proceeded to the Lexus.
And what will you have for Mr. Locard and me?
The interior contained the typicaclass="underline" an empty coffee cup, two water bottles, DMV and insurance documents. The vehicle was only a month old. There was paperwork in the door and center console. Car stuff mostly. No more toll receipts nowadays. That information, often helpful, was available with a warrant only, from the bridge, tunnel, and toll road authorities.
He found several restaurant receipts, some recent, though none from this morning.
He lifted soil samples from the carpet, passenger seat and backseats, latents from the wheel, touchpad screen, other controls and surfaces, and door handles, both sides.
In the trunk was a laptop. He bagged this too.
Finally, a search of the seats. Under them, of course, but also in them: a place that no evidence-collecting book — even Lincoln Rhyme’s — suggested searching. But Pulaski patted down the supple leather, as if frisking a suspicious-looking gangbanger for drugs or weapons.
And here he found it, behind a slit cut into the side of the driver’s-side backseat.
Something that put Andy Gilligan’s murder in a whole new light.
18
A lot of people had second phones — the providers courteously offered great deals to suck you in — but Gilligan’s was a burner.
You could tell because it was a brand name, but an older model — three years out-of-date, yet in good shape, no scuffs or chips. Pay-as-you-go companies bought up inventories of older phones like this, selling them to a diverse crowd: those with limited means, teenagers learning how to budget and... to murderers and drug dealers.
As he placed it in the evidence bag, Pulaski was reflecting that a cop could certainly have a burner for legitimate reasons. So he could talk to CIs or suspects and not give away his personal number. Maybe Gilligan did some undercover work.
But why hide it so carefully?
If he was worried about it being stolen, there was the trunk or the glove compartment.
So Pulaski seized on the idea that Gilligan was involved in something illegal and the phone was one he used to communicate with a partner, Mr. X.
Think, he told himself.
Had he come here to meet that person, who had ambushed him?
Pulaski looked at it logically. Gilligan had died facing the shooter. If it was a stranger coming at him in a random attack, the detective would at least have reached for his own gun. But, based on his posture in death, that hadn’t happened.
So then, assume they were partners and met here for some reason. Think! Speculate!
Bold...
He walked to the street and examined the asphalt in front of and behind the Lexus. No recent tire prints. Maybe Mr. X had parked some distance away.
He walked to Sanchez. “I think they knew each other. Gilligan and the shooter.”
“Really?”
“Think so. I need to know where the perp parked. Not near the Lexus, but let’s check along here. Could you clear the street?”
“Sure. I’ll back everybody out.” Sanchez called to the officers on-site and gave the order.
One young woman officer said to Pulaski, “Sir, you want me to ribbon the whole place?”
Sir? They were the same age.
“Yeah, thanks.”
With a flip of her blond ponytail she turned, fetched a roll of yellow tape and started to work.
The two evidence collection techs returned to the gate.
“Find anything?” Pulaski asked.
They replied that they had not.
Which supported his theory that the men were together and had entered the site from this side of the lot.
Maybe it was a hit, pure and simple. Neither Gilligan nor the shooter had any business here, other than the second one’s murdering the detective.
He walked to the CS bus and snagged new evidence bags.
He was about to start his search for recent tire treads, when Sanchez approached. His face was not happy. “He’s not going to do it.”
“Who’s not going to do what?”
“Burdick. He said there’s no need to expand the scene. That that’s what Crime Scene people do when they don’t know what to look for.”
Pulaski frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“I’m just telling you.”
He glanced toward the deputy inspector and, behind him, the reporters.
Phalanx...
The blond officer, holding the yellow roll, looked toward Pulaski uncertainly. The DI had apparently told her too to stand down.
Pulaski approached. He took the roll from her. “I’ve got this.”
“Sorry...”
“No, it’s good.”
He turned toward Burdick and said, “I’m going to have to ask everyone to move back to the intersection. I’m sealing the street.”
And, armed with the tape, he waited for them to migrate.
A few reporters did, but paused when Burdick said, in a voice louder than necessary, “Officer. Like I just explained. Not necessary.” And looked at him with a pinched face that was the gaze of somebody smart talking to somebody less smart. He said, “It’s unprofessional. Might as well tape off the whole neighborhood.”
And for the millionth time, Pulaski had that brief flash: I’m screwing up. I’m doing something wrong.
I had that thing that happened...
Then he kicked the thought aside.