“There are these dark specks scattered around the circumference of the entry hole,” I tell him, pointing to a narrow band of spots extending out an inch or so beyond the wound perimeter. I make a quick swipe at them with a piece of gauze. “They don’t wipe off so it’s not soot. Is it gunpowder tattooing?”
“It is.” Izzy beams at me like a proud parent. “What does that tell you?”
“That the gun was not in direct contact, or even very close to the skin when it was fired. It had to have been anywhere from six inches to two feet away.”
“Good. Now how about the exit wound?”
“Well, given the extent of the damage, I’d suspect that either a large caliber bullet was used or that it was a hollow-point bullet of some type.”
Izzy nods toward the gun near the man’s right hand. “That’s a .357 Magnum. Big enough to cause this much damage?”
I think about it but I’m not sure. Sensing my hesitation, Izzy says, “Yes, it can, and often does. It’s a popular revolver among hunters and law enforcement officers because it’s designed to bring a target down in one shot. Now tell me what you can see about the angle of the bullet as it was fired.”
I describe what I see, beginning with the entry wound, which is on the man’s right temple about even with the lower margin of his eye socket but set back from it an inch or so. I then move to the exit wound, which encompasses most of the left side of his forehead and temple area. “It looks as if the bullet traveled slightly forward toward the front of his head and slightly upward as well,” I say. Izzy says nothing, but he smiles.
We continue our exam, working our way down the body. When we reach his neck, I point out the Kaposi’s sarcoma, explaining to Izzy how I noticed it when talking with the man earlier. When Izzy gets to the man’s right hand he takes several pictures of it before carefully removing the gun. He examines the skin of the hand with his naked eye and then again with a magnifying glass. When he finally sets the hand back down, he looks at me with a worried expression.
“Tell me again the sequence of events that led up to this man’s death,” he says. “As carefully as you can and with as much detail as you can remember.”
I reiterate the whole thing for him, and when I get to the part where the dead man disappeared into the back and I thought I heard voices, Izzy slows me down.
“Who was the source of the other voice?” he asks.
I shrug. “I have no idea. I assumed it was an employee of some sort who left through the back door. But I really don’t know. I never saw anyone but this guy.”
Izzy picks up the dead man’s hand again and holds it out for my inspection. “The gun used here was a revolver and they are notorious for leaving soot on the hand that fires it because of the gap between the chamber and the muzzle. Do you see any gunpowder residue here?” he asks.
I look carefully, using the magnifying glass Izzy used, then I shake my head. I feel a tiny chill snake its way down my spine.
“Okay. That’s not definitive, but highly suggestive. We’ll have to do a test on his hand when we get him back to the lab to see if there might be microscopic particles of residue. Now, let’s try something else. This finger”—he wiggles the man’s index finger—“was curled inside the trigger guard when you found him, right?”
I nod. He sets the man’s hand back on the floor, then forms his own hand into the shape of a gun, his index finger serving as the muzzle, his thumb folding the other three fingers back. “Pretend this is a gun and you’re going to shoot yourself with it in the head like this man did.” He held his “gun” near my right temple, about six inches away. “Now I want you to hold this gun and pull the trigger. Pretend my thumb is the trigger.”
I reach up, take a hold of his “gun” in my right hand, and try to fire it, but I have to contort my hand so much, I can barely get my index finger to touch the trigger, much less pull it. I try holding the gun with my left hand instead and then triggering it with my right index finger, but it’s still almost impossible. “It would be easier if I could use my thumb to pull the trigger,” I say finally.
“Exactly!” Izzy says.
I put it all together and feel my blood run cold.
“What are you saying, Izzy?” asks a voice behind me. I’ve been so caught up in what Izzy and I are doing that I failed to notice Hurley hovering in the doorway, eavesdropping on our every word.
“I’m saying that someone tried very hard to make it look like this man committed suicide,” Izzy says gravely. “But he didn’t. He was murdered.”
Chapter 26
As the meaning of Izzy’s declaration sinks in, my body begins to tremble.
Murdered. While I was standing out front in the showroom area, someone in the back of the store murdered a man in cold blood and then set the scene to make it look like a suicide. Had the killer known I was in the store? Was I left alive intentionally or merely as an oversight? Could I have done anything to prevent this poor man’s murder?
Upon hearing Izzy’s verdict, Hurley’s attitude changes dramatically. He perks up like a hunting dog on point, rigid and attentive. Then he starts barking out commands. Several other police officers have arrived on the scene and they are scouring through the place, searching the file cabinets, sorting through stacks of papers, rifling through desk drawers, and brushing surfaces for fingerprints.
Izzy and I continue our examination of the man’s body, wrapping him in the requisite white sheet when we are done and zipping him into a body bag. From paperwork the cops find in the office, we assume that the man’s name is Mike Halverson, though we will have to find something far more conclusive before officially establishing his ID. Other documents the cops find suggest that Halverson owned the business as a sole proprietor, with no obvious partners or corporation to share in the proceeds. But I have my doubts as to the authenticity of those papers and want desperately to get a peek at some of the financial statements.
Izzy says he wants to autopsy Halverson as soon as the body reaches the morgue since he has to leave town that evening for a medical conference. Hurley asks if he can observe and leaves another detective in charge of the scene so he can accompany us to the morgue.
We strip off our protective gear and bag it, then follow the body outside. We are watching the ambulance crew load it inside their vehicle when a red Toyota pulls up beside us and screeches to a halt. Alison Miller climbs out, her camera slung around her neck, her eyes wide with curiosity. She grabs the camera and tries to sneak a shot of the body bag inside the ambulance, but the techs are too fast for her and have the doors closed before she can focus.
She frowns briefly, then sidles up to Hurley with a big smile on her face. “Hello, Steve. Something going on?” she asks in a sexy, seductive voice I find utterly inappropriate.
“Hello, Alison,” Hurley says, smiling much broader than I like. “I can’t give you anything yet. You’ll just have to wait.”
Alison pouts and moves in a little closer, stroking her hand along Hurley’s upper arm. “Oh, come on, Stevie. Just a hint? Please?”
Stevie? I roll my eyes, half expecting Alison to rub up against him next, or start humping his leg.
“I can’t, Alison.” Hurley repeats.
Her pout deepens and she looks around, her gaze settling on me. With a smug little smile, she says, “Okay, Stevie. If you insist. But promise me you’ll tell me as soon as you can. Otherwise, I may not be in a very good mood for our date on Friday.”
Hurley casts a quick glance my way, then blushes six different shades of red as he pries Alison’s hand off his arm. Without another word he hurries off to his car and peels out of the parking lot.