get.”
Twenty minutes later I was driving west on 56 with the county’s utility truck rumbling along behind me. One of our reserve officers met us at the roadblock, and five hundred yards after that I stopped, the county truck edging up behind me so that its massive front bumper was only inches from the back of 310. The driver, Nelson Petro, sat patiently with both hands locked on the steering wheel while I got out to confer with Estelle.
“I need to show you what we’ve found, sir,” she said. I caught the eagerness in her tone. I looked toward Enciños’s patrol car and saw the webbing of heavy nylon fishing line attached to the car in several places. The nylon lines stretched from the car across the highway, converging to a single spot five feet above the ground, tied to the top of a wooden pole driven into the hard soil of the highway shoulder. A camera tripod rested on the north side of the highway’s center line, and several more nylon lines ran from points inside the car to it.
Ignoring the spiderweb of lines, Estelle walked quickly to where her briefcase perched on the hood of Bob Torrez’s patrol car. Torrez leaned against the car, his arms folded. “First, we got lucky,” she said, and handed me a plastic bag. I looked at the attached evidence tag and then turned the bag so I could see the shell casing inside clearly.
“Twelve gauge,” Sergeant Torrez said quietly. “Winchester-Western, number four buck.” He straightened a little, towering over me by a head. “Recently fired.”
“Has to be it, then,” I said. “Where was it?”
Bob indicated the south side of the highway where the dense rabbitbrush and kochia choked the shoulder. “Twenty-eight inches from the pavement.” I saw the small red flag off to one side of the wooden web-stake.
“Sharp eyes,” I said.
“Luck, sir,” Estelle said. “I almost stepped on it when I was adjusting the camera tripod.”
“Sharp eyes,” Bob Torrez added. He was right, of course. Estelle rarely did anything by accident.
“Any others?”
“No, sir. Just the one,” Estelle said.
“But at least three shots were fired, maybe more.”
“That’s right, sir. But this tells us something we didn’t know. Number one, the killer probably picked up the spent shell casings that he could find. The other two may have landed on the macadam. They would be easy.”
“In the dark, it would have been a tough search to find this one,” I said, and dropped the plastic bag back in Estelle’s briefcase.
“He…or she, maybe…took the time to pick up spent shells, but missed this one, because it was kicked out to the side.”
“And that eliminates any shotgun that ejects its shells straight down, sir,” Torrez said.
“In all likelihood,” Estelle added quickly. “Let me show you.” I followed her across the macadam to the far shoulder. The red surveyor’s flag was nestled in the midst of a thick, healthy rabbitbrush. The wind was cooperating and the spiderweb of fishing lines stretched silently, reflecting the sunlight.
“If the killer had been standing here,” and she pointed at the wooden pole, “off the shoulder of the highway, a shotgun that ejects downward wouldn’t have flung the casing more than seven feet to the right, into the bush,” she said. “And if the killer inadvertently kicked it, it wouldn’t have flown around here, to land nearly at the back side of the bush.”
“Unlikely that it would. So, you’ve got a casing. Maybe we’ll be lucky and be able to lift a readable print. And if you’ve got a side-eject shotgun, that eliminates only about one percent of the shotguns on the market.” I looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “It’s a good start.”
I turned and gazed at the strings. I imagined the muzzle of the shotgun pointed across the road, and my eye followed the shimmering strands of fishing line as they angled across the highway.
“Let me show you what I want to do,” Estelle said, and I followed her back
Twenty minutes later I was driving west on 56 with the county’s utility truck rumbling along behind me. One of our reserve officers met us at the roadblock, and five hundred yards after that I stopped, the county truck edging up behind me so that its massive front bumper was only inches from the back of 310. The driver, Nelson Petro, sat patiently with both hands locked on the steering wheel while I got out to confer with Estelle.
“I need to show you what we’ve found, sir,” she said. I caught the eagerness in her tone. I looked toward Enciños’s patrol car and saw the webbing of heavy nylon fishing line attached to the car in several places. The nylon lines stretched from the car across the highway, converging to a single spot five feet above the ground, tied to the top of a wooden pole driven into the hard soil of the highway shoulder. A camera tripod rested on the north side of the highway’s center line, and several more nylon lines ran from points inside the car to it.
Ignoring the spiderweb of lines, Estelle walked quickly to where her briefcase perched on the hood of Bob Torrez’s patrol car. Torrez leaned against the car, his arms folded. “First, we got lucky,” she said, and handed me a plastic bag. I looked at the attached evidence tag and then turned the bag so I could see the shell casing inside clearly.
“Twelve gauge,” Sergeant Torrez said quietly. “Winchester-Western, number four buck.” He straightened a little, towering over me by a head. “Recently fired.”
“Has to be it, then,” I said. “Where was it?”
Bob indicated the south side of the highway where the dense rabbitbrush and kochia choked the shoulder. “Twenty-eight inches from the pavement.” I saw the small red flag off to one side of the wooden web-stake.
“Sharp eyes,” I said.
“Luck, sir,” Estelle said. “I almost stepped on it when I was adjusting the camera tripod.”
“Sharp eyes,” Bob Torrez added. He was right, of course. Estelle rarely did anything by accident.
“Any others?”
“No, sir. Just the one,” Estelle said.
“But at least three shots were fired, maybe more.”
“That’s right, sir. But this tells us something we didn’t know. Number one, the killer probably picked up the spent shell casings that he could find. The other two may have landed on the macadam. They would be easy.”
“In the dark, it would have been a tough search to find this one,” I said, and dropped the plastic bag back in Estelle’s briefcase.
“He…or she, maybe…took the time to pick up spent shells, but missed this one, because it was kicked out to the side.”
“And that eliminates any shotgun that ejects its shells straight down, sir,” Torrez said.
“In all likelihood,” Estelle added quickly. “Let me show you.” I followed her across the macadam to the far shoulder. The red surveyor’s flag was nestled in the midst of a thick, healthy rabbitbrush. The wind was cooperating and the spiderweb of fishing lines stretched silently, reflecting the sunlight.
“If the killer had been standing here,” and she pointed at the wooden pole, “off the shoulder of the highway, a shotgun that ejects downward wouldn’t have flung the casing more than seven feet to the right, into the bush,” she said. “And if the killer inadvertently kicked it, it wouldn’t have flown around here, to land nearly at the back side of the bush.”
“Unlikely that it would. So, you’ve got a casing. Maybe we’ll be lucky and be able to lift a readable print. And if you’ve got a side-eject shotgun, that eliminates only about one percent of the shotguns on the market.” I looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “It’s a good start.”
I turned and gazed at the strings. I imagined the muzzle of the shotgun pointed across the road, and my eye followed the shimmering strands of fishing line as they angled across the highway.
“Let me show you what I want to do,” Estelle said, and I followed her back
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