Random Acts by J. A. Jance

Butch muttered.
    â€œBut good for us,” Holman said. “The trucker was right there. We know at least four shots were fired . . .”
    â€œÂ . . . and the shooter wouldn’t have had time enough to hang around gathering up his brass,” Joanna finished.
    â€œExactly,” Detective Holman said. “So let’s go find it.”
    The highway crew, done with their work but glad to have a few more minutes on the clock, joined in the search, one that was entirely successful. Three .223 shell casings were found up on the bridge deck. One was found below, almost hidden from view in an expansion joint.
    By then they’d been hiking around in the noonday sun for the better part of an hour, and the heat was starting to get to Joanna. When one of the highway workers passed out cups of ice water from the orange bucket on the back of his truck, Joanna drank one and poured the other one over her hair.
    Dave looked at her and frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s pregnant,” Butch said, explaining what should have been obvious.
    â€œAnd she’s been out here looking for brass all this time?” Dave replied. “Let’s get her inside somewhere so she can cool off.”
    Knowing she was overheated, Joanna didn’t object to their talking about her like she wasn’t there or to their bossing her around, either. Within a matter of minutes, they were settled in the relative chill of a McDonald’s, where Joanna downed several glasses of lemonade in rapid succession, which in turn required an immediate visit to the restroom. She returned to the booth to find Holman and Butch deep in conversation.
    â€œSo we’re looking for someone who’s not an experienced shooter using a rifle with a laser sight,” Butch said. “I think that means we’re looking for a kid.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œDepending on the weapon, just the gun itself could weigh up to eight pounds. Add in the sight. What’s that?”
    Holman shrugged. “Could be another five or six pounds.”
    â€œSo let’s say the shooter is standing up on the overpass,” Butch continued. “He’s waiting to do the deed and building up his courage to do, but he’s also holding the weapon the whole time. When he finally gets around to using it, the damned thing weighs more than he expects because his arm’s tired.”
    â€œWhich might account for the missed shots,” Joanna put in.
    â€œAnd also meaning that the shooter could well be a kid without sufficient muscle power to actually control the shots,” Holman added.
    Before anything more was said, Dave’s phone rang, and he picked it up immediately. “Yes, Mr. Slonaker,” he said. “Thank you so much for calling me back.” There was a pause. “Yes,” Dave continued. “That’s correct. I’m a homicide detective. It turns out the guy in the RV died from a bullet wound.”
    Knowing Slonaker was the truck driver, Joanna leaned closer, hoping to hear what was being said. She couldn’t make out the exact words, but the sounds of distress coming through the phone were clear enough.
    â€œYes,” Dave went on. “You’re right. It’s a miracle it was them instead of you, but with all of this in mind, I need to ask you a ­couple more questions. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to put you on speaker so I can make notes of what you’re saying.”
    Joanna held up her phone and mouthed the words, “Do you want me to record this?”
    Nodding his assent, Dave turned his phone on speaker while Joanna switched hers to record, but Ken Slonaker was still too focused on his own near-­death experience to be of much use.
    â€œI almost died last night,” he said. “My wife’s been telling me for a year now that it’s time for me to hang up my keys and retire. Maybe I will.