BMW's tank?"
"Right." Murphy pointed across the road to
the other slope of the valley. "Ballistics figures it was a
rifle of some kind. Bullet went through the left rear tire,
ricocheted up, and punctured the gas tank."
"But without exploding it."
A real smile this time. "Cuddy, you watch too
much TV."
I looked back over at the hillside where the shooter
supposedly had been. "Any kind of make on the bullet or rifle?"
"No. Slug was too deformed by the things it hit.
But from the composition of the metal, we know it wasn't the same as
the ones found in Gant."
"Meaning two different guns."
"Right. A rifle and a revolver. M.E. dug two
readable rounds out of Gant's soft tissue, and Ballistics matched
them to Spaeth's Taurus Model 85 revolver."
"To the revolver found at the scene."
"With your boy's prints on the shell casings
still in the cylinder. And he admits to owning a Taurus 85."
I didn't have a good answer to that one, other than
Spaeth's believing somebody stole the weapon from his room at
Dufresne's boardinghouse. "Lieutenant, you have anything on the
woman with Gant that night?"
"No. Owner of Viet Mam says he never noticed her
face. And the waitress there doesn't have great English, says just
that the woman was blond and attractive, wore tinted glasses and
drank chardonnay."
"Enough wine so she wouldn't be able to drive?"
Murphy looked at me. "Waitress said the bottle
was empty, but she's not sure who drank how much."
"The lab do Woodrow Gant's blood alcohol level?"
"Point-oh-three."
"Pretty low."
"He was a biggish man, Cuddy."
Okay. "Let's go back to the woman. Height,
weight?"
"Medium everything, according to the owner."
I looked down the road in the direction of the
restaurant, then across, into the trees.
"Lieutenant, can I work something through with
you?"
"I'm listening?
"Either Gant and the woman that night were in
separate cars or the same car, which would have been Gant's BMW."
"Go on."
"But either way, the killer has to take some
time setting up across the road. And that means gambling that Gant is
going to drive back this way to his condo instead of taking or
following the woman home."
"I suppose, but there's another reason to think
Woodrow Gant was alone when he got shot. We traced the man's
movements that day. Found out he had the car washed and waxed after
lunch. Armor All on the dash and upholstery, whole nine yards. There
wasn't a readable latent on the BMW or in it that didn't belong to
Gant or one of the wash crew we took elimination prints from."
I looked at Murphy. "Which leads you to think no
passenger in the car."
He held my gaze. "Right."
"And Spaeth's threats at the law firm combined
with his prints on the shell casings found in the murder weapon lead
you to believe he did the killing."
"Right again."
"So this should be another . . . bunny, then."
Murphy looked away. "Just about."
“ Only if it were," I said, "you wouldn't
be out here with me, going over things as much for your benefit as
mine."
Abruptly, Murphy walked toward the ribboned tree. I
followed him.
When we got there, he turned his back to the trunk,
eyes ranging around the valley. "You take away all the cars
going by, this is a real pretty spot."
"Lieutenant—"
"Shut up a minute, listen to what I'm saying."
I nodded.
Murphy spoke more quietly. "Nationwide, what
percentage of the population you think is African-American?"
I started to feel we were skating on different, and
thinner, ice. "Ten?"
"About twelve and a half, actually. How about
folks on death row or executed in the last twenty years?"
"No idea."
"About forty percent black."
"Jesus."
Murphy rolled his shoulders into the tree, like a
bear scratching an itch. "It gets worse. Nationwide, most of the
homicides—eighty percent, in fact—involve victim and killer from
the same race. Most of the other twenty percent is black doing white.
But here, we've got white doing black."
Even with the traffic, the crisp October air seemed
awfully
"Right." Murphy pointed across the road to
the other slope of the valley. "Ballistics figures it was a
rifle of some kind. Bullet went through the left rear tire,
ricocheted up, and punctured the gas tank."
"But without exploding it."
A real smile this time. "Cuddy, you watch too
much TV."
I looked back over at the hillside where the shooter
supposedly had been. "Any kind of make on the bullet or rifle?"
"No. Slug was too deformed by the things it hit.
But from the composition of the metal, we know it wasn't the same as
the ones found in Gant."
"Meaning two different guns."
"Right. A rifle and a revolver. M.E. dug two
readable rounds out of Gant's soft tissue, and Ballistics matched
them to Spaeth's Taurus Model 85 revolver."
"To the revolver found at the scene."
"With your boy's prints on the shell casings
still in the cylinder. And he admits to owning a Taurus 85."
I didn't have a good answer to that one, other than
Spaeth's believing somebody stole the weapon from his room at
Dufresne's boardinghouse. "Lieutenant, you have anything on the
woman with Gant that night?"
"No. Owner of Viet Mam says he never noticed her
face. And the waitress there doesn't have great English, says just
that the woman was blond and attractive, wore tinted glasses and
drank chardonnay."
"Enough wine so she wouldn't be able to drive?"
Murphy looked at me. "Waitress said the bottle
was empty, but she's not sure who drank how much."
"The lab do Woodrow Gant's blood alcohol level?"
"Point-oh-three."
"Pretty low."
"He was a biggish man, Cuddy."
Okay. "Let's go back to the woman. Height,
weight?"
"Medium everything, according to the owner."
I looked down the road in the direction of the
restaurant, then across, into the trees.
"Lieutenant, can I work something through with
you?"
"I'm listening?
"Either Gant and the woman that night were in
separate cars or the same car, which would have been Gant's BMW."
"Go on."
"But either way, the killer has to take some
time setting up across the road. And that means gambling that Gant is
going to drive back this way to his condo instead of taking or
following the woman home."
"I suppose, but there's another reason to think
Woodrow Gant was alone when he got shot. We traced the man's
movements that day. Found out he had the car washed and waxed after
lunch. Armor All on the dash and upholstery, whole nine yards. There
wasn't a readable latent on the BMW or in it that didn't belong to
Gant or one of the wash crew we took elimination prints from."
I looked at Murphy. "Which leads you to think no
passenger in the car."
He held my gaze. "Right."
"And Spaeth's threats at the law firm combined
with his prints on the shell casings found in the murder weapon lead
you to believe he did the killing."
"Right again."
"So this should be another . . . bunny, then."
Murphy looked away. "Just about."
“ Only if it were," I said, "you wouldn't
be out here with me, going over things as much for your benefit as
mine."
Abruptly, Murphy walked toward the ribboned tree. I
followed him.
When we got there, he turned his back to the trunk,
eyes ranging around the valley. "You take away all the cars
going by, this is a real pretty spot."
"Lieutenant—"
"Shut up a minute, listen to what I'm saying."
I nodded.
Murphy spoke more quietly. "Nationwide, what
percentage of the population you think is African-American?"
I started to feel we were skating on different, and
thinner, ice. "Ten?"
"About twelve and a half, actually. How about
folks on death row or executed in the last twenty years?"
"No idea."
"About forty percent black."
"Jesus."
Murphy rolled his shoulders into the tree, like a
bear scratching an itch. "It gets worse. Nationwide, most of the
homicides—eighty percent, in fact—involve victim and killer from
the same race. Most of the other twenty percent is black doing white.
But here, we've got white doing black."
Even with the traffic, the crisp October air seemed
awfully
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