appear the mom was so lucky. I’m guessing she woke up when she heard the gunfire. See how she’s lying across her husband’s lower legs?” Avello asked, running a pointed finger back and forth to illustrate direction. “Threw herself over him out of pure instinct … tried to protect him.”
“ It would make sense,” Cameron agreed, kneeling down by the bed to take a closer look at the gunshot wounds, “since the bullets look like they entered through the right side of her body.”
“ Not much of a payoff—they both ended up dying.”
Cameron shook his head. “I don’t think she was looking for a payoff.”
“ I mean in terms of saving her husband’s life.”
“ What about a make on a weapon? Got one yet?”
Avello walked over and stood beside him, staring at the bodies. “A .30/30, lever action of some sort, looks like. Gun’s in the closet with the boy, but you can tell just by the number of shots fired. With a bolt action, it would have taken too long to chamber the rounds.”
“ And required more strength than Ben probably had, considering his build,” Cameron added. “He wouldn’t have been able to operate it quickly enough to deliver that kind of power in such a short period of time.”
“ You can get all the specifics—make and model—once you check the boy. I didn’t get close enough to look.” Avello frowned. “Left the honors for you.”
Cameron caught his gaze and nodded, but said nothing.
“ The picture’s not much better down the hall,” Avello added. “You have a little girl in the first bedroom. Then further down is the boy’s room.”
As soon as Cameron crossed the threshold into the girl’s bedroom, he stopped abruptly and stared, dazed. The child was sprawled on the floor, facedown, arms splayed out in front of her. To him, it seemed suggestive of fear, panic, or both. A puddle of blood converged around her head and drenched her hair, with the nightgown she wore sopping up the rest.
It appeared that Ben’s sister had been awake just before he gunned her down. Cameron theorized she’d woken up to the sound of gunfire coming from her parents’ bedroom, then, before she could do anything, saw her brother standing in the doorway aiming the rifle at her. From there, she probably jumped off the bed and tried to get away. Cameron wondered what went through the poor child’s mind when she saw her brother’s face at the end of that long, metal barrel.
Her bedroom had all the requisite heartbreaking little-girl things one might expect. A collection of dolls. Posters of the boy-band-flavor-of-the-week. A series of award ribbons for scholastic achievement.
Cameron took a few steps toward her desk, just a couple of feet from the bed. A picture frame sat on top, decorated with a colorful array of circus clowns and balloons. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapped them onto his wrists, then held the picture in his hands. A beautiful child, he thought—milky white complexion, eyes bright and cheerful, and head tilted sideways. Big smile for the camera, almost to the point of silliness. Cameron realized she looked nothing like her brother. He had brown hair and darker skin—she, blonde with fair features, appearing to be around five or six.
The same age his own son had been.
He dismissed the thought, leaving the girl’s room and moving to the end of the hall, toward Ben’s bedroom farther down on the opposite side.
Once inside, Cameron paused and stared at the closet door. He stepped up to it, then placed his hand around the thinnest outer edges of the knob so as not to disturb any prints on the front or back sides. Giving the door a gentle tug, he pulled it open.
Ben Foley lay in the corner, crumpled up like a pile of dirty laundry. The sight wasn’t just tragic; it was revolting. Blood saturated the carpet beneath him, turning it a deep shade of red. Right beside him was the gun, a Winchester Rifleman, and—just as Avello had called it—a
“ It would make sense,” Cameron agreed, kneeling down by the bed to take a closer look at the gunshot wounds, “since the bullets look like they entered through the right side of her body.”
“ Not much of a payoff—they both ended up dying.”
Cameron shook his head. “I don’t think she was looking for a payoff.”
“ I mean in terms of saving her husband’s life.”
“ What about a make on a weapon? Got one yet?”
Avello walked over and stood beside him, staring at the bodies. “A .30/30, lever action of some sort, looks like. Gun’s in the closet with the boy, but you can tell just by the number of shots fired. With a bolt action, it would have taken too long to chamber the rounds.”
“ And required more strength than Ben probably had, considering his build,” Cameron added. “He wouldn’t have been able to operate it quickly enough to deliver that kind of power in such a short period of time.”
“ You can get all the specifics—make and model—once you check the boy. I didn’t get close enough to look.” Avello frowned. “Left the honors for you.”
Cameron caught his gaze and nodded, but said nothing.
“ The picture’s not much better down the hall,” Avello added. “You have a little girl in the first bedroom. Then further down is the boy’s room.”
As soon as Cameron crossed the threshold into the girl’s bedroom, he stopped abruptly and stared, dazed. The child was sprawled on the floor, facedown, arms splayed out in front of her. To him, it seemed suggestive of fear, panic, or both. A puddle of blood converged around her head and drenched her hair, with the nightgown she wore sopping up the rest.
It appeared that Ben’s sister had been awake just before he gunned her down. Cameron theorized she’d woken up to the sound of gunfire coming from her parents’ bedroom, then, before she could do anything, saw her brother standing in the doorway aiming the rifle at her. From there, she probably jumped off the bed and tried to get away. Cameron wondered what went through the poor child’s mind when she saw her brother’s face at the end of that long, metal barrel.
Her bedroom had all the requisite heartbreaking little-girl things one might expect. A collection of dolls. Posters of the boy-band-flavor-of-the-week. A series of award ribbons for scholastic achievement.
Cameron took a few steps toward her desk, just a couple of feet from the bed. A picture frame sat on top, decorated with a colorful array of circus clowns and balloons. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapped them onto his wrists, then held the picture in his hands. A beautiful child, he thought—milky white complexion, eyes bright and cheerful, and head tilted sideways. Big smile for the camera, almost to the point of silliness. Cameron realized she looked nothing like her brother. He had brown hair and darker skin—she, blonde with fair features, appearing to be around five or six.
The same age his own son had been.
He dismissed the thought, leaving the girl’s room and moving to the end of the hall, toward Ben’s bedroom farther down on the opposite side.
Once inside, Cameron paused and stared at the closet door. He stepped up to it, then placed his hand around the thinnest outer edges of the knob so as not to disturb any prints on the front or back sides. Giving the door a gentle tug, he pulled it open.
Ben Foley lay in the corner, crumpled up like a pile of dirty laundry. The sight wasn’t just tragic; it was revolting. Blood saturated the carpet beneath him, turning it a deep shade of red. Right beside him was the gun, a Winchester Rifleman, and—just as Avello had called it—a
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