Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 63

“Bag his hand, the hand holding the gun,” I insisted. “Bag Bloom’s hand so it won’t rub against anything when you transport the body and test it for gunshot residue.”

The ME glared at Mallinger like he expected the Chief to do something. Only the Chief was still too shaken to appreciate what I was telling her.

“Listen to me,” I said. “The wound—it’s a downward path.” I pressed a finger against my own temple, pointing the finger at my jaw. “It’s an awkward way to hold a gun. Usually, the path of the bullet is upward.” I adjusted my finger accordingly. “There’s tattooing around the wound, but no abrasion collar, which means the barrel wasn’t pressed against the temple when it was fired. Something else. The gun.”

“What about it?”

“It was large caliber.”

“So?”

“He shouldn’t be holding it. The gun should have fallen from his hand.”

“Ever hear of cadaveric spasm?” the ME said. “I’ve seen suicides who go into spontaneous rigor mortis, who grip the gun so tight you have to pry it from their fingers.”

“Only he’s not gripping the gun. It’s just resting in his hand like someone set it there.”

The ME was looking at me now like he was amazed to hear that we spoke the same language. I’ve met a lot of half-smart people like him before. It was always difficult for them to believe that there were other people in the world just as half-smart.

“I’ll bet if you try to lift fingerprints, you’ll discover the gun has been wiped clean,” I told him.

“Who’s the professional here?” The ME was addressing Mallinger. “He’s getting in the way.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” I said. “Maybe I am. Will it kill you to find out for sure? If this were Ramsey County you’d have a GSR—a gunshot residue kit. Swab his hand and test it for gunpowder. What would it hurt?”

“What would it hurt?” Mallinger asked weakly.

“We don’t have the facilities,” the ME said. “I’d have to send it to a private lab and that’s gonna cost the county a thousand dollars.”

“Is that what we’re talking about?” Mallinger asked. “A thousand dollars?”

“Chief—”

“Bag the hand.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Bag the hand,” Mallinger shouted.

The ME threw up his own hands in disgust.

“Something else,” I said.

“What?” the ME asked.

“This is going to be even more expensive.”

“What?”

I looked directly into Mallinger’s eyes so she would better understand what I was telling her.

“There are signs of methamphetamine cooking all over the place. The odor of cat urine? That’s what it smells like. Ephedrine from the cold medicine, lithium from the batteries—that’s part of the recipe.”

“Are you saying Josie Bloom was cooking meth?” the ME asked.

“Yes. In his bathroom. You can see the stains on his bathtub.”

“No way. Josie wasn’t smart enough.”

“If you can make chocolate chip cookies, you can make meth.”

“Are you sure?” The strength was returning to Mallinger’s voice.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Then where is the lab paraphernalia?” the ME wanted to know.

“Good question,” I told him. “I couldn’t find any of the meth Josie cooked, either.”

“How hard did you search?” Mallinger asked.

“Not as hard as you will, I bet.”

“What should I do?”

“Call the Nicholas County Sheriff’s Department.”

“No, this is my case.”

“This is murder, Danny. Don’t make the same mistake your predecessor did.”

“If the GSR test comes back negative, then I’ll call the sheriff.”

“Look, you’re going to have to call him anyway. After you finish with Josie, you’re going to need someone trained in dealing safely with meth to go over the scene. Then there’s cleanup. For every pound of meth, there’s six, seven pounds of hazardous waste. Josie could have poured it down the drain. He could have tossed it into his backyard.”

“I understand,” Mallinger said. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”

“Danny,” I said.

She glared at me like I had just committed a cardinal sin using her first name.

“Chief Mallinger,” I said. “Be smart.”

“If you’re so smart, maybe there’s something you can explain to me,” the ME said.

“What’s that?”

“The screwdriver protruding from Josie’s VCR. What’s that about? Was he hiding his drugs in there?”

“People who use meth, they become so damned paranoid, they wonder where those people on the TV are. They attack the TVs and VCRs with screwdrivers and hammers to find them.”

“Stay here,” Mallinger said. She sauntered over to her officers and gave a few orders. They dispersed in opposite directions, each happy to be finally doing something, although what they were doing I couldn’t tell you. The ME went back inside the house. Mallinger retired to the inside of her police cruiser and started working the radio.