If She Ran

“Did you see what sort of gun was used for the murder?” Kate asked.

“I did. A Ruger Hunter Mark IV. Seemed weird. Seemed professional. That’s an expensive gun for some random murder with no apparent motive.”

“I agree. The bullet and the casing we found made it an easy one to recognize. And despite the expensive and very nice gun that was used, the fact that it was used at all told us all we needed to know: it was someone that knew jack shit about killing people.”

“How’s that?”

“Anyone that knew what they were doing would know that the Ruger Hunter Mark IV would leave behind a casing. Which makes it a terrible choice.”

“I assume this latest man was killed by a similar weapon?” DeMarco asked.

“According to Duran, it’s the exact same weapon.”

“So this killer decided to do it again eight years later. Weird.”

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see about that,” Kate said. “All Duran told me was that the victim looked as if he had been set up like a prop. And that the weapon used to kill him was the same kind that killed Frank Nobilini.”

“Yeah, and this one is in Midtown in New York City. I wonder if this latest victim is also connected to Ashton.”

Kate only shrugged as the plane experienced a bit of turbulence. It had done her a great deal of good to go through the case details. It had essentially knocked the cobwebs off of the case and made it feel new again. And maybe, Kate figured, eight years of space between her and the original case might allow her to look at it with fresh eyes.

***

It had been a while since Kate had been to New York. She and Michael, her late husband, had come here for a weekend getaway not long before he died. The congestion and absolute busyness of the place never ceased to awe her. It made the gridlock of Washington, DC, seem trivial by comparison. The fact that it was nearing nine o’clock on a Friday night was not helping matters.

They arrived at the scene of the crime at 8:42 p.m. Kate parked their rental car as close to the crime scene tape as she could. The scene was in a back alley located on 43rd Street, the hustle and bustle of Grand Central Station a few blocks over. There were two police cars parked nose to nose in front of the alley, not blocking the yellow crime scene tape or the alley itself, but making it known to anyone who wanted a peek at what was going on that there would be repercussions for their curiosity.

As Kate and DeMarco reached the alleyway, a bulky policeman stopped them at the crime scene tape. But when Kate showed her badge, he shrugged his shoulders and lifted the tape for them. She noted that he made no real attempt to check out DeMarco when she bent down to go under the tape. She wondered idly if DeMarco, an openly homosexual woman, took offense when a man checked her out or if she considered it a compliment.

“Feds,” the officer said with a huff. “I heard they called you in. Seems a bit much to me. Pretty open and shut case from the looks of it.”

“Just checking on something,” Kate said as she and DeMarco walked into the dark alley.

The police cars at the mouth of the alley had been parked at a light angle to allow the headlights to shine into the darkness. Kate’s and DeMarco’s elongated shadows added an air of eeriness to the scene.

At the back of the alleyway—which dead-ended along a brick wall—there were two policemen and a plainclothes detective standing in a small semicircle. There was a slight lump against the wall in front of them. The victim, Kate presumed. She approached the three men and introduced herself and DeMarco as they again showed their ID.

“Nice to meet you,” one of the officers said. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t quite know why the FBI was so insistent on getting someone out here.”

“Ah, Jesus,” the plainclothes detective said. He looked to be in his forties and a bit grungy. Long dark hair, five o’clock shadow, and a pair of glasses that reminded Kate of every picture she’d ever seen of Buddy Holly.

“We’ve been through this,” the detective said. He looked at Kate, rolled his eyes, and said: “If it’s a crime that’s older than a week or so, NYPD doesn’t want to touch it. It blows their minds that anyone would want to dig back up an unsolved murder case from eight years ago. I was actually the one that called the bureau. I know they were hot and heavy on the Nobilini case when it was active. Some sort of friendship with someone in Congress, right?”

“That’s right,” Kate said. “And I was the lead agent on that case.”

“Oh. Good to meet you. I’m Detective Luke Pritchard. I sort of have an obsession with cold cases. This one pinged my interest because of the weapon that seems to have been used as well as the fact that it was carried out execution style. If you look closely, you can see scuff marks on the forehead where the killer apparently had him lean against the brick wall right here.” He placed his hand on the side of the building to their right where there was dried blood splattered everywhere.

“May we?” Kate asked.

The two policemen shrugged and stepped back. “By all means,” one said. “With a detective and the bureau on this, we’ll happily leave you to it.”

“Have fun,” the other cop said as they turned away and headed back to the mouth of the alleyway.

Kate and DeMarco crowded in around the body. Pritchard stepped back to allow them some extra room, but kept close.

“Well,” DeMarco said, “I’d say the immediate cause of death is pretty clear.”

This was true. There was a single bullet hole in the back of the man’s head, the hole rather clean but the rim of it charred and gory—just like Frank Nobilini’s. It was a man, in his late thirties or early forties if Kate had to venture a guess. He was wearing high-end athletic wear, a thin zip-up hoodie, and nice jogging pants. The laces of his expensive running shoes were tied perfectly and the Apple ear buds he had been listening to sat neatly to his side, as if placed there intentionally.

“We have an ID yet?” Kate asked.

“Yeah,” Pritchard said. “Jack Tucker. The ID in his wallet places his residence in the town of Ashton. Which, to me, was an even stronger connection to the Nobilini case.”

“Are you familiar with Ashton, Detective?” Kate asked.

“Not very. Been through there a few times, but it’s not my kind of place. Too perfect, too quaint and sickeningly sweet.”

She knew what he meant. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was going to feel like, having to return to Ashton.

“When was the body discovered?” DeMarco asked.

“Four thirty this afternoon. I arrived on the scene at a quarter after five and made all those connections. I had to beg them not to move the body until you guys got here. I figure you’d need to see the scene, body and all.”

“I bet that made you popular,” Kate commented.

“Oh, I’m used to it. I wish I was joking when I tell you that a lot of the cops around here call me Cold Case Pritchard.”

“Well, I think on this one, you made the right call,” Kate said. “Even if it turns out not to be connected, there’s still someone out there that shot this man—someone that we need to find just in case this isn’t an isolated incident.”

“Yeah, no clue on my end,” Pritchard said. “I have a few voice memos with my observations if you’d like to check them out.”

“That could be helpful. I assume forensics has already snapped pictures?”

“Yeah. The digitals are probably already available.”

With that, Kate got to her feet, her eyes still on Jack Tucker’s body. His head was tilted to the right, as if he were staring longingly at the earbuds that had been so carefully placed by his side.

“Has the family been notified?” DeMarco asked.

“No. And I fear that because I asked the PD to hold off on moving the body and getting the case moved along, they’re going to task me with it.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to do it,” Kate said. “The fewer channels the details are being processed through, the better.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Kate finally looked away from the body of Jack Tucker and then to the mouth of the alley where the two cops were congregating with the cop who had lifted the tape. She had delivered such devastating news more times than she cared to count and it was never easy. In fact, somehow, it seemed to get harder and harder.

But she had also learned that strangely enough, it was in the sharp and agonizing throes of grief that those suffering loss seemed to be able to remember the most minute of details.