Serpent’s Tooth

“So how could you let her leave like that!”

He turned to her, his own eyes moist. “Because … I was afraid if I hugged her, I would have never let her go.”

10 (#ulink_d32573d7-ea5b-5f61-b298-0fab99b20d79)

The temperature in the office was arctic. Why did the city feel it necessary to keep the station house in a deep freeze? Or maybe it was just Decker’s mood. Because things weren’t going well. He sat at his desk, looking out at a wall of eyes. His Homicide team arcing around him. Protective. Like a moat. His brain pounded. With any luck, ibuprofen would work its magic. He nodded for Oliver to begin.

Scott scanned his notes, hand raking through his black hair. “Loo, we’ve gone through Estelle’s room to room, wall to wall, floor to floor, ceiling to ceiling. Neither Dunn nor I could find enough empty magazines at the scene to account for all the bullets and casings.”

Decker’s eyes glanced at the newspaper on his desk. A couple of days had passed, but Estelle’s was still front-page news. He spoke quietly. “Would it help if you looked again?”

“We were very thorough.” Marge smoothed out the leg of her beige pants. She wore lightweight fabrics today—white cotton shirt, viscose pants. But if the weather continued its cooling trend, it would be time for the wools. “I’ll show you our grid maps if you want. Right now it doesn’t look like much … a mass of dots.”

“We marked every place where we extracted a bullet or found an empty casing,” Oliver explained.

Bert Martinez twirled the ends of his bushy mustache, his stocky frame bowing the seat of the folding chair. “Whole damn case is starting to smell fishy. Anyone show the Loo Harlan’s autopsy report?”

Decker sat up. “When did that come in?”

“You were in a meeting with the mayor, city council, and Strapp,” Marge said. “We tried paging you …”

Decker grimaced. He’d forgotten to pick up a new pager.

“How’d that go?” Oliver was concerned. “Are our asses on the line?”

“Why should our asses be on the line?” Martinez asked. “We’ve got the perp … of sorts.”

“Lawsuits, right?” Oliver said. “Police should have showed up sooner, right? If they had, more lives would have been saved, right? What was time of arrival on that one? Something like two minutes?”

“First cruiser arrived in two-twenty-eight,” Webster said.

Oliver said. “Am I right, Deck?”

“Close.”

“No matter what happens, we’ll get blamed. Earthquake could drop the city into the center of the earth, it would be our fault.”

“For the time being, the Detective division isn’t a point of concern.” Decker paused. “But if this turns out to be … how should I say this? If this is something more than a straightforward mass murder, the focus will shift to us. Who has that autopsy report?”

“That would be me.” Webster handed the folder to Decker, his blue eyes focused, alert. Today, Tom was dressed in a black suit, sunglasses dangling from his jacket pocket. Looked more FBI than LAPD with his permapressed Anglo good looks. Suave manner. But Decker didn’t hold it against him. Webster was a damn good cop.

Decker thumbed through the pages, eyes working like strobes. “What should I be looking for?”

Webster drawled, “The bullet that killed Harlan Manz. It was fired at a range consistent with a distance of around two to two and a half feet—”

“What!” Decker raced through the report. “Where?”

“Page eleven or twelve. I marked it with a pencil.”

Decker fast-forwarded to the paragraph. Read it once, then read it again. He sat back in his chair, ran a hand down his face.

Martinez said, “I called up the morgue … asked if they were sure about that distance.”

“And?”

“They were sure. Said that if the gun had been fired at a closer range, more damage would have been done to the brain.”

Webster said, “Bigger entry and exit holes, more tearing and ripping, more extensive powder burns on the hands and temple.”

“So when Harlan fired, he looked something like this?” Oliver made a gun with his fingers, extended his arm from his shoulder, then flexed his wrist so that his fingers were pointing back to his temple. “What’s this, guys? About three feet?”

“Anyone have a measuring tape?” Marge asked.

Decker pulled one from his desk, gave it to Marge.

Marge measured. “Thirty-seven inches. Bend your elbow a little bit, Scotty.”

Oliver complied, his elbow making a hundred-and-fifty-degree angle. “Now I’m pointing over my head.”

“So lower your arm.” Martinez got up, positioned Oliver as if he were a Gumby. “There. About like this. That looks like two and a half feet.”

Marge measured. “Thirty-one inches to be exact.”

Webster said, “Now point to your head.”

Oliver did so, maintained the pose. They stared at him.

Marge said, “Might be me, but I think he looks awkward.”

Martinez said, “He looks ridiculous. You want to pop yourself, you put the gun to your temple. You don’t hold it two feet away.”

Marge said, “You know, I could understand someone holding the gun away from his head if he had doubts or wasn’t used to a firearm. Almost like an avoidance thing.”

“Maybe at a little distance,” Martinez said. “But not in the position Scotty’s in. Unless you like contorting.”

“Maybe he had short arms,” Marge suggested.

“Not that short,” Martinez answered.

“Could it have been a misfire?” Oliver asked.

Martinez made a face. “You mean he was aiming for someone and caught himself in the head?”

“No. I mean the gun just accidentally went off.”

“Catching him square in the temple?” Marge was dubious.

“Excuses, excuses.” Webster shook his head. “Why aren’t we saying what we’re all thinkin’?”