Known Dead (6 page)

Seven

WHEN WE GOT to the office, the mood was more somber than I had ever seen it. Hester and I, having generated some activity, and having been away from the crime scene for a while, had managed to push the gravity of the events to the back of our minds. You learn to do that. But back at the office, it all came homing in on us with a rush. Nobody was crying, or anything like that. But there was no life. No remarks. No rapid movements or speech. All the noises seemed muted. Even the phones didn’t sound right.

I called Sue first thing. News gets around, and although the office had called her and said that I was all right, I wanted to touch base. She was glad I was alive, and wondered when I could get back home. I told her I didn’t know, but that I was anxious to be there too. Which I was. I was also glad to be at the office and in the middle of things. Hard to explain to a wife, so I didn’t bother. She knew that anyway.

I checked in at the dispatch desk, just to be certain that they knew we were in the building. Sally, my favorite dispatcher, was at the main console.

‘‘Carl,’’ she said, not looking up, ‘‘the ME has a message for you. Call him at the Maitland General Hospital.’’

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘It’s about the autopsy. That’s all I know.’’

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘One of the agents from the scene will be in in a couple of minutes. He wants you to be sure to wait for him.’’

‘‘I’ll be in the back room.’’

‘‘The Freiberg officer is waiting for you in the kitchen, with a prisoner.’’

We don’t have interrogation rooms. The kitchen is the best place, because it has fresh coffee.

‘‘That’s fine. Can I go now?’’

She looked up for the first time. No smile, but she spoke softly. ‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘Either of the guys talk to you about what they were doing up there?’’

She shook her head.

‘‘That’s all right, they really shouldn’t have anyway. You remember Turd from a few years back?’’

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘You get a chance, leave me a note about what you know about him, will you?’’

‘‘Won’t be a very long note.’’

‘‘ ’S all right. Anything will be a help.’’

‘‘Want me to run stuff?’’

‘‘Yep.’’

By 2200 hours, what we had was this: We had a dead DNE officer, killed by gunfire. A dead doper, also killed by gunfire. An officer witness, who hadn’t actually seen anybody but the two dead people, but who had heard at least one and most likely two shooters. He’d never actually seen either of the two victims shot. Two possible suspects, who were linked to the shootings only by their association with the dead doper, and with no evidence of their actual presence at the murder scene. A preliminary report from the lab crew at the scene which indicated that the only footprints available were going to be those from the trail area, as the grass was simply too thick to let a footprint be made elsewhere. We also had sixty-seven empty shell casings. That’s right, sixty-seven. All rifle ammunition, either 5.56 mm or 7.62 mm. Turd’s shotgun had been a pump-action model, and he had fired only one round, and apparently he hadn’t either the time or the presence of mind to jack a second round into the chamber. Moreover, his shells had been 6½ shot. Both too small and possessing too little energy at the involved ranges to enable him to shoot through an officer’s vest and seriously injure him, let alone kill him. And, in the person of Dr. Peters, who was sitting at the kitchen table with us, the preliminary autopsy reports. The pathology laboratory details were going to take a bit of time, but the preliminary was what we were after. It didn’t clear anything up. And maybe complicated things for us, instead.

Dr. Peters put down his coffee cup. ‘‘Pretty good.’’ He spread his hands. ‘‘Let’s do the civilian first?’’

‘‘Fine,’’ I said. Lamar, Hester, DNE Agent Dahl, a man named Frank who was doing the photos for the lab, and I were all present. Dahl, Lamar, and this Frank had been at the autopsies, along with two DCI General Crim. agents.

‘‘Right,’’ said Peters. ‘‘Well, we have a nearly emaciated white male who was struck at least six times by high-velocity rifle rounds. I say ‘at least’ because there is a possibility that there could have been a second round into the head. Not a strong one, but a chance. However, all six or seven rounds appear to have exited the body. Just small metallic fragments on the X-rays. Lots of nearly vaporized bone fragments. Massive damage.’’

He took another sip of coffee. ‘‘I’ve seen the patterns of automatic weapons fire before, and that’s what this reminds me of. It looks to me like the first round entered just below the navel, through and through, with the subsequent rounds . . . one more in the upper abdomen, one in the lower chest, one in the upper chest, one at the base of the neck, and one in the head.’’ He smiled apologetically. ‘‘Or, possibly, two.’’ He leaned back in his folding chair. ‘‘The body was beginning to move, but since this was, I feel, full auto fire, there wasn’t any time for movement to be pronounced. A fairly modern military weapon, with a high rate of fire.’’

‘‘Any thoughts on caliber?’’ asked Hester.

‘‘Well, from the casings, it’s got to be either 7.62 or 5.56 mm. But with no projectiles remaining in the body, it’s extremely hard to tell. The small fragments appeared to be metallic jacketing material. Until we hear from the lab, I’ll just go with a rifle. But if I had to wager, I’d say 5.56 mm. One of the jacketing fragments appears to have been from the base of the round, or at least partially. Pretty small, as far as can be determined.’’ He took another sip of his coffee. ‘‘The important thing, I think, that we can tell from his wounds is that the rifle was fired from close range. I’d think, to keep five rounds that close as it rises, possibly ten, fifteen feet. No more than that.’’

‘‘Wow.’’

‘‘Yes. And, that’s consistent with the visibility at the scene. Plus,’’ he said, ‘‘that would explain the civilian’s shotgun being fired, but no visible effect, and the empty round not ejected. Struck so often, and especially in the head, he probably fired from reflex.’’

‘‘But,’’ said Hester, ‘‘he’d have to have seen something, to put his finger on the trigger in the first place, don’t you think?’’

Dr. Peters thought for a second. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘But,’’ said Hester again, ‘‘not soon enough to fire.’’

‘‘Right. So,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘we come to Agent Kellerman.’’

I took in a breath, and some coffee as well. So did just about everybody else. In other circumstances, it might have been funny.

‘‘He, also, was struck what appears to be five times,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘But in this case, there’s something very interesting. He appears to have been hit twice by 5.56 mm rounds and three times by 7.62 mm rounds. From the same approximate direction, but from possibly two different levels. And at virtually the same time, based on Officer Johansen’s recollections.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Dahl.

‘‘Well,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘Johansen heard what he thought was basically one burst of fire, and a second or two later, another. When Johansen reaches Kellerman, the wounds we have are already there. There is subsequent firing, but no further hits on Kellerman. And that, by the way, is borne out by the approximate angles and directions of entry on the wounds. I’ve talked to Johansen, and he estimates that each burst of fire was probably about one second in duration. Yet we have two distinct types of round, entering at the same approximate angle and direction.’’ He leaned forward. ‘‘Fragments again, I’m afraid, but the fragments are larger because of his ballistic vest.’’

Oh, swell.

‘‘The casings found at the scene confirm two calibers,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘and Agent Dahl says they’re at almost the same angle from the officer.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dahl. ‘‘But one’s back further, isn’t it, Hester?’’

‘‘About fifteen yards,’’ said Hester. ‘‘And to the right of the 5.56 shooter.’’

‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘can we state with any certainty that Kellerman shot Howie, and that the two unseen dopers shot Kellerman?’’

‘‘Yep,’’ said Dahl.

‘‘Uh, no, I don’t think so,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘In fact, from the statement of Officer Johansen, I don’t see how Officer Kellerman could have hit the civilian from the front . . .’’

Oops.

‘‘You mean,’’ asked Lamar, ‘‘that the other dopers shot both this Phelps dude and the officer?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘and from the testimony of Officer Johansen, about two seconds apart.’’ He raised his coffee to his lips, then brought it down a bit. ‘‘That’s not what Officer Johansen thought happened at the time, though. He, too, thought that Officer Kellerman had shot the civilian.’’

We digested that for a few seconds.

‘‘Judging from the evidence from the autopsy, and from the scene of the murders, I believe that one man shot the civilian, and then both that man and his partner shot the officer.’’ Dr. Peters tapped a finger on his notes. ‘‘Can’t prove it, of course. Not yet. That’s up to you.’’ He smiled.

He held up one of the larger, 7.62 mm casings. It was a dark brown. ‘‘Chinese-made,’’ he said. ‘‘Fires the 7.62 short Soviet round. So, if it’s full auto, I’d suggest an AK-47-type weapon.’’

‘‘Or a modified SKS?’’ I asked.

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘But definitely not one of the older 7.62 Russian, like from World War II?’’ Dr. Peters was a gun collector, and would be likely to know that.

‘‘I don’t think it would.’’

‘‘Like,’’ I asked, ‘‘one of the semiauto Tokarevs?’’

‘‘Not likely. That had, if I remember, a round with a funny kind of rim . . .’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ I shook my head. The cases from the scene were what were known as rimless. ‘‘Well, we got a Tokarev, model 1940, from a possible suspect. Aside from the fact that it’s only a semiauto, it also fires the wrong 7.62 round.’’

‘‘Keep looking,’’ said Dr. Peters.

‘‘Oh, yeah. We will.’’

So, there we were. With virtually nothing but two dead people and a lot of shell casings. Complete with two suspects who looked like they weren’t going to pan out.

We sent another team up to reinterview Beth. We needed any information we could find linking Johnny Marks to the dope. And to the crime scene. We needed a warrant to search his place for a suspect weapon. We didn’t have enough yet. In the meantime, we had several people out interviewing everybody he knew. Getting background data, but just inserting a question about an assault rifle at some point. We needed something, anything, to place that kind of rifle in his possession.

Hester and I did the Howler interview. He had been tested with chemical swabs, and had fired a firearm recently. It began to appear that he really
had
shot at a deer.

‘‘I told you I did,’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t hit it, but I shot at it.’’

‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘would you be willing to talk to a DNR officer about that?’’

‘‘Sure. I mean, shit, man, you got me on that one.’’

The rest of the interview was unremarkable, except for his reaction when we asked what kind of guns Johnny Marks had.

‘‘Oh, shit,’’ he said. ‘‘Oh, hey, lots of ’em, man. Lots of ’em. Rifles, at least three. Four handguns. At least three, for sure.’’

Hester and I exchanged glances. ‘‘Where are these guns?’’

‘‘He keeps ’em in his gun locker, ma’am.’’

‘‘You have observed these guns yourself. At his place?’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

‘‘Recently?’’

‘‘Oh, about a week ago or so. Yeah, I’d say recently. About then.’’

‘‘Can you tell me what kind?’’ I asked.

‘‘You know,’’ he said, ‘‘I never handled those or anything. Just saw the bunch of ’em in the locker when he opened it. It don’t have a glass door or anything, so I could only see . . . but the handguns were on little pegs, and hanging from their triggers, like . . .’’

Since Johnny Marks was a convicted felon, that was enough. Three hours later, we had our search warrant for his house, and just after midnight, we were through the door.

We found lots of interesting stuff, including a little dope. And the guns. All either muzzle-loading rifles or cap-and-ball revolvers. Black powder. Iowa considers them not to be firearms, for felonious matters. I’ve always been under the impression that those guns, which killed soldiers by the hundreds of thousands in the American Civil War, were a technology that was quite capable of killing today. And they are. But, apparently, if they make a lot of smoke, they’re not what the legislature considers a firearm.

As Hester said: ‘‘A chickenshit dope charge and some antique guns!’’ Hester has a way with words.

Dahl, our intrepid dope cop, had found lots of stuff in the infamous gun locker. Written records that indicated a connection to several large dealers in the Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota triangle. ‘‘Indicated’’ being the key word. Evidence enough to keep Dahl on the track, but not nearly enough for a charge. We charged Marks with simple possession. Pretty much to make it look like we had done something. But it did give us something to trade for real information, if he had any.

We ended our day at 4:24 A.M. Knowing just about as much of real worth as we had at 4 P.M. Not a good first day on a murder investigation. A pretty good rule of thumb is that, if you haven’t developed a good suspect within forty-eight hours of the start of the investigation, you have a serious problem, and may never get the thing solved. Time was getting short, and we’d hardly started.