Ben flashed his badge to the girl behind the desk and he watched the smile slide from her face. ‘Detective Ben Naylor, Washington Metro PD,’ he said. ‘I have a warrant that entitles me to search the locker of one of your members, a Mr. Chris Sanders.’
The girl was not fazed. ‘Certainly Detective,’ she said, ‘I’ll just call someone who can assist you. Please take a seat.’ She gestured to a group of stylish and over-designed chairs. Each chair looked like the bottom part of an egg shell, crafted from white leather. He guessed that the furniture was deliberately retro-chic rather than simply old. The chairs didn’t look too comfortable. He stood at the counter and waited. The girl made a phone call and then looked up to Ben once more with that amazing smile.
‘Mr. Case, the duty manager, will be with you shortly,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a coffee or a tea, Detective?’
Ben declined the offer and walked over to the trophy cabinet. There were half a dozen trophies for target shooting, one of which he noticed had Chris’s name on it.
A voice came out of the office from behind him, ‘As you can see, Detective, our members take their shooting rather seriously.’
Ben turned to see a man in his mid-forties, well dressed in a smart pin-stripe suit which was well-tailored and expensive-looking, no doubt Italian, or some other import. The man was smiling the uniform welcoming smile; his right hand was extended and open, waiting to take Ben’s hand as though he was a long-lost friend. Ben figured that whoever owned this place had not only read the book on outstanding customer service, they’d probably helped to write it. ‘I see Chris Sanders is one of your trophy winners,’ Ben said as he shook hands.
‘He sure is. Chris is a fine shot; I believe he trained in the British Army. He scored a perfect round to win that trophy, quite amazing, although he tells us that pistol shooting is really only a hobby. Unfortunately we don’t have the facilities to allow rifle shooting here, otherwise we could see what he could really do.’
Ben nodded and waited for the silence to open up. The man started to look a little uncomfortable, like he was busy and was itching to get on with other things.
The man said, ‘When it comes to firing a pistol, I can tell you he’s the best shot I’ve seen and I’ve been running this club for more than twenty years.’
Ben nodded. The guy wanted to make small talk, so he needed to get to the point, this man was way too professional to let something slip about one of his clients. Ben pulled the warrant from the inside pocket of his sports coat. The manager didn’t look surprised. He gestured towards his open office door, ‘Please Detective,’ he said, ‘let’s carry on this discussion in the privacy of my office. We don’t want to make a scene that may upset our other members.’ The man smiled and gestured Ben to the office, like a Maître d’ showing him to his table.
The office had an air of elegance. The large windows looked out over a small lake and woodland surround. Towards the end of the room stood a large oak desk, its surface was clear but for a speakerphone and laptop computer. There were two chairs for guests and a third behind the desk and in front of another large window. The chairs were upholstered in green leather and looked old, possibly antique. Expensive. Everything in this damned place looked expensive, and Ben was starting to feel he was making it look untidy.
‘This is a nice office you have here Mr. Case.’
‘Thank you Detective. Please, call me Julian.’
‘So tell me Julian, what do you make of Chris Sanders?’
‘As I said, he’s a great shot. He’s a nice guy; friendly. I understand he’s a bit of a whiz kid with computers—he’s helped me out a couple of times with my email. I gather he’s a university lecturer? But I imagine you know this already?’
‘Have you ever seen him lose his temper? Get into a fight?’
‘Chris?’ Julian looked amused, ‘No I’ve never seen that, and I can’t imagine him in a brawl. He doesn’t seem the type.’
Ben was amazed at this. Chris was an ex-soldier, trained in multiple armed and un-armed combat techniques. Ben had pulled the army records from immigration; it wasn’t a complete record, which in itself suggested that some of the action Chris had seen was highly classified. The part that he had seen told him that while Chris didn’t seem the type to get into a brawl, you certainly wouldn’t want to find out first-hand.
‘I’d like to search his locker now,’ said Ben. He held out the warrant.
Julian Case took the warrant and pulled a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket. He read the details and then appeared shocked; he took the glasses off his face and stared incredulously at Ben.
‘It says that you suspect Chris of murder?’ he said.
‘I know. Don’t tell me, he doesn’t seem the type.’
Julian walked around to his desk and sat in the leather chair. He pulled the laptop towards him and swiped an access card across the front. He clicked a few times, then started to type. ‘We have state-of-the-art security here, Detective. Our lockers are computer controlled and every time one is opened the date and time of access is logged. Each member has an eight-digit PIN known only to them and an access card that grants entrance to the range and the lockers.’
‘If I knew how, could I pull the PIN and get into another member’s locker?’ asked Ben.
‘I’m afraid not. My access card is a master, and I have the facility to reset a PIN, but the member would be immediately alerted. An email is automatically sent to their account notifying them that their PIN has been reset. As I said Detective, state-of-the-art security.’
‘What if I were able to stop the email somehow or intercept it?’
‘It wouldn’t matter, the member would know as soon as they tried their old PIN and it failed. There’s no way you could gain access without being found out. You see Detective, we don’t actually store the PIN in our database, only a key that can be used to verify a PIN is entered correctly. Chris did explain it to me once but I’m afraid I’m not much of a scientist. He said that to crack an eight-digit PIN would take the kind of computing power you only find at the NSA.’
Julian pulled a piece of paper from a desk drawer and wrote an eight-digit number.
Ben thought for a moment. ‘You said that all access to lockers is recorded, right?’ he said.
‘That’s right. All access to the lockers, and access to any area that is secured by a swipe card, which means everywhere but reception.’
‘Could you print a list showing Chris’s access over the last week?’
Julian made a few more clicks and a printer in the corner of the office whirred into life. He took the single sheet of paper and handed it to Ben. ‘Shall we make our way to the locker rooms, Detective?’
Ben followed Julian through the maze of corridors and glanced through the access list. From the records, Chris had visited the gun club the day before Jasmine Allan had been killed and had returned the following day. Both times he had accessed his locker, but he only visited the shooting range on the first visit. What was the second visit for?
‘Here we are Detective,’ said Julian. He swiped his access card against the locker door and then entered the PIN which he read from the piece of paper. He then stepped to one side to allow Ben to conduct his search.
The locker was strong with a solid lock and thick metal sides. It reminded Ben of a safety deposit vault in a bank rather than a locker in a sports facility. Chris’s locker was empty except for five boxes of bullets on the bottom and an aluminum case that sat on a shelf about midway up. Ben put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. He picked up the first of the boxes and read the label on the side
Action Express .50 caliber
. He placed the boxes in the bag and then lifted the case down from the shelf. It was heavy, maybe four pounds or more—almost twice the weight of his Smith & Wesson revolver. He opened the case and looked at the weapon. It was matt black and had the longest barrel Ben had ever seen on a hand gun—probably ten inches. The engraving on the side read
Desert Eagle Pistol, Magnum Research Inc.
The weapon was in pristine condition, clean and oiled. It looked factory new. It looked like it was only ever used for target shooting on the range and had never seen the light of day. Ben couldn’t imagine trying to conceal a weapon of this size. This was not a weapon for criminals.
‘Will there be anything else Detective?’ asked Julian. Ben figured he was eager to get back to whatever it was he did to fill his day, that or he simply didn’t like having the cops around. Not good for business.
Ben closed the aluminum case, placed it in the evidence bag along with the ammunition before sealing the bag. ‘No, Julian, you’ve been most helpful.’
When Ben returned to the station, he took the evidence straight to the forensics team. He completed the paperwork and checked the evidence hoping to catch up with the CSI that was working on the case, but before he finished he noticed Karl Schroder, the CSI, rushing up the corridor. Karl was a large man, not in height but in girth and he bounded up to Ben like a giant puppy, clearly excited, and with good reason. The bullet that killed Jasmine Allan had been recovered from the crime scene a little over an hour ago. It was quite a remarkable find and it was understandable that Karl was excited; his team had done an amazing job.
‘What have we got?’ asked Ben.
‘A positive DNA match for one thing, but this is one hell of a round.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ben, ‘it’s a .50 caliber AE?’
Karl shuffled excitedly. It was clear that to him this was a game and he was determined to spin it out as long as he could. He was enjoying himself.
‘You’re half right,’ he said. ‘It’s .50 caliber, sure, but this is no AE. It’s a solid steel bullet with a Teflon coating.’ Karl grinned, his eyebrows were raised, waiting for a reaction, but when none came he added more prompting. ‘You know what that means don’t you?’
Ben was getting tired of the game. ‘I could cook eggs on it?’ he said. The sarcasm was lost on Karl.
‘No, it means this is an armor piercing round. This girl must have really pissed someone off. You can’t buy a box of these from Wal-Mart you know? It’s either an illegal import or your shooter has access to military hardware.’
Ben took a moment to let the pieces fall into place. He asked himself why anyone would go to the trouble of getting an armor piercing round to shoot someone in the head when a hollow point would be far more effective and Chris had five boxes of those sitting in his locker. The more he uncovered in this case the less it made sense. ‘Could you tell if a gun had been used to fire a round like that?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Karl. ‘The Teflon coating would leave traces in the barrel. If the steel rounds were used regularly there would be damage to the barrel itself.’
Ben passed the evidence bag to Karl. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said. ‘This Desert Eagle belongs to Chris Sanders, our main suspect. I lifted it from his gun locker earlier today. I want a full report before tomorrow’s hearing. Can you do that?’
‘No problem. I’ll get onto it now,’ said Karl. He waddled off with the evidence bag; he was wearing a big fat smile, like he’d been given a bag of jelly donuts. Ben sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was feeling tired and needed a drink, but that would have to wait. Right now he had to interview his suspect and find out what he knew about armor piercing rounds and why he’d made two visits to the gun club surrounding the death of his former colleague and, by the looks of things, lover.
The bed in the holding cell was hard and the blankets didn’t quite cover Chris’s body. He’d managed to get some sleep by curling up under the covers, trying desperately to keep warm, but his mind hadn’t wanted to let go of thoughts of Michelle and what she must be feeling. His wrist watch told him it was morning but there was no natural light in the cell. Tired and aching, he put his head under the blankets and hoped the world would go away. He felt broken, but he knew self-pity would get him nowhere. He needed to fight to get his life back, but was that even possible? Was he going to jail? He couldn’t go to jail, he’d go mad.
Chris threw back his blanket and stood by the side of the bed, stretching his back. He walked over to the small porcelain sink and splashed water on his face. There was no mirror in the cell, but he could imagine how he looked, he felt the stubble on his face. He really needed to get cleaned up and have a night in his own bed but he figured, unless his luck changed, that wasn’t going to happen soon.
He heard a sound at the door as the bolts slid back and the hatch opened. Eyes appeared at the hatch and a voice said ‘Breakfast.’ The hatch closed once more and a second hatch slid open about midway down the door and a tray of food was slid in. The metal plate was full with crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and on the tray was a flask of coffee. Damn, this food was better than he got at home and there was no Michelle here to nag him about his cholesterol. Maybe things were looking up after all. The coffee was strong and hot. The food tasted good. He thought about what Bob had said to him the night before. He thought about the extracts from Jasmine’s journal that implied they were having an affair, about the emails that suggested the two of them had arranged to meet on Monday morning. Jasmine had been smart and she could certainly have created the fake email trail, which would probably fool anyone, but there was no reason for her to do that, unless she was crazy. Had he really been such a poor judge of character to get mixed up with a psychopath?