Her phone ringing drew her from her intense concentration. It was Shoop.
“Dr. Barnes,” he greeted her. “How are you coming on that analysis?”
“Detective,” she replied, “Am I your only lead? You called my house last night and told my husband about this.”
“My, oh my,” replied Shoop, “Did I cause trouble in paradise?” He laughed.
“No,” she said, bristling, “you did not. But, I would prefer to inform my husband myself about my crime-fighting activities. I’d rather he not hear about them from you.”
“Fair enough,” answered Shoop, “Anyway, the reason I called was that I’ve received the updated autopsy report on Ballard and although it’s fairly standard and contains nothing much that would affect your part in this investigation, there is one unusual item that I’m thinking might be of interest to you.”
“And that would be?”
“The entry angle of the bullet,” he replied. “You seemed so concerned at the radio station about measuring distances—from the microphone to the door and so forth, that I thought you might like to know that the coroner found that the bullet that killed Ballard entered from below. That is, the bullet entered near Ballard’s nose and lodged in his brain. This would suggest that the killer was sitting, kneeling, or was very short and or that Ballard was standing.”
“Thank you, Detective,” she replied, “I don’t know what to make of this information. Do you?”
“Nope,” said the Detective, “I don’t have a clue. The killer couldn’t have been sitting as there were no chairs by the door and I see no reason for him to kneel. From the recording, it doesn’t sound like Ballard stands up—does it?”
“No,” she agreed, “there would be a noticeable change in the volume level if he did.”
“So, I guess it means our killer was a midget.”
“Oh, Detective, do you know if the police officers or the station manager turned off the microphone when they arrived?”
“No,” replied Shoop, checking his notes, “It was already turned off. Gallagher checked that immediately. He didn’t want his discussions with the police going out over the air waves. ”
They chatted pleasantly for a few more minutes and then hung up. Pamela, thinking about the new information, returned to the online ballistics information sites. What in the world? Why would the bullet come in from such a low angle? There was no reason for it. None that she could see. She started to read the ballistics sites more carefully—particularly the explanation of how gunshots were displayed acoustically. Now here was something that looked relatively familiar. When a gunshot was recorded and displayed on a spectrograph, a fairly traditional profile was created. Ballistics experts could determine a huge array of information about a gun or a bullet merely by examining the acoustic display of a certain gunshot. One thing they could determine, she learned, was distance. The gunshot created an acoustically unique profile that indicated in great detail the exact distance of the gun to the target as compared to the recording device. She studied the material, reading over and over, the explanation of how the distance was determined from the gun to the target. Primarily, she realized that the initial explosion from the gun created the longest (or tallest) output on the acoustic display. This very noticeable spike was a fair indication of the location of the gun to the recording device or microphone. The closer the gun to the microphone, the closer the spike to the beginning of the acoustic output. In Ballard’s case, the distance was short—only ten feet, but Ballard was sitting immediately in front of the mic and the killer was much further away. The display should have begun, then there should have been a brief momentary delay and then the spike should have occurred on the display about the same time as the bullet hit Ballard and the CD should have recorded the bullet hitting Ballard—after all, Ballard and the mic were in virtually the same position. This is not what happened. On her visual display, as she listened to the recording, the spike from the initial explosion of the gun, occurred immediately—as if the person shooting the gun was holding it directly in front of the microphone. She listened for a sound after that to indicate the bullet had hit Ballard. It should be loud. She could hear no such sound. What did that mean?
Chapter 22
Previous week--December 15, Saturday afternoon
When Daniel returned to David’s apartment at five o’clock—exactly at five o’clock as he had promised—he was excited. The first meeting with his brother had gone better than he had expected. Yes, David was belligerent but he’d expected that. At least, he was willing to talk to him and that gave Daniel hope. After he’d left David’s apartment earlier in the day, he’d been busy. He’d found a nice, nearby hotel and checked in, grabbed a quick sandwich in the hotel’s small restaurant, and then gone to his room to rest and call Harold Vickers to check on his father’s condition and to report on his progress. Vickers had informed him that his father was holding his own—no change—for good or bad. That was all Daniel felt he could hope for at least for now. Vickers was delighted to hear from Daniel that he’d found David in good shape and at least willing to talk. He wished him luck at dinner and then Daniel had taken a quick nap. He didn’t want to call Amy in the middle of the day when he knew she was at work and would not appreciate being disturbed. They were trying to keep their relationship secret and so far, had done a good job of that.
Now he stood at his brother’s rickety screen door again and knocked for the second time. This time, David opened it immediately. Smiling, he led Daniel inside.
“Hey,” said Daniel, noticing a change, “you shaved. Hope that isn’t for me.”
“Nah,” replied David, “I was getting kind of scraggly. Maybe you inspired me to clean up my act.”
“Glad I could be of service,” replied Daniel. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened apartment, he noticed that David had straightened up the place and had set out beers and several boxes of obviously fresh pizza.”
“Just trying to be a good host,” said David, anticipating his comment. “I thought we might just eat here. More comfortable, don’t ya think? Plus, I’ve still got lots of school stuff to do before my show tonight.”
“Oh,” said Daniel, somewhat deflated, “I was hoping we could spend the evening together. You know, talk about old times.”
“Talk away, Danny Boy,” responded his brother, arm outstretched towards the food on the counter, “and make yourself at home. I’m sure you’ll be thoroughly bored with me before long.” Daniel smiled and shook his head. Then with a shrug he peeked into one of the pizza boxes, helping himself to a few slices of pepperoni and a beer.
“Don’t you have a table?”
“Nah,” said David. “Just sit wherever you want in the living room.” Daniel placed his beer on one of the end tables and carefully sat on the end of the sofa—which was without its blanket today—that remained folded at the other end. David was rifling through the pizza and piling several pieces on a plate. Grabbing a beer, he headed for the recliner. They were now in the same positions they had maintained during their initial talk this morning.
“You know,” said Daniel, “I would have been happy to take you out somewhere nice.”
“Hey, I’m the host—not you. This is ‘nice’ enough for me. My home—my food.” He scowled—then suddenly smiled brightly. Daniel slowly took a bite of his pizza. “Besides, this is the best pizza ever. Try it. Go on! It’s great.” Daniel took another bite. “Right?” Daniel nodded obligingly.
“So,” began Daniel, slowly, attempting he hoped to begin a discussion that would eventually lead to a successful plea for David’s return. “How did you—uh—find yourself here? In this town? Uh…working on a graduate degree?”
“Oh, the life history! The sob story!” David had finished his few slices of pizza and had returned to the counter for second helpings. He remained standing, munching on a new slice as he narrated his tale. “Wayward son refuses to follow in father’s footsteps. Father kicks wayward son out of family and tells him never to return. Wayward son leaves in disgrace never to be heard from again. There you have it—from your end anyway. From my end, it was actually a blessing. The old man was a monster—determined to run my life for me and—strange as it may seem—I preferred to live my own life. So—I left—quite willingly. Yes, it was hard at first. Odd jobs, and as you know—I changed my identity, although as it turned out that was probably unnecessary because the old man never really made any attempts to find me—until now—and I guess that was probably more your doing than his. And of course—you can see how changing my identity helped in keeping me safe when someone was truly determined---to find me.” With these last three words he turned to Daniel and looked at him directly with what Daniel thought was anger—maybe annoyance. Then suddenly, he smiled and started eating the pizza slice he had been using as a baton.
“And you’re in graduate school?” asked Daniel, cautiously.
“That I am, Danny Boy,” responded David. “Got a BA in Dramatic Arts, then came here and whizzed through a Master’s degree in English. About four years ago, I started working on a doctoral degree here in English—creative writing, actually. I’ve finished my course work. Only have to complete my dissertation and I’ll be done. It’s almost complete—just a few finishing touches needed—that’s what I’m trying to get done—got a really demanding dissertation advisor. Plus, I’m a graduate teaching assistant so I teach four sections of freshman composition.”
“My God,” said Daniel, “I’m impressed. I always did terrible in composition.”
“So, you wouldn’t be willing to help me grade a stack of student essays that has to be finished by Monday?”
“Sorry,” said Daniel, laughing, “You’re on your own there.”
“Yeah,” said David, “guess you picked a bad weekend to visit. If I didn’t have so much work to get done by Monday, I’d be able to drive you around and show you the sights of Reardon.”
“David, I didn’t come here for sight-seeing. I came here to try to get you to return.”
“I know, because the old man is sick and about to die,” David said, in a mocking sing-song voice.
“Would it kill you? Couldn’t you come back for just a day or two? I mean, maybe after you finish these grading and writing obligations you have for Monday?”
“’Fraid not, Danny Boy,” said David, with a shrug. “Besides, I know you don’t believe this, but the old man has no interest in seeing me. In fact, I’d venture a guess that if he did, it would probably kill him on the spot.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re his son. No matter what caused the rift—he surely would be overjoyed to have you return.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Will you at least think about it?” His iPhone buzzed unexpectedly and Daniel reached in his pocket and answered it. “Hello. Harold? Yes? Oh, no! Yes, I am. In fact, I’m here right now. I’m trying to talk him into it. What did Knowles say? I see. Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Bad news?”
“Father just had another one of his seizures. He had one last week too. The doctor doesn’t think it’s a good sign.”
“A seizure?”
“Right—on top of congestive heart failure. David, he doesn’t have long. Really, just a brief visit could mean so much. It wouldn’t cure him—I’m not suggesting that. It would just bring him some needed closure. He’s holding such animosity in his heart because of this feud between the two of you. If you could be the one to break the impasse, I think it would relieve his mind tremendously.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“I have to think about it. Who was that on the phone?”
“Harold Vickers. He’s our company—and family attorney. Almost like an uncle, really. Don’t you remember him? I guess not. Anyway, he’s been a rock through all of this. He was the one who found the investigator who tracked you down.”
“And who is Knowles?”
“Oh, he’s father’s personal physician.”
“I bet you’re checking in with them daily. It probably killed you to have to leave the old man’s side for a whole day, didn’t it?”
“Yes, actually. I check in as often as I can. Sometimes I just call Bernice.”
“Bernice? You mean that grouchy woman who was the old man’s secretary?”
“Still there. But she’s hardly grouchy.” Daniel had finished his pizza and beer and had risen and walked toward the kitchen in search of a napkin.
“What’d you need?”
“A napkin?”
“And you can’t use your shirt sleeve?”
“What?”
“Never mind, Danny Boy. We live in two different worlds, don’t we?” He zipped around the kitchen counter and scrounged under the sink where he finally pulled out a roll of paper towels—partially used. “Here, Mr. Clean.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He stood beside his brother, closely scrutinizing him from top to bottom. “Still the clean-cut yuppie I remember. Button-down collar, chinos, nice loafers.”
“I suppose so. You’ve changed quite a bit,” said Daniel, trying to assert himself against his brother’s denigration of his appearance. “What’s with the hair and all the dark clothing?”
“It’s my image. I’m Black Vulture.”
“Who?”
“My radio name—Black Vulture. The hero of the local alternative music fans. I told you I’m a minor celebrity around here.”
“And this Black Vulture dresses like a vampire?”
“It’s even better when I go out.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“Oh, you can. Well, I shouldn’t say when I go out—but when I’m in my character—like tonight on my show.”
“Your radio show?”
“Yeah. I get all fixed up and it puts me in the mood.”
“I would like to see that.”
“Then, why don’t you stop by the station tonight? You can see me in my element. Full Black Vulture mode. I’d say just stick around and follow me over but I’ve really got to get those essays done before my show.”
“It wouldn’t bother you to have me watch you.”
“Nah,” replied David. “As long as you’re quiet.”
“I can do that. Where is this radio station?”
“Where are you staying?”
“It’s on the highway I came in on, further out east—Rambler’s Rest Stop.”
“Rambler’s. Sure. I know it. Actually you’re not too far from the station at all. Here, let me draw you a map.” He found a small writing pad and a pencil on the counter and drew a quick sketch for Daniel of how to get to radio station KRDN. “Now, look, I don’t really get going until after midnight—so don’t show up until after that, okay?”