Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman
Harlan wasn’t deliberate in his shooting. Didn’t shoot at any one person specifically, or even aim at people for that matter. He just opened fire. A lot of it. The boys and I have been comparing notes. They agree with that assessment.”
Marge paused.
“Since this kind of thing is rare, I don’t really know what’s considered the typical behavior for mass murderers.”
“Off the top of my head, the compatibles that come to mind are Tasmania, the Long Island Railroad, the San Ysidro McDonald’s, and Dunblane—”
“The elementary school in Scotland.” Marge paled. “God, what a world!”
Decker inhaled his smoke, tried to keep his mind focused. “I remember that in Tasmania and in San Ysidro, the murderer aimed at people. Picked them off like prey. But you’re saying that wasn’t what happened. Harlan just sprayed the place.”
“Appears that way. We’ve been working a time frame … how many minutes did the actual shooting last? Time elongates during these catastrophic events. What seems like hours could have been minutes. At the moment, we’re guesstimating.”
She held up the manila envelopes.
“I picked these up for you. Just came in from the Coroner’s Office. Probably some prelim autopsy reports. Want me to go over them? You look tired.”
Decker sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, breathed in wisps of nicotined air. “Who’s still out there?”
“All of us—Scott, Tom, Bert. We’re still writing up reports. Oh, Gaynor left about an hour ago. He said you told him to work on the case at home.”
“I’ve got him doing some computer work. His home equipment is better technologically than what we’ve got here.” Decker stubbed it out. “Give me the reports. Call the others in.”
“Right away.” Marge handed him the envelopes and left.
Decker broke open a seal, pulled out some slice-and-dice autopsy photos. Hitting him like a mace in the gut. He sifted through them with deliberation … concentration. Marge soon returned with the others. They pulled up chairs, sat in front of Decker’s desk, all of them uncharacteristically quiet.
Decker said, “I’ve got some prelim autopsy reports. Finals won’t be ready for days, so we’ll go over these—”
Oliver interrupted, “Like they’re going to tell us something we don’t know?”
“Never know.” Decker placed the photos back in the envelope. “We’ve got to re-create the shooting. Where Harlan first stood when he opened fire, who appeared to be his first victim, who was his next, and so on and so forth.”
“How do we do that?” Martinez asked.
“We’ll start with the floor plan. Draw each table and who sat where, using the reservations book. Who checked the book into evidence?”
“Yo.” Marge held up her hand.
Decker said, “Okay. We draw each table and label them. Next comes the brain work and the tedium. For this part, we’ll need basic geometry and gunshot angles. Since we couldn’t rod the victims, we’ll have to rely on Forensics.”
Decker leaned forward.
“Harlan was found dead at the bar. Don’t know if he started his shooting at the bar, but assume that he did. The bar area is off the entrance, correct?”
Nods all around.
“So assume he entered there and just started shooting. Here’s what we’re going to do. We ask ourselves … if Harlan started shooting from the bar area and was facing left, where would the first bullets have landed? Say they would have landed on table three. We look in the reservations book, find out who was at table three, and determine the nature of their wounds, if any. If it seems consistent with Harlan’s position, we go on to our next assumption. If it’s not consistent, we change our first assumption—”
“I’m lost,” Martinez said.
Decker said, “We’re trying to trace bullet paths using geometry. Go down the friggin’ list. If Harlan shot from the bar, where would his first bullets have landed? If that matches, we move on.
“If Harlan had turned to the left and shot, who would have been his next hit?
“If Harlan had turned to the right and shot, who would have been his next hit?
“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward, who would have been his next hit?
“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the right, who would have been his next hit?
“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the left, who would have been his next—”
“This could take months!” Oliver blurted out.
“Yes, it probably will take months,” Decker said.
“Loo, pardon mah ignorance,” Webster drawled, “but just what do you reckon to accomplish?”
“Let’s talk politics for a moment. There are bound to be lawsuits—against Estelle’s, maybe even against the city. Our police reports are going to be scrutinized with a microscope. And we’re going to be judged, folks. Every single one of us. You, me, and this entire beleaguered department.”
Decker rubbed his temples.
“I want every single bullet accounted for. Make sure that all the slugs came from Harlan’s gun and not some other outside source that we overlooked because we were too lazy—”
“Outside source?” Marge grimaced. “You think there was more than one shooter?”
“Who knows? Last count we’ve got thirteen dead, thirty-two wounded. Lots of damage for one guy, Margie.”
Martinez said, “Harlan was packing a nine-millimeter automatic double action, Loo. Fourteen rounds per magazine—”
“How many rounds did he fire, Bert?”
Martinez was quiet. “Don’t know.”
“Anyone?”
No one spoke.
Decker said, “Thirteen dead people, thirty-two wounded, and we can’t answer a simple question like how many rounds the fucker fired.”
Oliver said, “So we’ll do a bullet count.”
“We’ll do a lot more than a bullet count. I want this crime scene nailed. Every step and every shot that Harlan took must be checkbook-balanced.”
Decker leaned back in his chair.
“We’ll start tomorrow with the bullet count. Dunn and Oliver, you two take the corpses in the morgue as well as the shells and bullets left behind at Estelle’s. Check the walls, check the furniture, check the potted plants, turn the place upside down if you have to. I want every bullet, every shell, every empty magazine cited and bagged.”
“Talk about tedium,” Oliver muttered.
Decker looked at his detective—worn, disheveled, spent. “I don’t envy your assignment, Scott. The place gives me the creeps. But someone has to do it.”
Oliver ran his hands through his oily black hair. “I’m not complaining, Loo. I’m just tired.”
“I know.” Decker looked at Webster and Martinez. “You two go over to the hospitals, talk to the victims’ doctors. Have them help you get a bullet count from their patients’ medical charts or surgery dictation or even from the X rays. And if any of the victims feels like talking, you can start conducting interviews. Once we get the bullets accounted for, we’ll start analyzing the angles—”
“Y’ever think of using a computer, Loo?” Webster asked.
“Forensic