“Excuse us just one moment,” Nikki said to Buckley. He took a hopeful half step to the door, his disbelieving eyes still riveted on the body. Ochoa stepped to corral him and he stopped without contact.
Gerald Buckley stayed put, staring. His lawyer had found a chair and was sitting sideways, at a right angle to the play. Nikki snapped on a pair of gloves and joined the M.E. at her table. Lauren placed expert fingertips on Pochenko’s skull and gently rotated it to expose the bullet hole behind his ear. A small puddle of brain fluid pooled on the gleaming stainless steel under the wound, and Buckley moaned when he saw it. “I did critical measurements and ballistics comparisons after our on-?site angle-?of-?entry reconstruction.”
“Twenty-?five?” asked Nikki.
“Twenty-?five.”
“Mighty small caliber to bring down such a big man.”
The medical examiner nodded. “But a small-?caliber round delivered to the brain can be remarkably effective. In fact, one of the highest one-?shot-?stop ratings is the Winchester X25.” In the metal pan of the hanging scale, Heat could see Buckley’s reflection, craning to hear every bit as Lauren continued. “That round is fabricated like a hollow point, but the hollow is filled with a steel BB to aid expansion inside the body once the slug is delivered.”
“Whoa. When that puppy hit his brains, it must have been like taking a hammer to a plate of scrambled eggs,” said Raley. Buckley was regarding him with fearful eyes, so the detective added for good measure, “Like the front row of a Gallagher concert in there.”
“Quite,” said Lauren. “We’ll know more once we cut open his brain for the treasure hunt, but one of those slugs would be my guess.”
“But such a small gun would mean whoever did this knew they’d get a chance to work close.”
“Sure,” said Lauren. “Definitely knew what they were doing. Small-?caliber mouse gun. Easy to conceal. Victim never sees it coming. Could be anytime, anywhere.”
“Pop,” said Ochoa.
Buckley yipped and flinched.
Heat crossed over to him, making sure to leave an unobstructed view of the dead Russian. The doorman was a fish on a dock. His lips opened and closed but no sound came. “Can you positively identify this man?”
Buckley belched and Nikki was afraid he’d ralph on her, but he didn’t, and it seemed to help him locate his voice. “How could somebody…get to Pochenko?”
“People involved in this case are dying, Gerald. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name to help stop this before you join them?”
Buckley was incredulous. “He was a wild animal. He laughed when I called him Da Terminator. Nobody could kill him.”
“Somebody did. Single shot to the head. Bet you know who.” She waited a three count and said, “Who hired you to steal that art collection?”
The lawyer got to her feet. “Don’t answer that.”
“Maybe you don’t know who,” Heat said. Her tone was all the more intimidating because she was so casual. Instead of shouting or grilling him, she was washing her hands of him. “I’m thinking we’re chasing our tails. We should spring you. Bail you out on your own recognizance. Let you think things over out there. See how long you last.”
“Is that a bona fide offer, Detective?” asked the attorney.
“Ochoa? Get the keys to unlock his handcuffs.”
Behind him, Ochoa rattled a set of keys and Buckley recoiled, hunching his shoulders at the sound as if it was a bullwhip cracking.
“Isn’t that what you want, Gerald?”
The man was swaying where he stood. White saliva strings connected the roof of his mouth to his tongue.
“What…” Buckley swallowed. “What’s happened to his…?” He gestured up and down his own face to indicate the burn area on Pochenko.
“Oh, I did that,” said Nikki, sounding casual. “Burned his face with a hot iron.”
He looked to Lauren, who nodded affirmation. Then he looked at Heat and then Pochenko and back to Heat. “All right.”
“Gerald,” the lawyer said, “shut up.”