“Dr. Parry tells us factors two and three were spot on,” said Heat.
“Ballistics gives us an estimate on the first, distance,” said Ochoa, going for his notes. “Assuming a long-rifle cartridge and forty grains of powder, the lab puts the muzzle at a range of two to three feet. One yard, max.”
As Heat’s dry erase squeaked that detail onto the whiteboard, she asked, “Any conjecture about the weapon?”
Detective Ochoa nodded. “Good odds it was a handgun. Slugs from a rifle have a nasty habit of creating more mayhem inside the skull than those from a revolver or pistol. They not only tear up the tissue but create a lead snowstorm in the brain. This bullet is misshapen, but intact. Unfortunately, no prints. And it’s a plain-wrap, over-the-counter, retail bullet. However, they said they did get good striations for a future match. Of course, they’re running it through the database to see if they get a nexus on priors.”
“Excellent, Miguel. Glad I came.” Heat arched a teasing brow and got back a half smile from Ochoa, plus another from Raley, which she decided to add together, yielding her one more smile than she had seen going in.
Ochoa continued. “I’ve gotten in touch with the RTCC detectives. They’re running all shooters favoring .22s, with a sub-run for headshots as MO.”
Raley read some secret partner signal and took the handoff. “They’re also doing a search for me on a shady guy who popped up on video from King’s medical building.”
“You mean other than the shady journalist who popped up?” asked Heat. Everyone’s laughter—including Rook’s—went a long way to diffuse tensions. Elephants can’t take a joke. When you’ve got one in the room, sometimes an honest ribbing clears it out.
“This dude’s even shadier. If that’s possible,” continued Detective Raley. “Male, Cauc, early thirties. Made several camera passes over several days this week without entering the office.”
Heat asked, “You get a face?”
The King of All Surveillance Media shook his head no. “Kept his head down and wore a brim.”
“Question.”
“Go, caller,” said Raley.
“Shady Jameson from Tribeca; first time, long time. If you got no face, how are you going to run him? Tattoo? Scar? I’ll hang up and listen to your answer.”
“The answer to your question is gait analysis.”
“There’s an app for that?” asked Rook.
“There’s an app for that,” answered Raley. “Real Time Crime techs are using new software, initially developed for Homeland, on the premise that gait—the way every person walks—is unique and can be broken down into algorithms. It’s not as accurate as fingerprints yet, but neither was facial recognition when it started.”
Inez Aguinaldo had just interviewed Sampson Stallings, the romantic life partner of Lon King, who had come directly from JFK to meet with her in the station’s conference room. “The man’s in pieces. He and the victim were a couple for almost a decade and were talking about a wedding.”
“How was the relationship?” asked Ochoa.
“Like I said, they were talking about a wedding.”
“All fine,” said Feller, “but look at reality. Weddings bring out the bad shit. People work in one last fling and get caught, or get cold feet and choose a deadly way out, or all the fear and tension around the big step makes one of them crack, and—pow!” He caught the stare he was getting from Nikki and added, “Clearly, your engagement is the exception.”
“In fact, Mr. Stallings did admit they had been quarreling lately over his partner’s gambling debts,” said Detective Aguinaldo. “But he told me Dr. King had recently joined GA and was taking steps to get a handle on his habit. As for the rest of their relationship, they had no infidelities, King had no enemies or known threats against him, no changes in routine or behavior, no drugs, no drinking, nothing that would point to this.”