Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(74)

“What’s going on?”

“The case involves two victims shot in a confined area, and the fragmented projectiles recovered from their bodies aren’t something one sees very often,” I begin to describe.

I apologize that I can’t share most details or any images. I’ve just come from a confidential discussion, and don’t have such things in my possession, I explain somewhat truthfully. But I’d like Faye’s expert opinion about a type of ammunition the average person doesn’t know about.

“I’ve not come across Glaser Safety Slugs in a long time, and I believe that’s what we’re dealing with,” I let her know. “But I have to be sure before I pass that along to the parties involved.” I imagine her surprise if she knew this included the president of the United States.

“It’s tougher without photographs,” she says with a sigh.

“I don’t need them to describe what I saw on a live video feed as the scene was being worked.”

“I can understand Glasers being used in tight quarters, that makes sense,” she says, having no clue that we’re talking about a spacecraft.

“Yes,” I agree. “The sort of ammunition you’d pick for self-defense if you anticipate having to shoot someone inside an apartment, a vehicle. You want to disable or kill but not have the pellet or projectile exit the body or ricochet, hurting someone else, causing other damage.”

“Correct. Which is why Glasers were created. To deal with skyjackers back in the day.”

“And there’s no new round out there that might be similar?”

“Not that I know of,” she says, scrolling through images of fragmented ammunition. “But picking something that uncommon requires forethought. Whoever we’re talking about was very deliberate about arming himself.”

Astronauts aren’t known to carry weapons into orbit, the exception being the Russians based on what I’ve learned during various Doomsday Commission briefings. Cosmonauts used to pack a particularly nasty triple-barreled “survival” pistol that includes a machete. That’s not what was used in this case, not even close.

But I can’t mention any of this to Faye. She may find out from the news what’s happened three hundred miles above the planet but she won’t hear it from me.

“Look familiar?” She shows me photographs on the video display.

The fragments of spent rounds look almost identical to what was removed from the Thor scientists’ bodies.

“Yes,” I reply.

“What are you thinking about the caliber?”

“Nine-millimeter.”

“If it was a pistol as opposed to a revolver,” she says, “it would have auto-ejected the spent cartridge cases.”

“I’m going to venture a guess that the perpetrator would have collected anything like that before leaving the scene.” I imagine them floating around inside the orbiter.

Jared Horton would have looked until he found them. He would have left with them and the gun. But I don’t need the cartridge cases or the weapon to know what I saw.

“Number six lead shot, copper jacketed with a silver-tipped polymer nose,” I tell Faye.

The ammunition’s prefragmented lead projectile is designed to begin separating on impact. There’s little risk of the pellets exiting the target, and perhaps hitting someone else or causing other catastrophic damage.

“The silver ball tip is the dead giveaway.” Faye doesn’t realize the pun. “Glasers come in blue tip and silver, and the silver has more penetrating power because it’s six shot instead of twelve, exactly what you’re describing.”

A winter round of sorts, it’s what you’d use if you needed to penetrate heavy clothing, and that could include a spacesuit. Jared Horton knew what he was doing in advance, I’m think ing. He may not have planned to murder his crewmates but he was prepared for that eventuality.

“How much longer are you going to be here?” I ask Faye, and Marino has let me know he’s waiting in the parking lot.

“I don’t know, for a while. This case will keep me burning the midnight oil.” She’s in no hurry to go home.

Not to see her fish or get back to her baking, and I might know the reason why, and it’s not merely because of her caseload. Fabian is working the evening shift this week, and I’m betting that may have something to do with the long hours Faye’s keeping.

I don’t see him moments later as I walk through the intake area. No sign of Wyatt either, his office empty, and no one is inside the bay when I walk through. Probably they’re hanging out in our comfortable, clean breakroom, watching me on the security cameras, and I can’t help but smile.

Outside, Marino’s truck rumbles loudly in a thick mist settling over the dark parking lot. There’s not a breath of wind, the Virginia and U.S. flags wilted on their poles.

“I can see you’re ready for anything, and frankly that’s a good thing under the circumstances,” I announce as I climb into the passenger seat, shutting the door.





CHAPTER 30


HE’S SUITED UP IN tactical clothes similar to mine, but under his jacket is a bulletproof vest.

A knit cap covers his bald head, his pistol where I saw it last on the console between us. When I placed my scene case in back, I noticed the extra weapons and ammunition from the night before.