Catch Me (Detective D.D. Warren, #6)(9)

“So you’re thinking three to four days?” she asked Ben now, the doubt obvious in her voice.

He pursed his lips, considering. “Cold temperatures impede decomp. Given the apartment’s chilly ambience, I think that explains the slow putrefaction process. But won’t know for sure until I open him up.”

“First thoughts?”

“Cause of death is most likely twin GSWs to the left side of the forehead,” he stated. “Double tap, up close and personal. Notice the powder burn ringing the entry wounds, as well as the tight pairing. GSW one and GSW two are not even half an inch apart.”

“Execution style?” D.D. asked with a frown, venturing closer in spite of herself. “Any defensive wounds?”

“Negative.”

D.D. trusted Ben implicitly—he was one of the best ME’s the city ever had. But she couldn’t stop from glancing at the vic’s hands because the lack of defensive wounds didn’t make any sense. Who sat at his kitchen table and just let himself be shot?

“You’re sure it’s not suicide?” she asked Ben.

“No gun at the scene. No GSR on his hands,” the ME reported, then added, as a slight rebuke for her questioning his findings, “Unless, of course, he was wearing gloves which he kindly removed after shooting himself to death and hiding the murder weapon.”

D.D. got his point. She glanced back at Neil. “Forced entry?”

The lanky redhead shook his head. He appeared smug. “First responders had the building manager let them in. No sign of tampering with the lock. Windows are intact, not to mention too warped to open.”

D.D. eyed her squadmate. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“All right, all right,” she muttered. “Game on.”

She continued her analysis of the scene. Entry wounds to vic’s forehead appeared tight and round. Given the lack of exit wound, she assumed a small-caliber weapon, such as a. 22. Easy enough handgun to conceal until the last minute, especially this time of year when everyone was bulked up in winter jackets. But also a questionable choice for a murder weapon—not much bang in a. 22. Gun aficionados generally referred to such handguns as “plinking” guns. Good for shooting at cans and squirrels, or maybe hurling at an opponent if all else failed. But plenty of people got shot by. 22s and lived, making the small-caliber handgun a dubious choice for an execution-style homicide.

D.D. moved on with her analysis: Shooter was most likely someone the victim knew. Victim not only opened the door, but let the unknown subject into his apartment. Furthermore, sitting at the kitchen table implied hospitality. Would you like something to drink, that sort of thing.

D.D. crossed to the kitchen sink. Sure enough, two chipped blue mugs sat inside the grimy stainless steel basin. With gloved hands, she lifted the first mug and peered inside. No noticeable dried residue, so either a clear liquid or the mugs were rinsed.

She returned the mugs, which would be bagged and tagged by the evidence techs, then did a double take.

Mugs had been rinsed, then placed in the sink? Because nothing else inside the apartment looked like it had been rinsed, wiped, or otherwise tended in at least six months. The countertops were sticky and grungy. Ditto with the urine-splattered floor, grime-covered floorboards, and stained walls.

She glanced back at the wooden table, which also appeared suspiciously pristine. She ran a gloved finger along the battered surface. Old yes, battle-scarred definitely, but clean. So two mugs rinsed, one wooden table wiped.

She looked up at Neil, who was smiling even more broadly now.

“Shooter cleaned up after himself,” she murmured.

He wouldn’t reply, but given his terrible poker face, he didn’t have to.

Next up, D.D. wrenched open the refrigerator door. She discovered an opened can of dog food that smelled even worse than the rest of the apartment, a six-pack of beer, wine coolers, Hostess Twinkies, containers of leftover Chinese, half a dozen condiments, and the remains of a rotisserie chicken dated ten days prior.

So the victim liked fast food and had a sweet tooth.

D.D. tried some of the cupboards, discovering paper products in lieu of plates, plastic products in lieu of silverware, as well as multiple shelves of chips, crackers, cereals, and store-bought cookies. Last cupboard seemed to be for the dog—bags of dry puppy food, plus more canned food.

D.D. continued to build her mental profile. Middle-aged single white male, living a bachelor life in a low-income housing project.

Why this building? White guy had to stand out, feel uncomfortable. Lonely? Was that why he got a puppy? But he entertained. Had someone here, whom he invited in for a drink, perhaps, maybe come over, see my new puppy. Have a drink, have a snack.

D.D. got that feeling. It was a distinct physical sensation that started at the base of a good detective’s spine, before zipping straight up the vertebrae to the back of her neck, where the tiny hairs stood up and made her shiver.

She glanced at Neil, who beamed larger.

“No f*cking way!” she said.

“Way.”

“What’s Phil found?”

“Don’t know about the computer, but we already discovered two shoeboxes of photos tucked beneath the bed.”

“Is the vic in the system?”

“No hits thus far, though we’re still running his name and prints through the national database.”