Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(37)
“Pierced Dreams. JoJo? Casings? Physical evidence?”
JoJo punched a key on her laptop. “All the casings collected from the shooting sites have been tested for fingerprints and all were clean. The shooter used gloves from the beginning of the process to the end, likely nitrile, according to the tech who looked at them under a scope. Nitrile can leave swipe marks that cotton won’t, and nitrile is more common these days for shooters, since it gives good tactile sensation. All the casings matched. Same gauge, same brand of ammunition, further indicating that we have only one shooter. None of this has been released to the media so unless someone at one of the hospitals talks about the caliber they pulled out of the victims, we’re good on keeping this part of the shooter’s MO under wraps.” To Rick she added, “I’m putting on weight. You gotta stop picking up pie from Elidios’.”
The SAC’s face softened into an almost-smile and I realized how seldom Rick had actually relaxed since he got back from New Orleans on his last trip. I needed to call his ex-girlfriend and my only almost-friend who lived outside of Knoxville. There might be things I needed to know.
As if the near-smile had been her goal, JoJo said, “On to physical evidence. We have three cigarette butts from the Carhart Building, all the same brand, but recovered from a location that would make the shots fired difficult to make, about twenty feet from the nearest casing. I’m guessing that someone in the building takes illegal ciggie breaks up there, but the butts have been sent to the forensics lab for possible DNA evidence. A lot of fast-food wrappers and empty water bottles, a used condom, and two flip-flops, both of them left feet, one orange, one white with skulls on it, were also bagged from the Carhart roof. From the roof of the other building, Occam and his vampire partner recovered a tarnished key, three old marbles, a stick of pink chalk, a pair of men’s underwear—briefs, size medium—an old faded ID, possibly a Michigan driver’s license from the seventies—”
“Anything pertinent to the case?” Rick interrupted.
“Not a thing. But it’s all gone to FBI labs for workup.”
Rick thumbed through printed reports on his table. “What do we have on the number of threatening e-mails and letters and their writers provided by the senator’s office and by Ming of Glass’ personal assistant?”
Tandy said, “There were no overlaps between the two. No name appeared on both lists,” he clarified. “No similar handwriting. No similar e-mail addresses. The feds eliminated four serious death threat contenders for the senator, and according to my research, one is in jail, one’s dead, one’s too disabled to be our shooter, and one’s living in the Pacific Northwest, working in a marijuana bar and too stoned to want to travel. Fifteen others they eliminated based on lack of skill set. We eliminated another dozen based on them being human, wrong general body type (too tall, too short, major weight difference from the blurry images we have to date), or with alibis that checked out on initial inspection. We still have about twenty on the original list of possible suspects.”
“And on Ming of Glass’ list?” Rick asked.
“Hate groups. Nothing that looks like a lone attacker. More like big talking, but if they really did attack, it would be a direct ambush with numbers on the attackers’ side. Nothing that looks like they would be willing to produce collateral damage while trying to kill fangheads. Humans First. DTF—Death to Fangheads. Homegrown hate and fear. And nothing that links the victims, according to the feds, who are following up on that angle.”
I took another piece of the wonderful pizza and listened with half an ear. The meeting dragged on for another hour until Rick finally asked, “Anyone got anything else?” When no one responded, the meeting ended with Rick’s orders. “All leave and time off is canceled until this is resolved and we have someone behind bars. All agencies are getting pressure from above to resolve it fast. Like yesterday. We’ll be pulling twelve-hour shifts, sixteen to twenty if needed, as of tonight. At the start of your next shifts, bring gear to catch naps here if necessary. T. Laine picked up four air mattresses and if the case gets too demanding, we’ll designate a room somewhere for everyone to crash.”
I tried not to think about how we would divide up the sleeping space if both women and men needed to sleep at the same time, though I realized that was probably an outmoded notion of propriety under the emergency circumstances. And I realized that through the meeting, I hadn’t thought once about Occam. Or Benjamin. Or the future as a lonely widder-woman. I sat a bit straighter. That was good. It had to be.
Rick stood, his movements more lithe than yesterday, more relaxed than last month, before he learned to shift into his black wereleopard. He was healing too, his body having put on weight, his face not quite so deeply lined this close to the full moon. He wasn’t fully healed, but he was getting there. Rick leaned forward, his fingertips splayed on the table, his weight forward, pressing on them. “We’ll be split into two divisions, each with a.m. agents and p.m. agents. One team member will be office detail, one will be field. Office agent will be in the office at all times, to collate information, coordinate efforts, and keep comms open. For the time being, one person will be with the senator and his extended family, including his wife and kid, his brother, his wife, and their kids, at all times, which means his house at night and his office by day. One person will liaise with the FBI team whenever possible. There are seven of us—” He stopped abruptly. Paka, his faithless, backstabbing, wereleopard ex-mate, was gone. She would not be back if she wished to live. “Six. Seven with Soul, who will be coordinating with the feds and filling in as needed. It’ll be tight but we can do it.