waited under the tree. Rayborn looked at the blood on the cement, the casing ten feet away. Right where you'd expect to find it if Wildcraft had shot himself.
Merci and Zamorra watched Ike photograph, then make casts of the good shoe imprints. He fixed the soil with hairspray to hold the loose particles, poured the plaster of paris mix over a putty knife to break its fall into the precious hollows. Then he shored them up with broke tongue depressors before filling the shallow indents to the top. When he was done, Ike sat back, lit a cigarette and waited for the casts to set up.
They watched the CSIs video, photograph and sketch the place where Archie Wildcraft had been found, treating it like the homicide--- or suicide—scene it was almost certain to become.
While they photographed and collected the brass casing, Merci called her watch captain for a condition on their wounded deputy minute-to-minute, non-responsive.
And nothing yet on a black Cadillac STS with plates that started with the letters OM.
They watched the finger printers working the bath and bedroom. Both rooms were loaded with latents, as she expected. The print tech had found a small twenty-two automatic under the sink, placed it in paper bag and set the bag on the counter for Merci. She held the bag and looked down at the shiny, heavy little weapon. Stainless finish, white-checked grips. A chick pistol. She wondered why Gwen hadn't used it. Rayborn figured the chances of Gwen Wildcraft knowing to use it were fifty-fifty.
She took the tiny autoloader over to the evidence log and thought about the gun they'd found outside, just inches from Archie Wildcraft hand. Murder-suicide weapon, or the deputy's home-protection gun? Both? Again, her stomach sank at the thought of Archie Wildcraft shooting his wife and then himself. The idea bumped the edge of her soul, like a shark nudging a swimmer. You could put this together a few different ways, she though Wildcraft heard the rock come through his window. He got his flashlight and his sidearm, went to check it out. And when he came down the walkway the big bastard standing under the tree put a bullet in his brain, took the deputy's nine, went inside and got Gwen. Then put Archie's gun back in his hand. It sounded like a tall tale.
Or this: the rock was already there, heaved in a rage earlier by either husband or wife—the fight that William Jones had heard that afternoon, the incident that finally let out the demons. Police science writers would call it the precipitating stressor. Something to do with her birthday maybe. Archie boiled until his wife was getting ready for bed. She took the phone into the bath and locked the door. Felt safe. But he crashed the door and shot her so fast the cell phone flew from her hand before she could push 911. Then he went outside, staggered around, and finally took care of himself.
She went back out to the driveway. The cars were gone. She noted the news vans parked on the street—two networks and two locals. The number of curious neighbors had doubled, mostly due to kids on scooters. The moist, late-August heat sent waves up from the roof of William Jones's garage.
She paced the big rectangle of new concrete, knelt to examine a rough spot in the finish, thought of the woman in the bathroom with the bullet holes in her.
The driveway floodlights were tucked up under the eave of the garage. Rayborn stood under them and looked up at the sunlight/motion detector module. She got out her blue notebook and wrote CK mot det after dark.
What set off the motion detector? Jones had seen the lights on at five-eleven but Crowder had seen them off three minutes later. Neither had seen a car in the drive.
She walked back around the house to the glass door where the rock had gone through. She didn't see any rocks like it, no rocks at all, in fact, except for very large round gray stones that were set in concrete around a whirlpool. Besides that, there was a small covered patio with a cafe table
Merci and Zamorra watched Ike photograph, then make casts of the good shoe imprints. He fixed the soil with hairspray to hold the loose particles, poured the plaster of paris mix over a putty knife to break its fall into the precious hollows. Then he shored them up with broke tongue depressors before filling the shallow indents to the top. When he was done, Ike sat back, lit a cigarette and waited for the casts to set up.
They watched the CSIs video, photograph and sketch the place where Archie Wildcraft had been found, treating it like the homicide--- or suicide—scene it was almost certain to become.
While they photographed and collected the brass casing, Merci called her watch captain for a condition on their wounded deputy minute-to-minute, non-responsive.
And nothing yet on a black Cadillac STS with plates that started with the letters OM.
They watched the finger printers working the bath and bedroom. Both rooms were loaded with latents, as she expected. The print tech had found a small twenty-two automatic under the sink, placed it in paper bag and set the bag on the counter for Merci. She held the bag and looked down at the shiny, heavy little weapon. Stainless finish, white-checked grips. A chick pistol. She wondered why Gwen hadn't used it. Rayborn figured the chances of Gwen Wildcraft knowing to use it were fifty-fifty.
She took the tiny autoloader over to the evidence log and thought about the gun they'd found outside, just inches from Archie Wildcraft hand. Murder-suicide weapon, or the deputy's home-protection gun? Both? Again, her stomach sank at the thought of Archie Wildcraft shooting his wife and then himself. The idea bumped the edge of her soul, like a shark nudging a swimmer. You could put this together a few different ways, she though Wildcraft heard the rock come through his window. He got his flashlight and his sidearm, went to check it out. And when he came down the walkway the big bastard standing under the tree put a bullet in his brain, took the deputy's nine, went inside and got Gwen. Then put Archie's gun back in his hand. It sounded like a tall tale.
Or this: the rock was already there, heaved in a rage earlier by either husband or wife—the fight that William Jones had heard that afternoon, the incident that finally let out the demons. Police science writers would call it the precipitating stressor. Something to do with her birthday maybe. Archie boiled until his wife was getting ready for bed. She took the phone into the bath and locked the door. Felt safe. But he crashed the door and shot her so fast the cell phone flew from her hand before she could push 911. Then he went outside, staggered around, and finally took care of himself.
She went back out to the driveway. The cars were gone. She noted the news vans parked on the street—two networks and two locals. The number of curious neighbors had doubled, mostly due to kids on scooters. The moist, late-August heat sent waves up from the roof of William Jones's garage.
She paced the big rectangle of new concrete, knelt to examine a rough spot in the finish, thought of the woman in the bathroom with the bullet holes in her.
The driveway floodlights were tucked up under the eave of the garage. Rayborn stood under them and looked up at the sunlight/motion detector module. She got out her blue notebook and wrote CK mot det after dark.
What set off the motion detector? Jones had seen the lights on at five-eleven but Crowder had seen them off three minutes later. Neither had seen a car in the drive.
She walked back around the house to the glass door where the rock had gone through. She didn't see any rocks like it, no rocks at all, in fact, except for very large round gray stones that were set in concrete around a whirlpool. Besides that, there was a small covered patio with a cafe table
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