Cuts Through Bone Read Online Free PDF Page B

a gun,” Whitcomb said. “That’s the end result, but not the order they came to us.” She opened a laptop on her cluttered desk. “Here’s my time line. On the twenty-fourth, we receive a body, petite Caucasian female, blond/blue, a well-kept Jane Doe—probably not a runaway. Her face is marked up with undarkened contusions. Nice clothes but no other personal effects. Two bullet wounds. One wound is ragged. The other is entry only. We work the body up as a homicide. At the scene, we find a small amount of blood. The body may’ve been dumped.”
    Vasquez scowled at Guthrie, thinking, the drunk vagrant is three for three already.
    â€œSomething to share with the class?” Whitcomb asked. “No? Okay, on the twenty-fifth we have a provisional ID. Our Jane Doe may be Camille Bowman, a missing Columbia student. We confirm by one P.M. and move on to the ballistics. One bullet is battered; it entered the body and passed through, struck the ground, bounced, and reentered the body. That sequence explains the wound channel and the condition of the bullet. Trace from the scene entered the wound channel—she was shot in situ. Minor blood pooling under the body indicates the bullet was fired from above the prone body. That particular bullet pierced the heart twice, but it still wasn’t the fatal shot. The first shot killed her, and prevented bleeding. That bullet entered at the base of the neck on a plunging trajectory. The wound channel stopped at the diaphragm. We recovered a pristine bullet. Two bullets—one smashed and one clean, both forty-four caliber. This was a small woman. The forty-four was massive overkill. Her blood alcohol was point oh-two. No other chemicals.”
    â€œWhat about the beating?” Guthrie asked.
    â€œSome argument about that, but no disagreement that it was only a few blows shortly before TOD. Slapping or punching, no indication of a weapon. The contusions are too diffuse for a weapon—no edges or lines. This happened ten or twenty minutes before TOD.” She drew a long breath. “Negatives—no ligature marks, so she was never restrained. No sexual assault apparent. The only thing disturbed was her pockets—could be a robbery motive, that being speculation, but it was evident that something was removed from her possession.”
    Whitcomb sighed and tapped keys on her laptop. “So, a few days, no significant trace, but we have a bullet. Early on the thirtieth, we receive a gun by warrant, a forty-four Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special five-shot, recently fired. We trace ballistics. The weapon is a perfect match for our clean bullet. We have the gun that fired the bullet—” She studied Vasquez. “You need some water? You look like you’re choking.”
    The vagrant witness was four for four; the pistol was tiny. Vasquez knew because she carried the same pistol in .40 caliber. Guthrie glared at her, but it was too late.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” Whitcomb demanded. “This is some sort of circus? Tommy?”
    â€œGuth, what the hell?” the young man asked.
    â€œSome people will be looking at this,” Guthrie said. “You already knew that when you pushed the first ballistics test up the list, right?”
    Whitcomb slid Tommy Johnson a sharp glance. “I guess we’re done here,” she said. “Walk them out, Tommy; then come back up here.”
    The elevator ride down was silent. Several times, Guthrie or Tommy Johnson started to speak but subsided before words broke out. Vasquez studied their reflections in the brushed stainless-steel elevator door. The two men were made from the same mold; even the way they held their heads when they brooded was similar. Vasquez kept quiet because she knew she’d screwed up. She had been excited. The NYPD didn’t need to know they had something to work from, because they weren’t on the same team. While the elevator