lawyers think like lawyers.
“There’s more,” he said. “He parked, and then he walked through the new construction. At various points he left trace evidence behind, from his shoes and his clothing. And he’ll have picked trace evidence up, in the form of cement dust, mostly. Probably a lot of it.”
Rodin shook his head. “Ties him to the scene sometime during the last two weeks. That’s all. Not specific enough.”
“We’ve got a three-way lock on his weapon,” Emerson said.
That got Rodin’s attention.
“He missed with one shot,” Emerson said. “It went into the pool. And you know what? That’s exactly how ballistics labs test-fire a gun. They fire into a long tank of water. The water slows and stops the bullet with absolutely no damage at all. So we’ve got a pristine bullet with all the lands and grooves we need to tie it to an individual rifle.”
“Can you find the individual rifle?”
“We’ve got varnish scrapings from where he steadied it on the wall.”
“That’s good.”
“You bet it is. We find the rifle and we’ll match the varnish and the scratches. It’s as good as DNA.”
“Are you going to find the rifle?”
“We found a shell case. It’s got tool marks on it from the ejector mechanism. So we’ve got a bullet
and
a case. Together they tie the weapon to the crime. The scratches tie the weapon to the garage location. The garage location ties the crime to the guy who left the trace evidence behind.”
Rodin said nothing. Emerson knew he was thinking about the trial. Technical evidence was sometimes a hard sell. It lacked a human dimension.
“The shell case has got fingerprints on it,” Emerson said. “From when he loaded the magazine. Same thumb and index finger as on the quarter in the parking meter and on the traffic cone. So we can tie the crime to the gun, and the gun to the ammo, and the ammo to the guy who used it. See? It all connects. The guy, the gun, the crime. It’s a total slam dunk.”
“The videotape shows the minivan leaving?”
“Ninety seconds after the first 911 call came in.”
“Who is he?”
“We’ll know just as soon as the fingerprint databases get back to us.”
“If he’s in the databases.”
“I think he was a military shooter,” Emerson said. “All military personnel are in the databases. So it’s just a matter of time.”
______
It was a matter of forty-nine minutes. A desk guy knocked and entered. He was carrying a sheaf of paper. The paper listed a name, an address, and a history. Plus supplementary information from all over the system. Including a driver’s license photo. Emerson took the paper and glanced through it once. Then again. Then he smiled. Exactly six hours after the first shot was fired, the situation was nailed down tight.
A must-win.
“His name is James Barr,” Emerson said.
Silence in the office.
“He’s forty-one years old. He lives twenty minutes from here. He served in the U.S. Army. Honorable discharge fourteen years ago. Infantry specialist, which I’m betting means a sniper. DMV says he drives a six-year-old Dodge Caravan, beige.”
He slid the papers across his desk to Rodin. Rodin picked them up and scanned them through, once, twice, carefully. Emerson watched his eyes. Saw him thinking
the guy, the gun, the crime.
It was like watching a Vegas slot machine line up three cherries.
Bing bing bing! A total certainty.
“James Barr,” Rodin said, like he was savoring the sound of the words. He separated out the DL picture and gazed at it. “James Barr, welcome to a shitload of trouble, sir.”
“Amen to that,” Emerson said, waiting for a compliment.
“I’ll get the warrants,” Rodin said. “Arrest, and searches on his house and car. Judges will be lining up to sign them.”
He left and Emerson called the Chief of Police with the good news. The Chief said he would schedule an eight o’clock press conference for the next morning. He said he wanted Emerson there, front and
“There’s more,” he said. “He parked, and then he walked through the new construction. At various points he left trace evidence behind, from his shoes and his clothing. And he’ll have picked trace evidence up, in the form of cement dust, mostly. Probably a lot of it.”
Rodin shook his head. “Ties him to the scene sometime during the last two weeks. That’s all. Not specific enough.”
“We’ve got a three-way lock on his weapon,” Emerson said.
That got Rodin’s attention.
“He missed with one shot,” Emerson said. “It went into the pool. And you know what? That’s exactly how ballistics labs test-fire a gun. They fire into a long tank of water. The water slows and stops the bullet with absolutely no damage at all. So we’ve got a pristine bullet with all the lands and grooves we need to tie it to an individual rifle.”
“Can you find the individual rifle?”
“We’ve got varnish scrapings from where he steadied it on the wall.”
“That’s good.”
“You bet it is. We find the rifle and we’ll match the varnish and the scratches. It’s as good as DNA.”
“Are you going to find the rifle?”
“We found a shell case. It’s got tool marks on it from the ejector mechanism. So we’ve got a bullet
and
a case. Together they tie the weapon to the crime. The scratches tie the weapon to the garage location. The garage location ties the crime to the guy who left the trace evidence behind.”
Rodin said nothing. Emerson knew he was thinking about the trial. Technical evidence was sometimes a hard sell. It lacked a human dimension.
“The shell case has got fingerprints on it,” Emerson said. “From when he loaded the magazine. Same thumb and index finger as on the quarter in the parking meter and on the traffic cone. So we can tie the crime to the gun, and the gun to the ammo, and the ammo to the guy who used it. See? It all connects. The guy, the gun, the crime. It’s a total slam dunk.”
“The videotape shows the minivan leaving?”
“Ninety seconds after the first 911 call came in.”
“Who is he?”
“We’ll know just as soon as the fingerprint databases get back to us.”
“If he’s in the databases.”
“I think he was a military shooter,” Emerson said. “All military personnel are in the databases. So it’s just a matter of time.”
______
It was a matter of forty-nine minutes. A desk guy knocked and entered. He was carrying a sheaf of paper. The paper listed a name, an address, and a history. Plus supplementary information from all over the system. Including a driver’s license photo. Emerson took the paper and glanced through it once. Then again. Then he smiled. Exactly six hours after the first shot was fired, the situation was nailed down tight.
A must-win.
“His name is James Barr,” Emerson said.
Silence in the office.
“He’s forty-one years old. He lives twenty minutes from here. He served in the U.S. Army. Honorable discharge fourteen years ago. Infantry specialist, which I’m betting means a sniper. DMV says he drives a six-year-old Dodge Caravan, beige.”
He slid the papers across his desk to Rodin. Rodin picked them up and scanned them through, once, twice, carefully. Emerson watched his eyes. Saw him thinking
the guy, the gun, the crime.
It was like watching a Vegas slot machine line up three cherries.
Bing bing bing! A total certainty.
“James Barr,” Rodin said, like he was savoring the sound of the words. He separated out the DL picture and gazed at it. “James Barr, welcome to a shitload of trouble, sir.”
“Amen to that,” Emerson said, waiting for a compliment.
“I’ll get the warrants,” Rodin said. “Arrest, and searches on his house and car. Judges will be lining up to sign them.”
He left and Emerson called the Chief of Police with the good news. The Chief said he would schedule an eight o’clock press conference for the next morning. He said he wanted Emerson there, front and
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