Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [46]
‘‘Less than a second, most likely,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘About as fully automatic as you get.’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘And,’’ he said, ‘‘the pattern of the projectile strikes are consistent with full auto. As was the distribution of spent cartridge cases.’’
Hester grinned.
So did Dr. Peters. ‘‘Making Hester correct in her on-scene analysis.’’
‘‘Once again,’’ said Hester.
Dr. Peters barked out a laugh. ‘‘Well, at least, not for the first time.’’
‘‘Let me interject something here,’’ I said.
‘‘Go right ahead,’’ said Dr. Peters.
I told him about my observations at the crime scene. About my theory that the shooters were hunting the cops, and not Howie. About how Howie’s presence had been a factor that was not predictable by either the shooters or the cops, and how Howie had prematurely triggered what I thought was an ambush for the officers.
Dr. Peters thought about that for a second.
‘‘I had a little experience in my Army days with that sort of thing. I think you’re absolutely right. Advancing to contact,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Quite reasonable.’’
I had been browsing the autopsy photographs as Dr. Peters was talking. ‘‘Can you tell the caliber of the rounds from the wounds or debris?’’
‘‘Ah . . .’’ Dr. Peters reached behind his chair and pulled out a manila envelope that measured something like a yard on a side. He pulled out a series of huge X-ray films. ‘‘Phelps. Let’s get these up to the light,’’ he said, promptly hanging them on a bank of X-ray viewing panels, and flipping the switch. Flash, blink, and we had our X-rays.
‘‘See the debris fields on this one,’’ he asked, ‘‘what we call the ‘snowstorm’ field?’’
I could. There were what appeared to be hundreds of particles scattered in rough fan shapes, widening toward the back of the body. Some were relatively large, most minute. Some were hazy, and I knew that those were very small particles of nearly vaporized bone. One large object caught my eye.
‘‘This,’’ I said, rising half out of my chair and stretching out my hand with my pen extended. ‘‘This looks like part of a jacket . . .’’
‘‘Good eye,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘You overweight people concentrate so well.’’
‘‘Hey!’’ I said. ‘‘You brought the doughnuts!’’
‘‘For your concentration,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Works with him every time,’’ he said to Hester.
‘‘I wish he’d had one before he lost his raincoat,’’ she said.
Dr. Peters pushed another doughnut toward me. ‘‘You might need this,’’ he said. ‘‘What that is, is part of a metal jacket from a projectile. Fortuitously, it contains the imprint of the tail of the round. A small, circular impression. It’s at the DCI lab now,’’ he added. ‘‘What was nice about it was that it wasn’t steel. Copper. Seemed to be a ‘boat tail’ round, as the diameter was slightly less than 7.62 mm. Commercial, probably a semijacketed soft point, judging from the jacket and the exit wound, which appears to have been the largest of the group. Which leads to another interesting point . . .’’
‘‘Mmmph?’’ I asked. Concentrating.
‘‘This isn’t the only round that struck the spinal column, as you can see. But the other one which did, here,’’ he said, pointing, ‘‘didn’t fragment the projectile at all, and left a rather neat, or at least relatively neat, exit wound, associated with tumble, but not with significant deformation.’’
‘‘Which means?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Well,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘I believe that the others may have been standard steel-jacketed military rounds, possibly manufactured in a Warsaw Pact country, exported, and mixed locally with commercial ammunition.’’
Well, like, wow.
‘‘How did you know that?’’ I bit.
‘‘Well, mostly from the printing on the recovered ammunition boxes,’’ said Dr. Peters with a laugh. ‘‘But it is consistent with the rest of it.’’
I just love it when he does that.
‘‘Nice,’’ said Hester.
Dr. Peters nodded, smiling.
‘‘A matchup with the cardboard ammunition boxes that we found,’’ I said.
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘the shooter mixed his ammunition in his magazine.’’
‘‘Specialists do that,’’ said Hester.
‘‘So do people who can’t afford a lot of ammo,’’ I answered.