Red Herring Page 19

  “As when they’re degraded or dirty?” Bill asked.

  “Exactly. The higher end alleles, or genes, if you will, are the ones to go first with degradation, leaving the smaller, molecular alleles. In fact, when the samples are too poor, we can’t even enter them into CODIS—the national data bank. We have to settle for just our in-state inventory. That’s what happened with the one found on the dashboard. CODIS demands a minimum of ten alleles out of the standard thirteen; we accept a lower threshold, largely because of our much smaller population base.”

  Joe was studying his friend quizzically, feeling somewhat at sea. “I get it, David, but he was following the rules. Thanks for being embarrassed, and I guess you’ll be issuing an interoffice memo for future work, but we figured it out in the end, right?”

  “Only because of Brookhaven,” Hawke said mournfully.

  Joe chose to move on, impatient with this kind of morbid navel-gazing.

  “There’s something I didn’t ask when I was in Long Island,” he therefore brought up. “Couldn’t they have done a profile of the DNA on the electrical cord? They found genetic material.”

  “They did get DNA,” David agreed, “but not the kind we enter into our data banks. That’s where they can do things I can only dream about. What they found was that the same man left his DNA at both Doreen’s and Mary’s scenes—on the underwear and the cord, respectively. But they didn’t get enough to actually enter it into any system.”

  “The thirteen alleles you were talking about?” Bill asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Joe was rubbing his temple, trying to extract a memory. “David, I get it that we’ve got the wrong kind of DNA there. But what about the three blood drops? They’re huge and relatively healthy. I know you ran them through the national system and our own and got nothing, but isn’t there another way of analyzing them? I thought I read something . . .”

  Hawke’s face cleared a little as he laughed. “Wow—don’t I wish. No, those’re all criminal profile databases. We don’t know who belongs to those three drops—they’re just people, as far as we know.”

  “He’s talking about familial profiles,” Bill suggested.

  Joe snapped his fingers. “That’s what I was looking for. Familial DNA, where one family member shares some of the same profile as another.”

  Hawke was shaking his head. “God, you guys read too much, or watch too much TV.”

  “But it’s true,” Joe protested.

  Hawke held up both hands. “It is, it is. You’re right.”

  Joe was on the edge of his seat. “So, hear me out. We have the killer’s DNA but can’t do anything with it; we have three other DNAs that may not be on record, but we sure as hell know that they were collected and deposited at crime scenes by the killer. Is it an absolute certainty that some relative of even one of them isn’t a crook on file?”

  Bill and David exchanged glances.

  “No,” Bill said cautiously.

  Joe sat back. “Then let’s run all three samples at least through the Vermont database and see if we get lucky. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  Bill was mulling it over without comment, but Hawke merely shrugged. “We’ve never done it before. I’ll have to run it by the lawyers for permission, but I don’t see where it would be a problem.”

  “It’s just knocking on doors,” Joe stated. “Like we’re already doing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Back Stop had always struck Lester as a better name for a bar than a gun store, not that the name sounded all that great for either. Nevertheless, it was Windham County’s biggest supplier of weapons, ammunition, and—most importantly to Les—reloading equipment. And in a state unique for its lack of gun laws, that was a statement of substance.

  It wasn’t located in Brattleboro, the county’s anchor town, but west of there, on Route 9, more toward Wilmington and the magnet of the ski resorts sprinkled along the backbone of the Green Mountains, from Massachusetts to Canada, 175 miles to the north. The owners of the Back Stop weren’t idiots or woodchucks—they fully appreciated the allure of Vermont romanticism, the appeal of the gun to the American male, and the convenience of being near a cluster of vacation-ready condos. The Back Stop had figured out that while the rest of the family might find joy in visiting outlet stores, spas, ski slopes, or golf courses, the males would eventually find a way to rationalize a trip to a gun emporium.

  And Lester had to admit, they’d done a hell of a job. He wasn’t a gun fancier himself. He carried one from obligation, qualified with it twice a year, as required, cleaned it perhaps just as often, and otherwise worked hard to forget he even had it. But he conceded that the carefully orchestrated aura of the Back Stop revived the same faint childhood cowboy stirrings in his chest that they clearly did with more gusto in the people he saw trolling the aisles of new and used long guns, occupying an entire wing of the building. The place was dark, woodsy, handsomely dinged and bruised, and smelled of leather, wood, and oil.

  Sadly, though, he also knew that the owners weren’t locals who’d figured out how to separate well-heeled flatlanders from their cash. They were two Realtors from Stamford, Connecticut, who’d identified an extra wrinkle in the exploitation of Vermont.

  Still, he was a realist, and recognized a couple of faces working behind the glass counters. Whoever had set all this up was aiding the local economy, and in a small, rural state of this size, that was only a good thing.

  He approached one of the men he knew, who’d once owned a small hardware store before the economy had overwhelmed him.

  “Hey, Ed,” he said quietly, extending a hand in greeting.

  Ed Silverstein cocked his head and smiled. “Detective. It’s a real pleasure. How’ve you been?”

  “I’m not complaining. Keeping busy.”

  “I guess,” Ed commented. “They got you working on that triple murder? That sounded terrible.”

  Les gestured dismissively. “Among other things. It reads worse than it really is. You know newspapers.”

  Silverstein chuckled. “Oh, yeah. The family okay?”

  “They’re fine. My son’s almost as tall as me now.”

  The older man laughed outright. “Oh, my God, Lester. No offense, but in your case, that’s a scary thing. Does he have to bend over for more oxygen?”

  Lester shook his head. “Very good, Ed. I never heard that one before.”

  Ed looked slightly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. What can I do you for—other than more insults from me?”

  “No—no problem. I’m too old to be thin-skinned anymore. I need a little research question answered.”

  Silverstein nodded, his face now serious. “Give me a try.”

  “I’m wondering about folks who come in here who do their own reloading.”

  Ed’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve got just the man for you—he’s our specialist. Come with me.”

  They both walked down the length of the counter, one on each side, until a gap allowed Silverstein to usher Les inside the barrier, and from there to a door leading to an employees-only back room.

  They wandered through a storeroom and a shipping area before reaching the store’s highly advertised gun repair and customizing section—a large, well-lighted room totally lacking any Vermonty kitsch, lined with workstations and anchored in its middle with several large, felt-covered tables, all covered with guns in various stages of disassembly.

  “Jeezum,” Les murmured, admiring the contrast with the sales room. “Command Central.”

  Silverstein glanced over his shoulder as he walked. “This is our version of a casino banking room—where we make all the money. The repairs are reasonable enough. That can be a competitive market. But the custom work? Watch out, credit card!”

  He led them to the far end and through one last door labeled “No lighters, matches, or flammables beyond this point. No metals capable of causing a spark.”

  “Comforting,” Spinney commented.

  “It
is to the guy who works here,” Ed agreed.

  On the other side of the heavy door, which closed automatically with an airtight sigh behind them, was a room not unlike the one they’d just left, but smaller, laced overhead with heavy-duty fire extinction water piping, and occupied by a single man wearing a soiled lab coat, a face mask, and rubber gloves.

  Ed slapped Lester on the back and opened the door again. “I’ll leave you two alone—gotta get back to the counter.” He pointed to the masked man and made hurried introductions as he turned away. “Les, this is our own Ammo-Mike. Good seeing you again, Les.”

  Lester muttered something to the closed door before facing his new host, not bothering to offer a hand in greeting. “How’re you doin’? Sorry to barge in like this.”

  The mask stayed in place. “No problem. Who are you?”

  Lester smiled. “Right. I guess Ed needs a crash course on manners.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his credentials. “Lester Spinney, VBI.”

  That caused the face mask to be pulled down to Mike’s neck, revealing surprise mixed with a hint of concern—a combination Lester was used to.

  “VBI?”

  “Nothing serious, and nothing to do with you,” Les assured him. “We’re just running an investigation that may or may not have something to do with reloaded ammunition. I knew the Back Stop caters to that kind of customer, and Ed brought me to you.”

  Mike pointed to one of the stools parked by the central table. On shelves all around them were rows of large cans and assorted other containers. Some of them he could tell held powder, brass, or bullets; the rest were a mystery. The heavy worktable itself was a parking zone for arcane equipment, some of it quite large, and all presumably used in the craft of self-loading. Lester, with his lack of knowledge, had no clue about most of it.

  “Have a seat.”

  Lester sat, still wearing his coat. The room was also quite cool.

  The Back Stop technician sat opposite him. “I don’t know what I can tell you,” he said. “A lot of people load their own ammo. Thousands of them, probably.”

  “Is it a complicated thing to do?” Les asked. “I’ve never had anything to do with it.”

  Mike pulled a long face. “It can be. It’s not just black powder shooting that’s involved, like people think. More shooters load modern loads than they do muzzle loaders. It’s the cost of ammo. Through the roof. If you shoot a lot, it makes sense to buy the equipment and load your own. You could retire the upfront cost in a year or two, depending, and then not only start saving, but start finding out all the ways you can fool with the stuff.”

  Les furrowed his brow. “How do you mean?”

  “Part of the fun,” Mike explained, “is combining different bullet weights and styles with different powder loads. You can go crazy with that. And every time you cook up something new, you have to try it out at the range. There, you got interests like rapid firing, distance, accuracy, trajectory, kick, take-down power, and all the rest. And that just sends you back to invent some more recipes. I know people—rich or retired or maybe they just don’t have a life—who spend all their time doing this. It’s a little crazy.”

  “But you do it.”

  Mike laughed. “I’m paid to. I mean, it’s interesting, but I’m no nutcase. I used to like it more before I got this job.” He waved his gloved hand around to encompass the room.

  “So,” Lester challenged him, “if it’s for do-it-yourselfers, what’re you doing here?”

  Mike smiled ruefully. “I’m the rich man’s loader. Guys from the flatlands call ahead and have me fill a special order for a weekend blowout. Maybe they brag to each other about having custom ammo, or lie that they’re doing it themselves. I don’t know. It costs them way more than if they just bought it up front from Ed, but to each his own, I guess. I don’t try to figure out rich people.”

  Lester thought back over to the elusive portrait they had so far of their quarry. A rich weekender from Connecticut was not on the A-list.

  “How ’bout locals?” he asked. “You get a lot of them?”

  “Sure, but I’m not gonna be doin’ their loads. They just buy the raw materials from us.” He hesitated. “Well, some of them do; the rest’ll shop on the Internet, like everybody else.”

  “But you keep track of the names, I guess,” Lester suggested. “So you can send them flyers and junk mail?”

  “Sure,” Mike agreed. “I mean, I guess so. I don’t do that myself.”

  “But you have lists. Surely.”

  Mike tilted his head slightly, wondering what the question was. “What’s the case, if it involves gunpowder? Sounds unusual.”

  Lester rose from the stool, nodding. “It is. Wish I could tell you more. Would Ed be the guy to give me your customers?”

  “Not really. He’s just a counter man. Bill Shiffer does the marketing. Ed’ll show you how to find him. You like working for VBI?”

  Les paused, halfway to the exit. “Yeah, I do. Good outfit.”

  “You get all the big cases, right?”

  “Yup.” Lester resumed his departure, sensing what was coming next—the questions, the I-wanted-to-be-a-cop confessions. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

  “You doing those murders that’re in the paper?”

  “Some of us are,” Lester said vaguely. He pulled the door open. “Thanks for your help, Mike.”

  “Ike,” the other man said.

  Les stopped. “What?”

  The reloader was still seated at the central table. “Ike,” he repeated. “Ed slurred his words when he called me Ammo-Ike. That’s my nickname here. He made it sound like Ammo-Mike. Happens sometimes. Too many ‘M’s.”

  “Ike,” Les echoed.

  “That’s it. Ike Miller. Good luck with Shiffer.”

  “Thanks,” Lester said again, and eased himself out the door.

  After his departure, Ike stared at the closed door, as if trying to read its surface.

  “I know goddamn well you’re working that case,” he said under his breath.

  He then switched his gaze to the rows of cans, boxes, and bags, and muttered, “But what the hell’s gunpowder got to do with it?”

  He stood up and walked around the room, thinking hard. He continued talking to himself, “Ike, you may have to start watching your back.”

  He reached out and removed a .50 bullet, shiny gold and heavy, from a bag at eye level, and hefted it in the palm of one hand, voicing another thought. “Or maybe you should throw a little smoke in their eyes.”

  . . .

  Joe got out of his car and checked for traffic in both directions. He had just parked on Elliot Street, in Brattleboro, opposite one of the town’s taller structures—a seven-story apartment complex reserved mostly for the elderly on limited income. It wasn’t much to look at—square in all dimensions—but clad in red brick, like so much else in New England, and a well-known local artifact. As modern as it appeared, it still had been built decades ago, and by now had become part of the social fabric.

  He crossed the street. The earlier snow had by now virtually disappeared, aside from a few well-shaded corners where plow trucks had created dirty thaw-proof deposits.

  He was here to meet Elise Howard, Mary Fish’s companion, who had called to say that she had something to tell him. He’d been surprised by the address change, and had said as much when she’d phoned. Apparently Raddlecup, the school headmaster, had wasted no time in asking her to leave school property, further enhancing the impression he’d left with Joe upon their first meeting.

  Elise lived on the third floor, on the side of the building overlooking the street. When she opened the door, he’d expected piled boxes and strewn-about packing material. Instead, it was neat, spare, and warm, looking as if she’d been there for years. There were even pictures on the walls, including a significantly sized portrait of Mary, smiling broadly at the camera.

  “My Lord,” he said, stepping inside. “You move in fast.”

  “I
hate a mess,” she admitted. “It used to drive Mary crazy. Back at school, half that little house was filled with her junk—stuff neither one of us really wanted. I just took advantage of the move to throw most of it out. Would you like some tea?”

  Joe entered the small living room and took in the simple surroundings, admiring how she’d done such an effective job with so little. “No, I’m all set, thanks. This is really nice.”

  She sat on the sofa and gestured to an armchair across the coffee table from her. “Please, have a seat.”

  Leaving his coat on, he settled down and studied her closely. “How’re you doing, Elise? Really.”

  She sighed. “My heart is broken. I feel numb and powerless and spend most of my time wondering why I bother continuing.”

  He nodded, knowing the sensation well.

  “That’s partly why I called,” she added, surprising him.

  “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “When we spoke in the hospital,” she explained, “you asked me two questions I didn’t answer truthfully. You asked if there had ever been a hanging in either Mary’s or my family, and you asked if what happened to her might have been partly directed at me.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  She had been keeping her focus on the small table between them, but now she raised her eyes.

  “My mother hanged herself,” she told him. “I was a child at the time, and I always thought I was to blame—something my father was happy to let me believe.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  Her voice was clear, but he noticed that her hands were tightly clenched in her lap. “He was not a nice man, to me or to her, but I was able to get away from him before it got too bad. Maybe my mother killing herself gave me the courage to leave. I’ll never know. But I always thought that I had the answer as to why she did it the way she did.”

  “By hanging?” he asked.

  “No. Well, maybe. But I mean the time and place. She made sure that I would be the one to find her, not my father. People said it was monstrous and unbalanced and proved how far over the edge she’d gone, but I knew it was a message to me: Get out now or you’ll be next.”