The Reluctant Coroner by Paul Austin Ardoin (distant reading txt) 📖

onto the counter, got his keys out and unlocked it. “I’m going to have to have you sign this for the chain of custody—”

“Hold on. This is a Glock 26,” Dr. Yasuda cut in.

Trevor nodded, looking at McVie.

McVie nodded. “Right. And we need to see if—”

Dr. Yasuda interrupted him. “This is a nine-millimeter weapon. I told you the murder weapon fired a ten-millimeter bullet. There are several weapons that could have fired that bullet, but a Glock 26 isn’t one of them. This isn’t the murder weapon.”

McVie’s face fell.

Fenway piped up. “Aren’t there some cases where bullets can be used in different caliber weapons?”

Dr. Yasuda gave her a disapproving look. “Yes. A ten-millimeter gun could potentially fire a nine-millimeter bullet, albeit less accurately. But if you try to fire a ten-millimeter bullet from a nine-millimeter gun, the barrel could prohibit the bullet from going forward, and the gun could explode. And even if it doesn’t, the markings on the outside of the bullet would make it clear it was fired from a nine-millimeter weapon.” The doctor shook her head definitively. “No, this is a ten-millimeter bullet fired from a ten-millimeter weapon.”

Fenway was quiet.

“Thanks, Doctor.” McVie looked a little embarrassed. “I appreciate the time.”

“Certainly.” Dr. Yasuda nodded curtly. “And when you find the ten-millimeter firearm you think did the job, bring it here and I’ll make sure it gets fast-tracked.”

“Absolutely,” McVie clicked the gun case closed. Trevor hadn’t even taken the Glock out.

Fenway and McVie walked back down the corridor and out through the main doors. McVie was fuming silently all the way to the parking lot. When they got in the car and closed the doors, he let out a loud stream of profanity.

Fenway was silent. He finally fell silent too.

He started the car and they started down the road, back to Estancia.

“I thought we had him, Fenway.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. Dylan’s got the motive, for sure, not to mention he lied about where he was on Sunday night, his truck crashed through the wall, and the people in the truck stole those files. The evidence might be mostly circumstantial, but it all points to him.”

“Exactly.”

“But his gun didn’t match. And his height doesn’t match either.”

“He could have been crouching or leaning over Walker. Michi’s autopsy didn’t tell us nearly as much as I was hoping.”

“Maybe the car will point us in the right direction. You heard they found Walker’s car in long-term parking at LAX, right?”

“Yes. I meant to tell you earlier. Thanks for giving us the idea to look there. I asked Mark to make some calls yesterday.”

“So, Dez and I were talking. And a couple of things bother me. Like, do you think Dylan Richards has the intelligence, or experience, to get rid of a murder victim’s car in a long-term lot at LAX?”

McVie was quiet for a second, and Fenway could see him thinking it over. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, we’re thinking this is a crime of passion, right? Sometime between Friday night and Sunday afternoon, Richards watches the video of Walker sexually assaulting his wife, and he’s so pissed off, he lures Walker to a wilderness area, where he gets Walker on his knees and executes him.”

“Yeah, that’s my theory.”

“Okay, I can see that. And then what does he do? He’s 27, he doesn’t have a record. He leaves the body. He gets in Walker’s car, drives it to LAX, takes the train back, takes a taxi, or an Uber, or something from the Estancia station back to his car, which he’s left on the side of the road for six hours?”

McVie was silent.

“And the car was in a place where you didn’t find it,” she continued, “because you had already found Walker’s body by then, right?”

“It was dark, and we didn’t do a real search for Walker’s car until the morning.”

She nodded. “Did you find anything in the morning? Someplace where it looked like someone had hidden a car, and driven through bushes and stuff on the side of the road?”

“No.” McVie thought a minute. “Richards might have had an accomplice. Someone to follow him to LAX and drive him back. Maybe Rachel.”

Fenway shook her head. “I don’t think so, Sheriff. She has an alibi, and receipts, and I’m sure there are people who saw her at the movies.”

“Maybe his brother.”

“Parker? Yeah, I guess it’s possible. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I guarantee you he didn’t think about the LAX long-term parking, but it’s possible.”

“We still have motive and opportunity. We don’t have the weapon, but that doesn’t mean Dylan didn’t shoot him.”

Fenway hesitated for a second. “Sure.”

McVie looked at her. “You don’t think it was Dylan.”

“Well…”

McVie turned back to the road. “So, if it wasn’t Dylan, who do you think it was?”

Fenway sighed. “Honestly, Sheriff, I don’t have any better suspects right now.” She shifted in her seat. “I do think my father’s company has —well, something to do with this. I’m not sure if it’s Harrison Walker’s murder, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the stolen files.”

“Obviously—you didn’t bring your father to the interview room for nothing. You were talking about what was in those files.”

“Yep.” She moved the seat back a little bit. “My father knew way too much about them. I told him Walker’s file on Ferris Energy was missing, and he asked if there was another file in the drawer the thief might want. And he also knew the files were taken last night. He was acting like I had said, ‘Hey, Dad, someone stole a whole drawer of files from Harrison Walker’s office last night,’ when all I told him was, ‘There’s a Ferris Energy file missing.’”

McVie turned down the corners of his mouth. “I wonder if he got the information from somewhere else. It’s not like we kept it secret.”

“No, I guess not. Maybe he heard on the radio there was a break-in, or maybe the reporters gave out information. But I don’t think so. I don’t think there was enough time to see what was out there. I mean, maybe there’s someone in the office feeding him information, so maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with the break-in…but it sure feels like he knows something he’s not telling me.”

McVie drummed his fingers on the wheel and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “I’ve been trying to make this all fit with Dylan Richards, but even I have to admit I don’t think it was him crashing through Walker’s office.”

“Too—what was the word you used?—brazen?”

“Yeah. But I was thinking if he had broken through the wall of the office, he didn’t have a whole lot of time. He’d need to get rid of the truck, get back to his apartment, change clothes, and pretend like we woke him up. It was, at the most, forty-five minutes between the time he sped out of the parking lot and we knocked on his door. I mean, it’s possible, but it would be cutting it really close.”

“And he didn’t seem like he had been up,” Fenway said. “Maybe he’s a great actor, but he and Rachel both seemed like they had been awakened from a dead sleep.”

“Dammit.” McVie continued drumming his fingers.

She was quiet. The Pacific Coast Highway met with US 101 here, and the Pacific Ocean appeared suddenly on their right. She stared out the window at the sun dancing on the blue-green water; the mist, a looming grey cloud in the distance, waiting for the late afternoon fog to overtake the coast again.

Fenway wondered if she should bring up Dylan’s real alibi. She wondered how McVie would take it. Part of her suspected that McVie already knew—and she wondered how much of it he knew. Did he suspect his wife was cheating on him? Did he know Dylan was the other man?

She turned her head to look from the ocean to McVie’s face, the creases around his eyes, his jaw almost permanently set in determination. She couldn’t see him arresting Dylan on such thin evidence if he knew about Dylan and his wife—it didn’t seem smart, it seemed petty. But maybe Fenway just didn’t want to see the sheriff as petty.

They passed a sign that read Estancia 7 Miles. Fenway made up her mind.

“Sheriff.” Her voice was soft. “I don’t want to ask you this, but I think I have to.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Do you know anything about the relationship between Dylan and your wife?”

McVie didn’t say anything for a minute. He squinted his eyes at the road. Then he ran his hands through his hair and pressed his lips together before he finally spoke.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with why I arrested him.”

“Dylan’s truck was seen in your neighborhood on Sunday night. The neighbor wouldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty convinced. I think it’s why Dylan lied about his alibi.”

“You asked my neighbors?”

She was quiet.

McVie leaned back in his seat. “Who else knows?”

Fenway closed her eyes. “Dez.”

McVie ran his hand over his face, from his forehead to his chin, and exhaled loudly. “Who else?”

She paused briefly, then went on. “No one else in the department—not that I know of, anyway. I’m not planning on telling anyone else, and I don’t think Dez will say anything either. But your neighbors have seen his truck, and they’re not stupid.