Goddess of Justice Dwayne Clayden (i read book .TXT) 📖

two autopsies. Shit. Recovering the bullets or fragments was a key part of the case. Well, it would be once they found a gun.

This body was that of Owen Judd. Only twenty-seven, Judd’s body had been abused like he was fifty. Scars dotted both arms, but no new injection sites. Maybe he was one of the rare ones who kicked the heroin habit. Or, more likely, he had found something better. Maybe cocaine.

The Y-cut was completed, and the ME was removing organs. Perhaps Brad would have a salad tonight.

The ME said, “I have one bullet. Made a mess of the heart.” He pulled the bullet out and set it in a tray filled with saline. The lead was in decent shape—a 9mm. With the blood and tissues washed off, Sturgeon put the bullet into an evidence bag. Further organs were removed, and the assistant weighed each one. The ME kept up a steady description of everything they were doing for the recording. Sturgeon continued to take photos.

Brad wondered if he should paint the farmhouse.

A second bullet was lodged by the spine. This bullet was in worse shape—it had mushroomed, probably from multiple impacts on bones. Rather than a complete round, it appeared like someone had used a potato peeler on it. It went into the saline, then into an evidence bag. An hour later, this autopsy was complete. Just in time. Brad needed a coffee.

The autopsy on the driver, Anthony Moss, went the same as the first. Brad was running out of cheerful places to take his mind. At one point, he drifted off and nearly fell from the stool. That would have been a disaster. He would never convince them he’d drifted off. They’d assume he’d passed out from the autopsy, and he’d never live that down. Sturgeon would take pictures before checking to see if Brad had a pulse.

Both bullets taken from Moss had disintegrated into fragments. From the four bullets, they had one that would give a proper analysis. But that was all they needed.

What Brad needed was fresh air. He left the autopsy suite and headed straight to the parking lot where Sturgeon joined him.

“I thought you were going to drop in there,” Sturgeon said.

“Just tired,” Brad replied.

Sturgeon grinned. “Sure. I had my camera ready.”

“I knew you would. Any thoughts?”

Sturgeon nodded and held up the evidence bags. “One bullet for analysis. They shot the chauffer from close, within a foot to eighteen inches. Owen Judd, from further away, but not much. The driver was shot first, then the shooter leaned into the car and shot Judd.”

“Both up close and personal. Besides the bullets, anything else to help us?”

“The bullet is our best evidence, but only if the gun has already been used in a crime. If not, we keep it on file and check guns when we get them.”

Chapter Seventeen

After the autopsy, Brad headed to the TV studio. He sat at a monitor in a tiny viewing room off the newsroom of CFCN TV. The room was under six by six with a short table and a video recorder with a monitor. The soundproofing added to the claustrophobic feeling. Sadie arranged for the video, but Brad had to watch it at their station.

He sat with a technician in a viewing room. Brad had him run the tape in slow motion. Occasionally he’d have the tech stop, zoom in on a person, and then print the image. After three hours, everyone appeared suspicious. A half-dozen paper coffee cups littered the table and floor. He increased the volume as the news came on a TV.

The primary story was about the shooting downtown last night. It identified the dead as Owen Judd and Anthony Moss. Another part of the deal. CFCN got to break the news before the other stations.

The video showed Sadie at the scene with her back to the police tape and the Lincoln. Sergeant Sturgeon and his crime scene techs were labeling evidence and preparing the car for transport to the police garage. Staff Sergeant Jackson and Briscoe stood off to the side in conversation. They must have filmed this segment after he talked to Sadie. He didn’t understand how she could be relaxed and refreshed at that hour. He rubbed the stubble on his unshaven face.

The monitor switched to the weather report—freezing rain followed by heavy, wet snow. Perfect. Brad went back to the video of the crowd.

What type of people hung around a murder scene? Besides cops and reporters? Maybe crime writers. If that was it, there were a lot of crime writers in Calgary.

He set the photos across a table—at least three-dozen pictures. His selection had been less than scientific—people who appeared suspicious. He shook his head. He could see himself saying that in court. What a waste of time. He had these photos, but nothing to compare them to. Useless.

He stepped out of the viewing room, headed down the hall and knocked on an open door. Sadie glanced up. “Any luck?”

“No.”

“Remember, if you find a witness, you promised I get the scoop.”

Lobo had slept most of the day while Brad attended the autopsy and watched the video. Now that Brad was home, Lobo was ready for action.

Lobo sat at Brad’s feet, staring up expectantly.

“All right. I’ll get ready.”

Brad changed into his cold-weather running gear while Lobo raced around the house. When Brad opened the door, Lobo bolted down the path and out of sight. Brad shivered as a blast of icy air hit him. He glanced at the sky—overcast, and darkness was fast approaching. He and Lobo knew the path in daylight or darkness. He shivered again, then set a steady pace. The first mile passed with Brad running on automatic. One foot in front of the other, breathe in, breathe out. His body was in a rhythm, his mind resting. His brain started to function as he jogged down the hill to the dam.

Birds swooped low across the path; others chirped in the trees. Squirrels scrambled