The Bitter Past, page 12
Sana drops into a crouch to get a better look. “So?”
“So, in that same moment it shuts down your nervous system. The gun has a considerable kick and the round a considerable amount of force. You fly out of your seat—and I mean fly—and you still have the gun in your hand?”
“Wait,” Sana says. “A gunshot to the brain can also have the opposite effect. It can cause the fingers to tense around the grip and trigger.”
Brinley nods. “For an instant, yes. But you’re being launched out of this bar stool, right? By the time you hit the floor, that tension is gone because your nervous system is turned off.” She gazes up at me. “What else is wrong with this picture?”
I cross my arms in contemplation. “He’s lying at the bottom of the bar stool, not a few feet away, like he fell straight down.”
Brinley nods again. “Or was lowered. What else?”
“The bar stool,” Tuffy interjects. “It’s still standing. That much force, the stool goes down with you.”
I look at Jimmy again. “Checked with the son. He said he didn’t touch anything.”
Sana turns to Jimmy. “Did you?”
“He knows better,” I say confidently.
Brinley points at the back legs of the bar stool, sitting in more of Pollack’s blood. “Hasn’t been moved. If it had, we would have disturbances on the floor.” Tuffy snaps a couple of pictures of the bottom of the stool.
Sana climbs back to her feet. “All valid observations, but can I play devil’s advocate for a minute?”
“Please,” I say.
“Okay, the position of the body is a solid point, not so sure I agree on whether he would or wouldn’t hang on to the gun, but you can see what looks like soot on his left hand. You can test it, but I can tell you right now that it’s going to turn out to be gunshot residue. The dead guy fired the gun.”
Brinley looks bewildered. “That’s a quantum leap in logic. If the decedent’s hand was in the vicinity of the gun when it was fired, whether he fired it or someone else did, it would have GSR on it.” She looks over at me. “I’ll collect whatever I can, but I agree that’s probably what it is.”
I step closer. “The question is, did he fire it or did he have help?” I pick up the other stool, the one not sitting in blood, and move it into the middle of the living room where there is some open space. “Jimmy, let’s do a test. Take a seat.”
Jimmy Green walks over and sits down on the stool. “How much force from the gunshot?” I ask Brinley.
Brinley approaches, considers the question for a moment. She looks back at the dead man on the floor. “Jimmy, what are you, Two hundred? Two hundred five?”
“About two hundred.”
“Mr. Pollack here is about a buck-ninety.” In her mind, Brinley visualizes the shot, placing her hand on Jimmy’s left temple. “I’m going to give you a shove, Jimmy. Just let your body go.” With that, she pushes hard on the deputy’s head, sending him sprawling to the floor where he lands a few feet away, the bar stool on top of his legs.
I nod. “He had help.”
Sana throws up her hands. “I’m sorry, guys, but this is hardly scientific.”
“Jesus, woman,” Brin says. “It’s the definition of scientific. It’s how you would re-create this man’s death in a crime lab.”
Wardell comes in through the front door just then and does a big knuckle cracking, like it’s a symphony we all want to hear. “What’s all this?”
I take a beat before saying, “We’re trying to figure out how Mr. Pollack shoots himself in the left temple with a .357 and somehow falls straight to the floor without knocking the stool over.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Wardell says.
“Most of us seem to agree on that point,” I reply, looking at Sana.
Wardell walks over to the body. “No, I mean it doesn’t make sense because Pollack wasn’t left-handed.”
Sana’s irritation grows. “What is it with you guys and hands? Yesterday, it was the Russian Pete killed. Today, it’s this guy. So what if he wasn’t left-handed?”
Brinley takes Sana’s hand in hers, raising it up and pointing it at Sana’s temple. “You take yourself out, you’re going to do it with your dominant hand, your shooting hand.”
Sana yanks her hand back and turns to me with pleading eyes. “Says who?”
I can take this one. “Says a bunch of forensic studies. Handedness is not, in and of itself, definitive in determining a self-inflicted injury, but it is one major indicator.” I recite this information like I read it in a book because, well, I read it in a book.
“Okay,” Sana says, looking at Wardell. “But how do you know he wasn’t left-handed?”
Wardell scratches his chin. “Because, Miss Hot Shit FBI, I bowled with the man every Thursday night for ten years. He was a righty.”
Okay, so Mr. Pollack did socially interact on occasion. His choice of bowling partners is a little suspect, but at least someone in the department knew him. I step between Wardell and Sana, shutting down the discussion. “Let’s double-check our work here guys. Wardell, go outside and check with the son. Not doubting you, just want to be sure. Jimmy, look for photos, anything you can find that verifies Mr. Pollack here was right-handed.”
Wardell and Jimmy go their separate ways, and I bend down and carefully remove the Colt Python from Pollack’s hand, marking the cylinder position with my Sharpie. Then I open it and check all the chambers. They’re full. I show them to Tuffy so she can document them. “Lot of bullets when you only need one.” After I empty the remaining rounds, I place it in a plastic evidence bag that Brinley opens for me. Then I check his hand. My nostrils flare a bit.
“What?” Brinley asks.
I hold Pollack’s fingers up to my nose. “What’s that smell like to you?”
Brinley bends and takes a whiff. “Engine degreaser? It’s got that citrusy smell.”
I nod and study the fingers more closely with a penlight from my pocket. On the underside of the man’s thumb, there is a small trace of something black. “What do have we here?”
Tuffy snaps a picture, the flash blinding everyone for a second. “Looks like ink of some kind?”
“Fingerprint ink?”
She exhales in agreement. “The guy used the degreaser to remove the ink. Missed a spot. I’ll collect a sample, but that’s what it looks like.”
I look at Brinley. “Find me that degreaser. Garage maybe. Ask the son, if you need to.”
“Maybe the son killed him,” Sana says.
I stand up. She’s still miffed about Brinley, and it’s clouding her judgment. “Anything is possible, but it doesn’t look like there’s a big inheritance for Lyman here. Tuffy, get with the freight company and get the location of Lyman’s truck all last night. Should be LoJacked.” Turning to Sana, I say, “But why does the son fingerprint him?”
Sana runs a hand through her hair. She looks like she wants to kick something. “It’s the Russian, isn’t it?”
“Beginning to look that way.”
“Assuming that’s the case,” she says, “and he believed Pollack might be the spy the Soviets sent here in the 1950s, he would have the guy’s fingerprints. If he wanted to do a match, he could have lifted a latent print from anywhere in this house and used some portable biometric technology. Why actually print the man?”
Brinley returns, holding a bottle of Purple Power All-Purpose Citrus in an evidence bag. “Because those things are nowhere near as good as taking actual prints. Do they not teach that in the FBI?” I glare at Brin, a warning to her to retract her claws. “Found it under the kitchen sink,” she says.
“They’re good questions,” I tell Sana. “Keep going.”
“Okay, no forced entry into the house, just like at Atterbury’s. It’s the middle of the night. No apparent struggle with the victim. How do you force him to shoot himself in the head—given the gunshot residue on the hand—with no struggle?”
I look at Brinley again, who shrugs.
“Drugs,” says Tuffy, dropping to her knees by the body. With her hands, she carefully examines Pollack’s neck. “Holy shit.” She exposes the right side of the neck, the part not covered in blood. I shine my light on the skin.
“Puncture wound,” I say. “Good spot, Tuff. Let’s get a tox screen, and ask Vegas to rush it.”
“Shit,” Sana mumbles. “He’s checking off a list.”
This killer is pissing me off. “He printed poor Mr. Pollack here after he drugged him. When he determined the prints didn’t match, he shot him, making it look self-inflicted, old guy, tired of living, sitting at his bar in the middle of the night. Couldn’t leave him alive, obviously.”
“Yes,” Sana says. “But how did he know about Pollack? He can’t just be driving around the county looking for men in their eighties. How is he staying one step ahead of us?”
My phone starts to vibrate. “That is the million-dollar question.” I listen for a few moments. “Shit, okay, I’m on my way.” I click off. “That was the other Jolly Green. He found Michaela Edwards’s bike.”
CHAPTER 10
Johnny Green leads Brinley, Sana, and me over yesterday’s light snow to the red-and-white bicycle Michaela Edwards had been riding when she left the Pony Springs Fire Station three days ago. The wind is whipping the bitter chill, yet it somehow feels warmer than the forty-five-minute ride up, the tension between Sana and Brinley palpably icy.
Michaela’s bike is no more than fifty yards off the highway and partially sticking out beneath the unruly branches of a large creosote bush. No one touches it until Brinley snaps some photos.
“Well, stating the obvious, it does look like blood,” she says, pointing to the white seat tube as her breath condenses in the open air like a heavy fog. She looks back at me, sliding her mouth to one side, which puffs up one cheek. “Doesn’t look right, though.”
I’m careful stepping closer to the bike. “Almost looks like someone took blood and wiped it across the tube,” I say upon closer examination. “No drops.”
Brinley nods. “Yep. Don’t see blood like that typically.”
“And no damage to the bike,” Sana observes. “So, the blood wasn’t caused by an accident on the road.”
Johnny points to the rear wheel, where a piece of blue cloth is wrapped in the chain. “This could be part of Michaela’s dress.”
“Yeah, let’s recover that and have the blood analyzed for DNA. Have the handlebars and grips checked for the same. Process the whole bike for prints.” I look around the immediate area. “Any other tracks around?”
Johnny motions me to come around to where he’s standing on one side of the bush. “We got about an inch or two of the white stuff yesterday, so any tracks leading in here or back to the road are ours. But I did find this. Okay to move the bike, Brinley?”
“You’re good, Johnny.”
Johnny Green puts his thick winter gloves back on his hands and carefully lifts the bicycle by the top tube out of the bush. He looks straight down. “See that?”
I step over and look down. There is a boot print in the dirt at the base of the bush, only partially covered by snow. In the moist ground, I can see the outline clearly. “Nice work, Mr. Green. Outsole is complex with a distinct pattern. Not a cowboy boot.” I hover my boot just over and to the side the print. “About my size, so we’re not looking for a giant here.”
Brinley takes a couple of close-ups. “There’s enough here. I can cast it.”
“Do it,” I say. “Johnny will take you back to the station. We’ll head over to Mill Valley and have another conversation with Clem Edwards.”
Brinley nods. “She didn’t ride it out here, Beck.”
“No, she didn’t.” I turn to Johnny. “See if you can get Bugsy out here to track this blood. Might be more under the snow.”
“Hey,” Brinley says as Sana and I start back to the highway. “I have a gig in L.A. tomorrow.”
My head swivels back. “I’m really shorthanded. Can you reschedule it?”
“Can you pay me?”
I nod. “I’ll tap our emergency fund. Not like your normal paycheck, though.”
She looks at Sana and winks. “That’s okay, might be nice to stick around for a while.”
* * *
Clem Edwards isn’t at the farm in Mill Valley, though. “He’s off looking for her, Sheriff,” Amon Jessup tells us. “Did you find her?”
“Not yet. I need you to find Clem and bring him to the station in Pioche. This can’t wait.”
Dread gives Amon a hitch in his throat. “Oh no, what is it?”
“Just get him to the station, Amon. That’s all I can tell you now.”
* * *
“Can we go hunt our Russian now?” Sana asks as we once again head south toward the county seat. “I’m anxious to see what your team has come up with. And by the way, I have to say I’ve been really impressed with the knowledge and investigative instincts your people have.”
There is no sincerity like a woman telling a lie. “Pop trained most of them. He was a good cop for a long time.”
“Well trust me, I know some FBI people who aren’t that good around a crime scene.”
Uh-huh. “Well, thanks. I was thinking about our Russian. You said he was checking off a list, that he couldn’t just be driving around randomly selecting men in their eighties.”
Sana nods. “Based on what we saw at Pollack’s house, that’s the obvious conclusion, I think.”
“Right. List of old men at least eighty years old in the immediate area. Where would you get such a list? How would you know where to start?”
She thinks for a moment. “DMV?”
I consider that. “Okay, assuming you could access their records, people here have licenses from all over the West. Vegas, Utah, other states, not just this county. I’m the sheriff, and it would take me getting a warrant to get that information. So, if you’re not a cop, where would you look to isolate demographic information on people in a specific area? I mean how would an SVR agent do it?”
“Voter rolls,” she says. “But you would have to have access to the data.”
That’s a fair point, and I shift my eyes from the road to Sana. “For us, that’s the county clerk’s office.” As soon as those words escape my lips, I slam on the brakes. “Shit.”
Sana reaches out to grab the dash, steadying herself. “What? Did you hit something?”
We’re at a dead stop on the highway. “Just a week ago, I got a call from the clerk’s office. They thought their server had been hacked. I didn’t think much of it. We took a report.”
“You think it was the Russians.”
I must look like a bobblehead doll right now. “I understand they have some experience at that kind of thing.”
Sana nods. “Detour?”
“Detour.”
* * *
The county clerk’s office is located on Main Street just across the Great Basin Highway from my office. Martha Floyd is the county clerk and has been as far back as I can remember. She is well past retirement age but will not be budged or bullied into quitting. A short, round woman with stray whiskers on her chin, Martha manages a staff of three people who, in turn, manage a number of county functions, including voter registration and elections.
“Hell if I know,” Martha says when I ask her what information had been accessed in their computer server. “I don’t understand that stuff.” She stands up from her desk. “Jerrold,” she yells. “The sheriff and FBI want to talk to you about our thingamajig getting hacked last week.”
Across the open office space in the opposite corner of the room, a reed-thin Gen-Z man with unkempt hair peeks sheepishly out from behind two large computer monitors. Sana and I walk over to his desk. He has the face of a twelve-year-old.
The clerk’s IT man quickly reveals what he remembers of the incident. “They only accessed voter rolls, nothing else. We have a lot of data here on people in the county, but that’s all that was downloaded.”
“Were you able to tell if the hacker was looking for a specific group of people within the voter rolls,” asks Sana.
The young man nods eagerly. “That was the weird thing. It was men between the ages of seventy-five and ninety-five. Who the heck would want that?”
“Can you print me that list?” I ask.
Jerrold looks over at his boss. This is the advantage of living in what used to be called a one-horse town. She gives him the okay, and we have our list two minutes later. It’s a short list. I show Sana one of the names.
“Guy Pollack,” she says.
Pulling into my parking space at the office a few minutes later, I say, “But what about neighboring counties? The guy could be living in Vegas for all our Russian knows. That county has more than two million people. Why is he focused on my county?”
“You’re right,” Sana replies. “But he’s here. Pollack’s death proves that. The real question is why the Russians are so sure of it.”
As we head into the office, I touch her on the shoulder. “It’s in the intel that was leaked to them. It has to be. You have to find out for us.”
She hangs her head. “I can’t risk it. We can’t risk our asset in Moscow, and we can’t risk tipping off the mole on our side.”
“Find a way,” I say. “Find someone in Washington you can trust.”
She laughs. “You have no idea how big an ask that is. But I’ll do my best.”
As soon as we enter, Tuffy motions us to her desk. Arshal and Pete are seated nearby and roll over for a confab. Tuffy says, “We’ve been running the prints from Pollack’s house. Still have a few sets to go, but the interesting thing is his prints don’t belong to anyone named Guy Pollack.”
This is great news, I think. “Please tell me his real name ends in ov or ev, and we can forget about the Russians until the next election.”
“No such luck,” says Tuffy. “Real name is Eldon Lee Mathers, wanted in Tennessee for armed robbery. Guess when?”
I am all out of guesses.
