Читать книгу Payback - Harvey Cleggett - Страница 14

CHAPTER

7

Forensic Services Department, employing over three hundred staff, was known internationally as one of the largest forensic science services in the world. Nestled in a bushland setting, its unremarkable presence from the outside belied its vital standing in forensic investigation, examining over 27,500 pieces of evidence each year. Those items included glass, paint and fibre material; blood and urine samples; firearms and gunshot residues; vehicle identities; drugs; explosives; fingerprints; biological material such as semen and hair; suspect documents and audio recordings.

Ballard and John often commented how their job was made easier by the fact they had access to such a professional service and over the years, their interaction with the staff had developed to the point where each regarded the other with unquestioning respect.

Twenty minutes after leaving the crime scene, John parked in the ‘Police Vehicles’ area. Collecting their day books they headed inside.

“Morning Frank.” John waved at the stocky middle aged man sitting behind the glass security barrier, surrounded by TV screens monitoring both external and internal areas of the building.

“John… Michael, I guess I know why you guy’s are here. Any progress?”

John scribbled his details on the visitor’s register before stepping back for Ballard to repeat the process. “Not yet Frank. Early days, but we don’t have a lot of time on this one. Let’s start with ballistics. Is Robert in?”

Frank nodded. “He is. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.” Hearing the release of the security door they passed through, heading down the long corridor towards the Firearms and Weapons Unit.

Robert Mayne was the senior Firearms Examiner, a police forensics veteran for over twenty years. With an appearance resembling Tom Cruise, but older and much taller, he enjoyed the comparison, having more than a healthy ego.

He had a sharp scientific brain, applying a formidable forensic approach to his work that spilled into his personal life which contributed to his divorce ten years earlier. Over time he had come to accept this and as a consequence had decided not to remarry, content with the worldwide recognition he enjoyed in his area of expertise.

Before Ballard and John were halfway down the corridor, Robert, wearing a white laboratory coat over his electric blue shirt, red bow tie and grey suit trousers, burst through a side door, waving to both men. “Just in time gentlemen. I’ve the photos of the bullet on the screen.” Not one for small talk he spun around and bounded back into the room.

Both men entered, finding him peering at a computer screen displaying an enlarged, high resolution image of a fragmented bullet. Without bothering to look at them as they took up position on either side, Robert began an explanation with great animation.

“What we have here is a left hand twist, .45 calibre ACP bullet.” He tapped the screen with his forefinger. “It has a reputation for effectiveness against human targets because its large diameter creates a bloody great hole in the victim, rapidly lowering blood pressure.

“The wounding potential of projectiles such as these are often characterized in terms of their expanded diameter, penetration depth and energy. Bullet energy for .45 ACP loads vary from 350 to 500 foot pounds of propulsion. Proponents of the hydrostatic shock theory contend bullets transferring this much energy in six inches of penetration can produce this effect.”

As he drew breath, John exclaimed, “Jesus Robert, how do you keep all this stuff in your head?”

Robert ignored him, his expression one of mock humility. “Most ammunition manufacturers market what are termed ‘Plus P’ loadings in pistol ammunition, including the .45 ACP. This means the cartridge is loaded to a higher maximum pressure level than the original SAAMI cartridge standard. As a consequence higher velocity and more muzzle energy is generated.

“In the case of the .45 ACP, the standard cartridge pressure is 21,000 psi and the SAAMI .45 ACP +P standard is 23,000 psi. This higher grain loading is common practice for updating older cartridges to match the improved quality of materials and workmanship in modern firearms. No shell casing was found at the crime scene, so I’m unable to determine which load was used, therefore this is a moot point.”

Both detectives looked at each other, shaking their head, not even pretending to comprehend the finer details. Robert continued. “The full size Glock 37 pistol was introduced by the manufacturer to use the 45 GAP cartridge. After inspecting the few rifling marks remaining on the bullet in question, it’s my belief the round was fired from a Glock 37.” Pausing, he straightened before turning to face them. “I’m ninety percent certain.”

Ballard patted Robert on the back. “Your ninety percent is as good as one hundred percent from the average Firearm Examiner, which you most certainly are not. That’s good enough for us Bob.”

Robert pretended not to be chuffed by Ballard’s comment, but couldn’t contain a broad grin. “I saw the Crime Scene photos of the victim and by the powder burns on his forehead the shot was fired from less than a metre. The medical examiner will confirm that. This is simply an off the top of my head observation.” With that he broke into an almost maniacal cackle.

Punching both men on the arm he chuckled, “Get it? Off the top of my head… ” His voice trailed away as he saw they were less than amused by his crude pun.

He reverted back to business. “What is concerning is the fact the bullet was a hollow point.” He again tapped a forefinger on the screen. “See the fragmentation around the leading edge? I don’t have to draw a picture for either of you what this means. It’s clear the shooter wanted his victim to stay dead, first shot.”

John agreed. “Thanks Robert. This confirms what the Crime Scene guys suggested earlier. The shooter is a very, very nasty piece of work. When you get a minute, would you email the results through to me, along with the photos. Oh and yes, ‘off the top of my head’ was funny, sort of.”

Robert laughed. “Always a pleasure doing business with you guys.” He suddenly looked serious. “I just hope you catch the bastard before he knocks over someone else.”

Ballard smiled grimly. “We’ll do our best Robert. Thanks again.”

After shaking hands, Ballard and John headed out into the corridor.

“Jeez Mike. Let’s invite Robert to Delwyn’s Christmas party. He’d be a real hoot.”

Ballard grinned. “I may well do that. I’m sure he and Delwyn would get on like a house on fire… not! Ok, let’s check out the chair Mario was standing on before he went off the side.”

They headed further along the corridor to the Exhibit Collation Unit. On entering, they were confronted by a secure glassed area behind which sat a very attractive, auburn haired lady in her mid to late thirties. John let out a soft whistle and ignoring Ballard, fronted up to the counter, introducing himself.

Ballard stood back, allowing John his space, knowing that despite the involuntary flirting, he would establish a rapport that may come in useful in the future should a favour be required.

In no time the lady handed John an inventory sheet to sign before disappearing into one of the storage bays. He looked back, flashing a triumphant smile. “Sonia. Thirty-nine, you have to admit she looks younger. Divorced. Plus, as soon as I ask she’ll be accompanying me tomorrow night to the steak house I go to in Ivanhoe.” He broke into a spontaneous jive.

“You’re joking.”

“Nup. In the bag my man. Twenty bucks says so.”

“You’re on.”

When Sonia returned, she was holding a very ordinary wooden chair wrapped in protective plastic with an identification tag attached to it. Smiling at John she opened the door and placed the chair in front of both men before returning behind the screen.

Ballard flattened the plastic on the chair’s seat to obtain a clearer view of its surface. Within seconds he saw what he was looking for. The white paint covering the entire chair was scuffed in a number of circular patterns consistent with a shoe rotating on the seat’s surface under pressure.

“Yep… just as I thought. The poor bastard was strung up to the point where only the balls of his feet were touching the chair, probably while the shooter threatened him repeatedly. I can see at least eight or nine separate rotations where the guy was twisting away from the killer. Christ, who wouldn’t, thinking he was about to get his head blown off?”

John stepped in for a closer inspection. “The Crime Scene video has been sent to the office. We’ll have a look when we get back. I’ll bet Mario’s shoes were industrial and we can run tests later to see if the rotation marks match. That of course raises the question, why was he still wearing them at 1.30 a.m. in the morning?”

Ballard rubbed his forehead. “The more we dig, the more I’m convinced the killer was after information or a confession out of Mario, then, when he got what he wanted, or didn’t get it, he blew his head off.” He picked up the chair and was about to attract Sonia’s attention when John snatched it from his grasp.

“Not so fast China. I’ll take it from here. Go write up a few notes or something for a minute or two.”

Ballard smiled at Sonia as he stepped away from the glass partition. John engaged her in conversation then warmly shook her hand before walking over to Ballard. The grin on his face said it all. As both men stepped into the corridor Ballard took out his wallet, extracting a twenty dollar note. Handing it to John he muttered, “Unbelievable. I hope she knows what she’s getting into.”

John retorted. “No, but she’s about to find out.”

This provoked a laugh from Ballard who knew that behind the cheeky exterior John treated women like goddesses, worshipping the ground they walked on. It was a characteristic that had often left him vulnerable and at times even broken hearted. Ballard hoped it wouldn’t be the case this time.

Walking out of the building after waving to Frank at reception, they got into the police car and sat for a minute, each in deep thought. Ballard was the first to break the silence. “We’re building a picture of this bastard which keeps getting nastier. What’s disturbing is nothing’s leading us to him, assuming it is a male. Have forensics found DNA on the rope other than Mario’s?”

“Too early Mike. I’ve put a priority on it, but by the same token I don’t want the buggers missing anything either. Fingerprints lifted from the crime scene are going through NAFIS for a nationwide match. We may get lucky.” He didn’t sound hopeful. “Anyway, at least we now know a Glock may have been used, so we can start searching the Licensing Services database for everyone registered with one and any that are stolen. Let’s hope that allows us to narrow the possibilities from there.” Looking glum he added, “Assuming the killer was brain dead and used a registered firearm.”

Ballard clipped his seat belt. “Time to get our sugar levels up old son. Full speed to the office kind sir.” Despite the obvious perils of suggesting a swift drive back to work, Ballard felt his hunger pains warranted the gamble.