said, “Explain something to me, Lieutenant.”
“If I can, sure.”
“What do you possibly … hope to accomplish by digging up Harlan aka Hart’s past? He’s dead. I thought analyzing nutcases was the bailiwick of shrinks, not cops.”
Man had a point. Decker’s job was cleaning up the crime scene, not doing psychiatric Monday morning quarterbacking. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he was there … trying to make sense out of the incomprehensible.
Decker said, “This was a horrible event. A very big case with lots of publicity, lots of questions and finger-pointing. LAPD has a vested interest in tying up loose ends.”
Fine was incredulous. “That’s it? You take time away from my business to grill me … just to tie up loose ends?”
“Yes, sir, that’s exactly right. I’m tying up loose ends. You know why, Mr. Fine? Because you leave a loose end hanging around, the sucker has an annoying tendency to unravel.”
Marge knocked on Decker’s doorjamb, walked through the open door to his office. “A one eighty-seven came in while you were gone—a domestic turned nasty. Wife took the bullet between her eyes. I was in court, so Oliver and Martinez caught the call. If you want, I can go join them.”
Decker frowned, took off his reading glasses. “Why didn’t someone page me?”
“We did,” Marge said. “You didn’t answer.”
“What?” Decker checked his pager. “What the …” He stared at the blank window, flicked his middle finger against the instrument. When nothing happened, he tossed it on his desk. “Remind me to pick up a new one from Bessie. Tell me the details.”
“Husband and wife were slugging down shooters when the altercation broke out. A neighbor heard them arguing, didn’t think too much of it.”
“Frequent occurrence.”
“Yeah, except this time the husband … his name is Meryl Tobias … went psycho. Showed up at the neighbor’s door—gun in his hand—bawling like a baby. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it. The neighbor called nine one one. The rest is …” She threw up her hands. “His blood alcohol was over point-two-o. Hers wasn’t much lower. What a waste!”
Decker glanced at the clock. “It’s almost four. We’ve all been working overtime. Pack it in, Detective.”
Marge sat down, dropped her head in her hands. “Honestly, Pete, I’m all right. Just give me an assignment that doesn’t involve counting bullets.”
Decker smiled. “How’s it coming?”
“I wouldn’t have made a good accountant.”
“Why?” Decker’s interest suddenly perked up. “You’ve got discrepancies?”
“I don’t know yet.” Marge lifted her head. “Because we’re not through. So far we’ve recovered an awful lot of shells for one shooter … even if the shooter was using a double automatic.”
“Interesting.” Decker started making notes. “Tell me.”
Marge was thoughtful. “We picked up lots of strays, Pete. In the walls, in the floor, in the furniture. Which puzzled Scott. He mentioned the same point that you did yesterday. That mass murderers often hunt their victims. Part of the thrill.”
“But that wasn’t what happened,” Decker said.
“No, not according to witnesses. The killer just sprayed the place.”
No one spoke. Then Marge said, “You know, it’s a miracle that more people didn’t die.”
“How many bullets did you recover?”
“So far enough to account for around … ten, maybe twelve magazines. We’ve found eight empty cartridges.”
“About a hundred and fifty rounds upward. And Harlan’s shooting time was what … three to six minutes?”
“It’s possible to peel off twelve rounds in a double automatic in six minutes if you’re not aiming at anything. But you’d have to work quickly. Go in and blast the place and hope the sucker doesn’t jam.”
Marge studied Decker, reading his face not as her boss but as her ex-partner.
“You’ve got something on your mind, big guy?”
“Just speculation.” Decker began to doodle. “Doesn’t amount to much.” Marge pushed hair out of her eyes, stared at him with purpose. “Out with it.”
“I’ve been going over some of the prelim autopsy reports on the victims.” Decker paused. “I’m … disconcerted by them.”
“What in particular?”
“The bullet trajectories. People at the same table being hit with shots at different angles.”
“They were probably facing in different directions.”
“I took that into consideration. Still, there are things that don’t make sense.” Decker spread out several police photographs. “For instance, look at this couple. Victims numbers nine and ten—Linda and Ray Garrison.”
Marge’s eyes swept over the snapshots. She winced.
“The couple was seated … here.” Decker showed Marge a floor plan of Estelle’s. “Right here. At table number fifteen. I figure they must have been among the first to be hit because they died in their seats. Didn’t even have enough time to duck under the table.”
Marge studied the prints. “They weren’t really close to the entrance to the restaurant.”
“About a hundred feet away. If the shooting took place as soon as Harlan entered the place, they should have realized what was going on … had enough time to duck or run for cover.”
“Which may mean that the shooting broke out closer to them.”
“Or possibly they both just froze,” Decker added. “Anyway, look at the photograph. They died in their chairs, sitting opposite each other, slumped over the table. Both of them … riddled with holes. On the surface, no difference. Except Forensics tells us an alternate story. The bullets entered Linda Garrison’s back and exited through her chest. Mr. Garrison was also shot from back to front.”
Decker paused.
“Think about it, Margie. If Harlan was shooting from one position—say he stood in back of Mr. Garrison—the bullets would have entered Garrison’s back and exited Garrison’s chest. Agreed?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“Those
