detectives of the 'golden rule' for investigators as stated by Hans Gross in System der Kriminalistik back in 1906: 'Never alter the position of, pick up, or even touch any object before it has been minutely described in an official note and a photograph taken.'
The efficiency of this crime-scene investigation was due, Ness knew, to the man in charge, Sergeant Martin Merlo, the somber, professorial detective whose primary ongoing assignment was the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run case. Two other detectives were present as well, one of them notating a crime-scene floor plan on a clipboard, the other making detailed field notes in a small notebook. And several uniformed officers were posted at the street and in back of the house, keeping out the curious.
'You know Sam Wild,' Ness said, gesturing behind him with one hand, taking off his fedora with the other.
'Yes,' Merlo said indifferently, aware that the safety director cut a lot of slack to the press in general and Wild in particular.
'Where's Mrs. Whitehall?'
'She's in the bedroom,' Merlo said. He was a thin middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses. 'There's a doctor with her, a fellow who lives a few doors down. They sent for him even before they called the police.'
'And the children?'
'Whitehall has a brother in town. He and his wife came over and picked the kids up and are taking care of them.' Merlo made a clicking sound in his cheek. 'Poor lads looked awful-not crying, just stunned, white as little ghosts.'
'Give me a reading of the situation.'
'Well, we have a witness.'
'Good.'
'But not much of one.'
'Oh?' Ness's eyes were fixed on the chalk outline on the floor; the outline looked ridiculously large, but then, Whitehall had been a big man.
'Fellow who lives upstairs,' Merlo explained. 'He has a wife and a teenage daughter, but they were at the movies tonight. He heard the shots, looked out the window, and saw a figure running toward the street, getting in a car parked in front of the Whitehall house. The car drove north on East Boulevard.'
'Did he get a look at the guy?'
'No. No physical description except a big man in a raincoat, collar up.'
'License plate number?'
'No.'
'Did he describe the car?'
'A dark sedan.'
'That's it? No make? No color?'
'No. You might want to talk to him yourself.'
Ness sighed. 'And the neighbors on either side?'
'Nothing. They heard the noise, of course. They say they thought it was a car backfiring.'
Ness looked at Wild, who rolled his eyes.
'That's one way of not getting involved,' Ness said glumly. 'Well, you've done a good job of preserving the crime scene, Sergeant.'
'Thanks. We staked off the front yard; ground's a little damp from that rain yesterday, but I don't think we're going to find any footprints. The gunman came up the front walk, onto the porch, and fired a volley through the window there. Then he went back the way he came.'
Ness had a closer look, stepping carefully around the chalk outline and squeezing next to the easy chair, which angled away from the southernmost of four windows looking out on the porch. Blood was spattered on the teeth of glass remaining in the window. Strands of Whitehall's hair clung to the sheer curtains.
'Ballistics make an I.D. yet?' Ness asked.
'Cowley is still here; he's got a big job, with all these slugs. Want to talk to him?'
'Yes.'
Leaving Merlo and Wild inside, Ness found Cowley, a plump, pleasant man of about thirty-five with reddish- blond, thinning hair, on the porch using a tape measure to pinpoint the location of the various shell casings. He was making field notes and then picking up each shell casing with the pencil he was taking notes with, before dropping each casing into small, individual manila evidence envelopes. It was a tedious process, but Cowley didn't seem to mind. One of the top ballistics experts on the department, Cowley had been handpicked by Ness himself.
'David,' Ness said. 'What do we have here?'
Cowley stood, smiled a greeting, holding up a cartridge casing on his pencil. 'Forty-five caliber. Machine gun- look at the number of casings, and the direction and the force with which they've been ejected. Judging by the pattern of the breech face marks on the cartridge, the firing-pin marks, the characteristic bulge of the cartridge, I'd say probably a Thompson.'
'Only one weapon?'
'So far that's all I've identified. Wasn't one weapon enough?'
Ness pointed at the cartridge riding the pencil. 'I want you to compare those to the casings from the Gordon's restaurant shooting.'
'Fine,' Cowley said, nodding. 'Any connection besides machine guns used in both?'
'You tell me.'
Cowley nodded. 'I won't get to it till tomorrow. I'm going to be here awhile.'
Ness nodded. He well knew that Cowley had hours ahead of him here. When the ballistics man was finished on the porch, he would have to move inside and begin dealing with the spent bullets in the walls and elsewhere. Each slug would have to be removed from its point of impact, the location of which would have to be logged; this procedure, too, was tedious, as care had to be taken so that the cutting instrument Cowley used did not ruin identifying characteristics on the soft metal of the spent bullets.
Ness went back inside, about to join Merlo and Wild in conversation, when a somber man about fifty, in shirtsleeves, pushing up his wire-framed glasses on his sweaty brow, came out from the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
'Is Mr. Ness here?' the man said.
'I'm Ness.'
'Mrs. Whitehall would like to see you.'
'And you are?'
'Dr. Spencer. I'm the family doctor.'
Ness nodded and walked toward the hall, but the doctor touched him on the arm, halting him. With a tortured expression, the doctor said, 'She's insisting, but don't stay long. She's really very upset.'
'Understandably.'
'I'd like to sedate her, but she won't allow it until she's talked to you.'
Ness nodded again.
Mrs. Whitehall, her pretty face devoid of makeup, her complexion white, her eyes red, sat up in the bed, covers at her waist. She had an oddly blank look.
'Close the door, Mr. Ness.'
Ness did.
He stood at her bedside. 'I'm dreadfully sorry for-'
She raised a hand in a stop motion. She was staring straight ahead, into the darkness at the edges of the barely lit room.
'He was so gentle tonight,' she said. 'Tucking the girls in. Kissing them good night.'
Ness said nothing.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and hollow. 'Jack was doing something for you, wasn't he?'
Ness hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
'Helping you.'
'Yes.'
