Thankfully, Walter’s voice pulled her from the brink. He had launched into a forensics spiel as if he were at a cocktail party talking about the weather and munching on pigs in a blanket.
“He took two to the chest, but the shot to the eye killed him.” He pointed to the fatal bullet hole as if she could miss it. “There’s stippling marks around the entry wound. Judging by that tight array of tiny hemorrhages, I’d say the shooter had to be up close and personal, no more than two feet away.”
“But far enough away to leave those marks, right?” Sam’s natural curiosity took over.
“Yeah. If our killer had put the gun barrel up against the vic’s head, hot gases and particulates would have gone directly into the skin and charred it. Plus, the impact would have torn a starlike pattern around the wound. But see? There’s no tearing or charred skin, only this distinctive tattoo effect.”
Walters continued, “And from the trajectory, I’d say the shooter stood over the vic as he lay on the ground. We’re recreating what might have happened, but judging by the blood splatter and cast-off, that’s my theory.”
“So whoever did this stared down at him, then pulled the trigger. That feels personal to me.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Hell, if I was Lucas Baker, I’d take it real personal.” The man chuckled, but Sam found it hard to fake any amusement.
“What caliber?”
The man zipped the body bag as he replied, “From the entry and exit wound, I’d say .45-caliber.”
“You find any casings? A bullet for comparison?”
“No shell casings so far, but we retrieved a round embedded in the asphalt. The fatal shot cleared the skull. Not sure we’ll get much, given the condition of the bullet, but a Firearms ID tech may tell us more. In autopsy, the M.E. will recover what’s in his body. And we’re still working the crime scene. We could get lucky.”
“So, you got any theories on what happened?”
“Between what witnesses have told us, we can piece together what happened and compare it to blood evidence, but no one saw the shooter’s face and we’ve got varying reports of height, weight, you name it. A couple of ’em swear they saw two people. One might’ve been a woman who drove from the scene, but that’s up to the investigator to figure out.”
Walters went over the crime scene and pointed out the blood evidence to support his speculative theories. Evidence techs had recorded every drop and splatter of blood with a yellow numbered marker with digital photos taken of each one.
Sam nodded, but as she thought more about the setup at the rink, she wondered something more basic.
“The vic was ID’d as Lucas Baker. How did they determine that?”
“They ID’d him from his driver’s license. He still had his wallet loaded with cash, so the shooting wasn’t a mugging.”
“Anything else on the body?” she asked.
“Actually, now that you mention it, I think they found a note in his pocket.”
Sam flinched at the news. “Can I see it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Walters stepped over to the Mobile Crime Lab and disappeared inside. When he came out, he carried a plastic evidence bag with a piece of paper clearly visible. As soon as Sam saw it, she recognized the handwriting. Jess had written the note, but her name didn’t appear anywhere on the paper. Her heart throttled into high gear but she kept her voice steady.
“I recognize the address of this place, but what’s the number written beneath it?” she asked.
“A locker number…inside. The manager of the rink said Baker had a key to one of the lockers.”
“Wait a minute. You mean he had the key going in?”
“Yeah, he had it with him heading in, but coming out, he’d left it behind. According to the manager, Baker pulled out a black bag, but the guy never got a good look at it. And so far, no one’s found the bag. The shooter might’ve taken it. It’s the only lead we have for motivation.”
“Interesting.” She nodded, trying to act nonchalant.
But the case had taken a turn for the worse. Would they find Jess’s fingerprints on the locker key? On the note? And what did Jess have to do with Baker and this black bag? Sam knew how the investigation would go, and she had a strong suspicion that the clock was ticking on her friend’s freedom, especially if a couple of witnesses swore they saw a woman. She had no time to lose if she intended to get at the truth enough to help Jess—if that were even possible.
“Thanks for your time, Greg. Here’s my card.” She handed him her business card. “If you learn anything new, I’d appreciate a call.”
“How are you involved in this case again?” he finally asked. “You’re over at Harrison Station, right?”
Her smile had gone a long way to distract Walters until now.
“Yeah, and Lucas Baker was an informant. I’ve got a personal interest in the case.” She didn’t exactly lie. “I’ll be making a few notes before I call it a night, but you’ve been a big help. Thanks again, Greg.” She touched the man’s sleeve and smiled again.
Walters grinned and got back to work, leaving her alone to make her final notes. She made a quick diagram of the crime scene, estimating distances and detailing the locations of the building and parked cars in relation to the body.
From across the parking lot, Detective Ray Garza eyeballed her. She did a double take when she noticed those dark eyes staring back. Any other time she might have appreciated his interest, but she felt more like the mouse to his tail-swishing cat. Garza was savvy. Once he got his teeth into something, the man had an unparalleled taste for blood when it came to criminals. And right now Jess might satisfy his need.
Sam yanked off her latex gloves and stuffed them into a pocket before heading to her car, unable to look Detective Garza in the eye as she left the crime scene. Her friend had no idea that her world was about to shatter, but Sam knew.
With Garza on the case, it was only a matter of time.
The question was: How far would she go to help a friend she loved like a sister? At the moment, she couldn’t answer that question. She only hoped that whatever Jessie had going on, it would be worth it.
The man Ivana had called her father took Nikki by the arm and pulled her into a waiting room, keeping hold of her while he hit a buzzer on the far wall near a door. It didn’t take long for two men to arrive. They took charge of Nikki and her duffel bag. When she turned around, Ivana and her so-called father were gone. The men, who would be her keepers, hauled her down a long corridor without saying a word.
From the outside, the underground facility looked like an old abandoned warehouse, but inside, the lower vault surprised her. It was like a maze, dimly lit corridors fanning out, with intermittent doors leading to many rooms.
“Where are you taking me?” She tried to resist, but they tightened their grip on her arms and yanked her along. “Please…you’re hurting me.”
As they walked, Nikki tried to memorize the layout, hoping she’d find a way out. But when she caught glimpses of other kids escorted under guard, she lost the last of her defiance. They looked as frightened as she was, and it scared her. What was this place? The men took her to the end of a hallway and pushed her into a dark room. Up ahead, a solitary lightbulb hung low. Her handlers navigated through the murky room, but she knew the spotlight was meant for her. When they shoved her under the light, she squinted and raised a hand to block the glare, but one of the men smacked her arm down.
Nikki shook all over, partly from the cold, but mostly from fear. And she felt sick to her stomach. While she was held in place under the spotlight, faceless strangers pawed through her things, dumping her clothes to the floor at her feet. In the room, she felt the presence of others and heard their low voices murmuring in the background, but they stayed hidden in the shadows. She had no idea how many. Their voices echoed in the large chamber, sounding as if they came from everywhere at once.
But eventually one voice stood out from the rest.
“Take off your clothes,” the man demanded.
Nikki gasped and struggled against their hold on her. “Please,” she begged.
She heard footsteps approach, but the man remained hidden in the dark. She still couldn’t see his face.
“You will do this thing, or my men will rip them off you. And trust me, you will not want that to happen.” The man had an accent like Ivana’s. Russian, she guessed.
