Black Water (4 page)

"How many times is once in a while?"

Jones considered. "Twice in six months."

"When was the last time?"

"Yesterday afternoon, around three. I was pulling weeds. It was coming from their yard."

"What was?"

"Yelling. Mostly her. Gwen yelling but Archie quieter. He wasn’t saying much."

"Who said what?"

"I couldn't make out a single word. Just two people arguing. I went back in and got another beer. I can't stand couples fighting. Worst sound in the world. Reminds me of my ex."

They thanked him but Jones just stood there and stared at the Wildcraft home.

Merci looked at the little crowd forming outside the yellow ribbon that sealed off the driveway. She and Zamorra took a few minutes to walk over and find out what they had seen and heard: nothing. She got names and addresses and phone numbers for later, just in case.

They started back toward the house. One of the CSIs slowly walked the side of the driveway—long strides, head steady, cap down low-staring hard at the concrete. To Merci he looked like her father use to, working the East Walker for trout.

She stopped and watched him. She liked his focus and intensity. "Paul, I think we should get that black Caddy to all Southern Cal enforcement—first two letters OM. I know it's late. I know it might be nothing. I know Jones drinks his breakfast. But it's worth the try,

"I'll make the call, Merci." Zamorra hesitated. "You think Archie might be our guy here?"

"I hope not."

In the last year Zamorra had become a department suicide counselor. Merci had heard good things about some of Paul's work, though he'd hardly said two sentences about it.

"What do you think, Paul?"

"I want to talk to his friends. Family, if he's got any. First I'll have Gilliam send a tech to the hospital. We should do a GSR collection on Wildcraft before they clean him up. And get his robe for blood samples."

Gunshot residue, thought Merci. They'd do an adhesive lift, then swab and dissolution. If they came up with barium, lead or antimony, that was a strong indicator that Wildcraft had fired a gun. If they found residue
and
Gwen's flesh and blood on Archie's robe or hands, look out.

Though Wildcraft could have been at the range that day, she thought, practicing with his service weapon. He could have been close to her when she was shot by someone else, taken off running and made it outside.

Or he might have gotten off a round at the guy who shot him.

"Good."

Merci stood in the tunnel of trees and looked down at the bloodstains left by Wildcraft. She had expected more volume from a head-shot adult who was still alive. Still, the amount was substantial. Most of it had pooled, indicating that he wasn't moving much. Zamorra stood slightly behind her because the walkway was too narrow for both to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Behind Zamorra were Crowder and Dobbs.

"Archie was on his back," said Crowder. "Arms more to his sides than out. Like he never had time to even get them up, just fell right where he was. Wasn't moving at all that I could see. His head was away from us, his feet toward us."

Rayborn squatted in front of the pistol lying not far from the blood. An S&W automatic, she saw—a nine millimeter. Four feet from the gun lay a long black flashlight, the head of it on the walk and the body in the dirt. The light was off.

"Where on his head was he shot?" she asked.

"I'm not positive he
was
shot. I couldn't tell with all the blood and hair. I wanted to slow it down so I wrapped his head in my windbreaker. I didn't see any wound. I thought maybe through the eye. But at one point he opened them both and they looked okay that way."

"Did he say anything?"

"No. Pupils huge, way down in shock."

She looked at the slope of the narrow walk and figured that Wildcraft was facing toward the front door of the house when he was shot. The slope would have been uphill for him, sending his weight backward, which would land him as they'd found him. But for all she knew he could have been walking away from the house, fallen forward and facedown and rolled over. Or spun with the shot. Or staggered a one-eighty. Or went spastic and done something unexpected, as many gunshot victims do.

Maybe Archie will wake up in a few hours and tell us what happened, she thought. Scalps bleed a lot. Maybe the bullet took out a little meat and knocked him cold but left his brain in one piece. Maybe it bounced off.

She thought of a case she'd worked her first year on patrol, where a creep took a hit in the head with a nine millimeter and they found the slug in his thigh. It had bullied its way down there, bouncing off skull and bone, burning through muscles and cartilage, careening through solid matter like a monster out of control. Which, Rayborn thought, is basically what a bullet is once it gets inside you. The
guy
ended up fine as he ever was: they got him on a narco charge and he did time. Cortera, thought Rayborn—Reuben Cortera. That was ten years ago but Rayborn never forgot a creep's name. Never.

She stood and looked at the trees. Their trunks were a few yards back from the walk and the morning sun was still low enough to sneak in under the foliage. Still standing on the walk, she moved aside a branch and stared down at dark soil and the few violets and sparse alyssum that were scratching out a living in almost constant shade Someone had worked the area recently. There were rake marks, and a shiny new brass emitter on one of the risers.

Then she saw the two shoe prints less than a yard away. They startled her. They were side by side, facing her. Close. Clear. Big. Like someone had rested or waited there, or an invisible man was then right now, offering his hand to shake. Or pointing a gun at her head. To Archie's left, if Archie was coming up the walk that way she thought. Ten feet away she saw more prints. Many partial indentation: and apparent overlaps—signs of movement. But they were in harder soil and not as clear.

She nodded Zamorra over and he took the branch and looked in.

"Has anyone been in here?" he asked.

"No, sir," said Dobbs. "Can I see?"

Merci stood aside and let the young deputy look.

"So excellent," he said.

Crowder looked next and let out a low
hmmm.

"Ike's going to love this," she said. Ike was one of the good CSI, someone who took her side in what had happened. He was terrific with imprint casts. "Please tell him I need him here, Deputy Dobbs."

"Yes, Sergeant," he said, and walked briskly back toward the house. She couldn't tell if he was mocking her or trying to be efficient, and she didn't really care. Her heart had sped up a notch when she saw the foot imprints and it was still thumping good and hard and she thought
I'll use this cast to put your ass on the row, you big ugly bastard.

Rayborn and Crowder spent the next ten minutes looking for brass on the big footprint side of the walkway. They worked mostly from the cement—squatting and reaching out with ballpoint pens to lift the leaves of the violets and to part the downy blossoms of the alyssum. Occasionally they took a step into the foliage, keeping well away from the footprints. They looked like naturalists. Merci didn't care what they looked like as long as they got the job done. The bullet scar on her side hurt. It was eight months old now, flat and hard, like a thin piece of aluminum grown into her skin.

She glanced back once at Zamorra. He hadn't left his place on the sidewalk. He slouched, loose and still as a cat, with his back to the sun and his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants.

It was Zamorra who spotted the nine-millimeter cartridge case glinting next to a violet bloom. He pointed to it with a straight steady finger. It stood upright and poised, like a gymnast who has just finished her routine. It was ten feet from the sidewalk, opposite the footprints. Not where the big man had waited under the tree. Rayborn looked at the blood on the cement, the casing ten feet away. Right where you'd expect to find it if Wildcraft had shot himself.

Merci and Zamorra watched Ike photograph, then make casts of the good shoe imprints. He fixed the soil with hairspray to hold the loose particles, poured the plaster of paris mix over a putty knife to break its fall into the precious hollows. Then he shored them up with broke tongue depressors before filling the shallow indents to the top. When he was done, Ike sat back, lit a cigarette and waited for the casts to set up.

They watched the CSIs video, photograph and sketch the place where Archie Wildcraft had been found, treating it like the homicide--- or suicide—scene it was almost certain to become.

While they photographed and collected the brass casing, Merci called her watch captain for a condition on their wounded deputy minute-to-minute, non-responsive.

And nothing yet on a black Cadillac STS with plates that started with the letters OM.

They watched the finger printers working the bath and bedroom. Both rooms were loaded with latents, as she expected. The print tech had found a small twenty-two automatic under the sink, placed it in paper bag and set the bag on the counter for Merci. She held the bag and looked down at the shiny, heavy little weapon. Stainless finish, white-checked grips. A chick pistol. She wondered why Gwen hadn't used it. Rayborn figured the chances of Gwen Wildcraft knowing to use it were fifty-fifty.

She took the tiny autoloader over to the evidence log and thought about the gun they'd found outside, just inches from Archie Wildcraft hand. Murder-suicide weapon, or the deputy's home-protection gun? Both? Again, her stomach sank at the thought of Archie Wildcraft shooting his wife and then himself. The idea bumped the edge of her soul, like a shark nudging a swimmer. You could put this together a few different ways, she though Wildcraft heard the rock come through his window. He got his flashlight and his sidearm, went to check it out. And when he came down the walkway the big bastard standing under the tree put a bullet in his brain, took the deputy's nine, went inside and got Gwen. Then put Archie's gun back in his hand. It sounded like a tall tale.

Or this: the rock was already there, heaved in a rage earlier by either husband or wife—the fight that William Jones had heard that afternoon, the incident that finally let out the demons. Police science writers would call it the precipitating stressor. Something to do with her birthday maybe. Archie boiled until his wife was getting ready for bed. She took the phone into the bath and locked the door. Felt safe. But he crashed the door and shot her so fast the cell phone flew from her hand before she could push 911. Then he went outside, staggered around, and finally took care of himself.

She went back out to the driveway. The cars were gone. She noted the news vans parked on the street—two networks and two locals. The number of curious neighbors had doubled, mostly due to kids on scooters. The moist, late-August heat sent waves up from the roof of William Jones's garage.

She paced the big rectangle of new concrete, knelt to examine a rough spot in the finish, thought of the woman in the bathroom with the bullet holes in her.

The driveway floodlights were tucked up under the eave of the garage. Rayborn stood under them and looked up at the sunlight/motion detector module. She got out her blue notebook and wrote
CK mot det after dark.

What set off the motion detector? Jones had seen the lights on at five-eleven but Crowder had seen them off three minutes later. Neither had seen a car in the drive.

She walked back around the house to the glass door where the rock had gone through. She didn't see any rocks like it, no rocks at all, in fact, except for very large round gray stones that were set in concrete around a whirlpool. Besides that, there was a small covered patio with a cafe table and two chairs, some potted plants, a lap pool, a little section of bright green lawn, then a slope of late-season wildflowers leading down to a white post-and-rail fence. A path made of railway ties led through the flowers and Merci followed it. There was gravel between the ties, and the flowers grew right up to the edges of the wood and the stones. Bees hummed from bloom to bloom and for two seconds Merci felt like she'd entered scene from one of Tim Jr.'s Winnie-the-Pooh stories. She thought of her boy and wished she could walk with him into one of those scene and stay there for a year or two.

She went all the way down to the fence, then back to the patio without finding a rock you could throw through a window. She wondered if it had come from Wildcraft's collection of viewing stones What a view that one had, she thought.

Zamorra was sitting at the cafe table, legs crossed, staring at the hole in the glass.

"Let's walk it tomorrow," he said.

"All right."

"We'll know by then if Archie fired the gun or not."

"Yeah."

He studied her with his unsettling calm. "Stay open, Merci. He might have done it."

"I know. I will. I'm trying."

Merci thought how easy it was to be wrong. She knew how wrong she'd been about a deputy named Mike McNally, and the terrible price they had both paid. Mike was part of what had happened a year age the heart of it. So she said nothing more. Because even if she was wrong now—even if she was being fooled by her heart, as she'd bee so spectacularly fooled before—at least it was speaking to her again