Second Chance

Chapter 35

THE DAVIDSON MURDER changed everything.

A bold headline in the Chronicle shouted, MURDERED COP THOUGHT TO BE THIRD IN TERROR SPREE." The front-page article, with Cindy's byline, cited the accurate, long-range rifle shots and also the symbol used by active hate groups that had been found at the scenes.

I headed down to the CSU lab and found Charlie Clapper curled up behind a metal desk, wearing a lab coat, munching on a breakfast of Doritos chips. His salt-and-pepper hair was oily and tousled, and his eyes sagged like heavy bags. “I've slept at this desk twice this week.” He scowled. “Doesn't anyone get killed during the day anymore?”

“In case you didn't notice, I haven't been getting my normal beauty rest the last week either.” I shrugged. "C'mon, Charlie, I need something on this Davidson thing. He's killing our own guys.

“I know he is.” The rotund CSU man sighed. He hoisted himself up and shuffled over to a counter. He picked up a small zip-lock sandwich bag with a dark, flattened bullet in it.

“Here's your slug, Lindsay. Took it out of the wall behind where Art Davidson got dropped. One shot. Lights out. Check with Claire if you like. The sonofabitch can definitely shoot.”

I lifted up the shell and tried to pull a reading.

“Forty caliber,” Clapper said. “My first read is that it's from a PSG-One.”

I frowned. “You're sure about this, Charlie?” Tasha Catchings had been killed with an M16.

He pointed toward a scope. "Be my guest, Lieutenant. I figure ballistics must be a lifelong study of yours.

“I didn't mean that, Charlie. I was just hoping for a match on the Catchings girl.”

“Reese is still working on it,” he said, grabbing a chip out of the Doritos bag. “But don't bet on it. This guy was clean, Lindsay. Just like at the church. No prints, nothing left behind. The tape machine's standard, could've been bought anywhere. Set off by a long-distance remote control. We even traced what we thought to be his route up there through the building and dusted everything from the railings to the window locks. We did turn up one thing... ” “What's that?” I.

He walked me over to a lab counter. “Partial sneaker print. Off the tar on the roof where the shots came from. Looks like a standard shoe. But we did take out some traces of a fine white powder. No guarantees it even came from him.”

Powder?"

“Charlie,” Charlie said. “That narrows it down to about fifty million possibilities. If this guy's signing his pictures, Lindsay, he's making it tough to find.” “He signed it, Charlie,” I said with conviction. “It was the shot.”

“We're sending the nine-one-one tape out for a voice reading. I'll let you know when we get it back.”

I patted him appreciatively. “Get some sleep, Charlie.”

He lifted the Doritos bag. “Sure, I will. After breakfast.”