Dark Room by Andrea Kane

a Walther PPK found, which ballistics matched up with the two bullets in Jack Winter and the one bullet in his wife. Jack was shot execution style—facedown, two bullets to the back of his head. There are obvious signs of a struggle; overturned chairs, a scattered stack of two-by-fours, construction buckets knocked around. Lara Winter was shot once in the side.”
    “That’s why there’s so much blood and organ damage.” Lane was studying the close-up photos of Lara’s body and the scaled photo of her bullet wound.
    “Yeah, the perp did a good job of blowing out her insides. Judging from her position—twisted to the right with that two-by-four next to her body—she tried to defend herself. He shot her while she was swinging.”Monty indicated the wood board lying a few feet away from Lara’s crumpled body. “Her fingerprints were on the two-by-four. My guess is she grabbed the board either to try stopping the guy from waling on her husband, or to fend him off when he turned the gun on her. The bullet struck her from about ten feet away. Jack was shot at a much closer range.”
    Lane pursed his lips, glancing from the initial photos to the others, taken after the bodies had been shifted and photographed from other angles. “A struggle? I’d say there was more of a knock-down, drag-out fight. Jack Winter’s face is a mess.”
    “That’s misleading. I’m sure he and the perp exchanged punches, but most of the gashes and gouged-out holes you see on his face came from his impact with the floor. Like I said, the place was a dump—broken chunks of cement, stones, pieces of wood, you name it. The M.E. found a contusion on the left side of Jack’s head; the imprint was from the Walther PPK. So Jack must have lunged at the perp, catching him off guard. The perp would instinctively take his first swing while he was still clutching the gun, so it clipped Jack’s head, then went flying. They fought. At some point Jack either fell or was shoved down on his face. The perp pinned him down, recovered the gun, and shot him.”
    “Execution style—that’s why you thought this was personal,” Lane mused.
    “It usually is, with that scenario. On the other hand, could it have been coincidental? A robbery gone bad? Sure.” Monty gave a grunt of disgust. “What else can I tell you? Judging by the angle and shape of the contusion and the fact that it was on the left side of Jack’s head, we know the perp was right-handed—just like ninety percent of the rest of the world.”
    “And sometime during this struggle, Lara tried to save her husband and/or herself by grabbing the two-by-four and swinging at the assailant.”
    “Getting herself shot to death in the process.”
    “What about the gun? Was it ever recovered?”
    “Nope. Of course, Schiller claimed to have dumped it in the river. But since his confession was bogus, so was his story about the murder weapon. So where the gun is now is anyone’s guess.”
    Lane acknowledged that with a nod. “Moving on, we have blood splatter and blood on the victims’ clothing. Jewelry and wallets missing. What about fingerprints? Did you find any that were distinguishable?”
    “Just the victims’. And even those were smudged, other than the ones on the two-by-four, which were definitely Lara’s. There were a bunch of footprints, most too blurry to make out. Remember, it was cold and snowy that December. The shelter was heated. Which meant we found lots of melted snow puddles, and lots of rats. Not exactly the best conditions for pulling physical evidence. The few footprints we could make out—not counting the victims’—belonged to a size-ten men’s Dunham Waffle Stomper. A popular men’s shoe size, and a popular hiking boot. Plus no guarantee it belonged to the perp.” Monty grimaced. “What better, more ironic proof than the fact that Nate Schiller owned a pair.”
    “Talk about being screwed,” Lane muttered. “There you were, dead in the water