I’m sure. But that’s the nut of it all.”
“The handgun in his kit says that’s not all of it,” Estelle said quietly.
“Ah…the gun.” He ducked his head in acquiescence. “Now you’re right about that.” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken, you may have some answers about that when Mears is finished processing the damn thing.
That
I’d like to hear.”
Chapter Eleven
“Some clear prints.” Sheriff Robert Torrez passed to the undersheriff first a card bearing Freddy Romero’s finger prints lifted by Perrone at the morgue, and then a latent print collection. “Freddy didn’t make any effort to keep his prints off the gun.”
“I can’t imagine why he would,” Estelle replied. She studied the card, blinking to clear tired eyes. The clock on the office wall read nearly nine thirty, and she had already fielded a second call from George Romero a couple hours earlier. She’d managed to convince Romero that a visit to the crash site would serve them both far better in the fresh light of morning. He and Tata had settled instead for a visit to the morgue, a brief moment that would keep them sleepless for the rest of the night. Perrone had been there, had been gentle and thoughtful, allowing them only to see their son’s face.
Tata Romero had been unable to ask questions other than
why
, a word she repeated a dozen times. Estelle had no answer. George Romero’s face was set in grim lines, and at one point, as they left the hospital, had asked, “What do you know?”
Estelle had been almost honest in her answer, erring only in being deliberately incomplete. She hadn’t mentioned the handgun found on the ATV.
“Kind of interesting,” Torrez continued. “The gun had a round chambered, but wasn’t decocked.” He slid the heavy automatic across to Estelle. Sgt. Tom Mears had spent considerable time with the gun, retrieving whatever evidence he could. The sum total was several smudgy prints, all belonging to Freddy Romero.
“Freddy wrapped the gun in that cloth, with one round in the chamber, hammer cocked, ready to go,” Estelle said. “He didn’t try to unload it, and I doubt that he fired it.”
“Looks like.” The sheriff hefted a sealed plastic envelope and displayed a handful of stubby .40 S&W cartridges. “The gun has a ten round magazine. You could add one in the chamber, and that would make eleven. We recovered nine. One was in the chamber, eight in the magazine. All Speer Gold Dot. Mears is processing a couple of prints that might work for us.”
“So it could have been fired once, or maybe twice, depending on how it was loaded.” Estelle took a moment to mull the sheriff’s shorthand explanation.
“Could have been fired a thousand times, far as that goes,” Torrez said. “But that’s what was
in
the gun when we found it in Freddy’s carry-all…cocked, with one in the pipe, eight more in the magazine.”
Estelle gazed at the stubby, heavy automatic, then picked it up and thumbed the decocker lever. The cocked hammer snapped down, but the large, rotating bar of the decocker mechanism prevented the hammer from striking the firing pin. The gun then could be carried safely with a chambered round, hammer down. Then snap the decocker up, leaving the gun in double-action mode, and all the shooter had to do was pull the trigger. When the gun fired, the hammer was cocked by the slide slamming backward, and would remain that way, cocked and ready to fire, unless the decocker was activated.
“I can think of a hundred ways Freddy could have come to grief with this,” she said. “Not the least of which is having it bounce around in the carrier of that ATV, charged and ready to go.”
“Odds are slim that it would go off by itself,” Torrez said. “Slim and none. But then he gets home with it…”
“
That
thought gives me the willies. I didn’t mention it to George Romero yet. I wanted to know more before I did that.”
The sheriff nodded. “So instead
“The handgun in his kit says that’s not all of it,” Estelle said quietly.
“Ah…the gun.” He ducked his head in acquiescence. “Now you’re right about that.” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken, you may have some answers about that when Mears is finished processing the damn thing.
That
I’d like to hear.”
Chapter Eleven
“Some clear prints.” Sheriff Robert Torrez passed to the undersheriff first a card bearing Freddy Romero’s finger prints lifted by Perrone at the morgue, and then a latent print collection. “Freddy didn’t make any effort to keep his prints off the gun.”
“I can’t imagine why he would,” Estelle replied. She studied the card, blinking to clear tired eyes. The clock on the office wall read nearly nine thirty, and she had already fielded a second call from George Romero a couple hours earlier. She’d managed to convince Romero that a visit to the crash site would serve them both far better in the fresh light of morning. He and Tata had settled instead for a visit to the morgue, a brief moment that would keep them sleepless for the rest of the night. Perrone had been there, had been gentle and thoughtful, allowing them only to see their son’s face.
Tata Romero had been unable to ask questions other than
why
, a word she repeated a dozen times. Estelle had no answer. George Romero’s face was set in grim lines, and at one point, as they left the hospital, had asked, “What do you know?”
Estelle had been almost honest in her answer, erring only in being deliberately incomplete. She hadn’t mentioned the handgun found on the ATV.
“Kind of interesting,” Torrez continued. “The gun had a round chambered, but wasn’t decocked.” He slid the heavy automatic across to Estelle. Sgt. Tom Mears had spent considerable time with the gun, retrieving whatever evidence he could. The sum total was several smudgy prints, all belonging to Freddy Romero.
“Freddy wrapped the gun in that cloth, with one round in the chamber, hammer cocked, ready to go,” Estelle said. “He didn’t try to unload it, and I doubt that he fired it.”
“Looks like.” The sheriff hefted a sealed plastic envelope and displayed a handful of stubby .40 S&W cartridges. “The gun has a ten round magazine. You could add one in the chamber, and that would make eleven. We recovered nine. One was in the chamber, eight in the magazine. All Speer Gold Dot. Mears is processing a couple of prints that might work for us.”
“So it could have been fired once, or maybe twice, depending on how it was loaded.” Estelle took a moment to mull the sheriff’s shorthand explanation.
“Could have been fired a thousand times, far as that goes,” Torrez said. “But that’s what was
in
the gun when we found it in Freddy’s carry-all…cocked, with one in the pipe, eight more in the magazine.”
Estelle gazed at the stubby, heavy automatic, then picked it up and thumbed the decocker lever. The cocked hammer snapped down, but the large, rotating bar of the decocker mechanism prevented the hammer from striking the firing pin. The gun then could be carried safely with a chambered round, hammer down. Then snap the decocker up, leaving the gun in double-action mode, and all the shooter had to do was pull the trigger. When the gun fired, the hammer was cocked by the slide slamming backward, and would remain that way, cocked and ready to fire, unless the decocker was activated.
“I can think of a hundred ways Freddy could have come to grief with this,” she said. “Not the least of which is having it bounce around in the carrier of that ATV, charged and ready to go.”
“Odds are slim that it would go off by itself,” Torrez said. “Slim and none. But then he gets home with it…”
“
That
thought gives me the willies. I didn’t mention it to George Romero yet. I wanted to know more before I did that.”
The sheriff nodded. “So instead
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