Touchy and Feely (Sissy Sawyer Mysteries) by Graham Masterton Page A

nose.
    ‘Well?’ said Steve. ‘What have you got?’
    Jim took out a scrumpled-up bit of tissue and blew his nose. ‘I’d say that the shot was fired from a vehicle parked next to that New England Dairies trailer. Again, I’d say that it was probably a van or a station wagon, because the shot came from very low down.’
    ‘Any tire tracks?’
    Jim shook his head, emphatically. ‘The surface is all rubble and broken brick, and there wasn’t sufficient snow covering for the vehicle to leave any kind of recoverable impression.’
    ‘So we’re only guessing that there was a vehicle?’
    Trooper MacCormack gave a dry little cough. ‘Sure. But I’d say that given all the variables it’s a reasonable guess.’
    Trooper MacCormack was a handsome, mature man with silver hair and a light winter sun-tan, and noticeably large ears. He was experienced, and he was efficient, and Steve had never seen a crime scene so meticulously cordoned off and protected. The only trouble was, Trooper MacCormack spoke in such a measured, expressionless drawl that Steve found it very hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
    ‘We’ve talked to seven different witnesses and none of them saw any individual on foot anywhere in this vicinity within the time-frame of Mrs Mitchelson’s shooting, nor did they notice any individual on that waste ground with or without a weapon of any description.’
    Steve almost felt like saying ‘Amen.’ Instead, he looked around and asked, ‘Nobody saw a vehicle , either?’
    ‘Correct,’ agreed Trooper MacCormack. ‘But that doesn’t preclude the possibility that a vehicle was there. If you were approaching Canaan from the south, any vehicle parked in that location would have been shielded from your direct line of sight by that trailer; and if you were leaving Canaan it would have been mostly concealed behind that furniture store. You would have had to have turned your head to see it, even if it was there, and why would you.’
    Steve took out a stick of Doublemint, made stiff by the cold, and folded it into his mouth. ‘If a panel van had been parked there, with one or both of its rear doors open, I think I would have noticed it.’
    ‘Yes, but with respect you’re a detective and you notice that kind of thing because you’ve been trained to. You would have said to yourself why does that panel van have its rear door open when there are no stores or warehouses nearby for goods to be loaded or unloaded. Your average individual goes around all day and wouldn’t notice if a pink gorilla walked past them. That’s a scientific proven observation.’
    ‘I’d still like to find one person who actually saw a van parked there. Just one.’
    ‘Well, we’re still appealing for witnesses, sir, and you never know.’
    Doreen came out of the house and balanced along the narrow path that had been marked out with yellow tape by the crime scene unit. ‘Steve,’ she said. ‘Do you want to talk to Mr Mitchelson, and the little girl?’
    ‘Absolutely.’ He turned to Trooper MacCormack and said, ‘Excellent work, Trooper. You’ll keep me posted, right?’
    ‘You bet.’
    Steve followed Doreen into the house. The kitchen was crowded with troopers and reporters and photographers, and the boarded floor was a mess of wet footprints. Steve elbowed his way through to the living room. A female trooper opened the door for him, and then closed it behind him.
    The living room was chilly and very silent. It was decorated plainly, with magnolia walls and a polished oak floor, and brown leather furniture. A sulky fire was smoldering in the grate, giving off more smoke than heat. Randall Mitchelson was standing by the window wearing a thick blue woolen robe, his hands in his pockets. Juniper was sitting on the floor close to the fire, clutching a Bratz doll.
    ‘Mr Mitchelson? I’m Detective Steven Wintergreen, Western District Major Crime Squad.’
    Randall turned around. ‘Hi. I won’t shake your hand. I have this