Page 77 of Pumpkin
Keys nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. “It was three in the morning. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Lucky indicated for him to continue.
Keys started typing quickly, ducking his head down below the monitors in front of his chair. The motel room on the screen spun as two people appeared in the room. Neither had details, like hair or eyecolor, but it was obvious one was a tall man and one was an extremely skinny woman. They kind of looked like gray Tootsie Rolls.
As the image continued to spin, a red line came through the window and ended as a dot on the woman’s forehead. Both people in the room remained standing, though.
“From what we were able to determine, this is the angle of the bullet through the glass,” Keys explained. “I got a look at the shell casing the police found?—”
“Wait,” Papaw interrupted. “He didn’t check his brass?”
Keys shook his head.
Papaw scowled. “Steel would never be so sloppy.” Realizing what he’d said and Keys’ stunned expression, he added, “Not that I think he did it. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, kid. I’m just saying, if he did, he wouldn’t have been so sloppy.”
Keys cleared his throat. “Um, right.” The screens split into two separate images. On the right was the model of the motel room and on the left was a crime scene picture of a bronze shell casing in grass with an L-shaped ruler beside it. “It’s a 51mm, but without the bullet, there’s no way to determine what model gun was used.
“If they did their homework, it would be an M40-A1,” Angel stated, and Papaw nodded.
“Why?” Lucky asked. “Marine snipers generally use MK-22s.”
“Not when Steel was trained,” Papaw explained. “In the 1990s, we used the M40s. It wasn’t until the mid-2000s that we changed over.” He pointed to the television screen. “They didn’t leave a shell casing because they’re sloppy. That bullet will trace back to Steel somehow.”
“Does Steel have a rifle?” Bulldog asked the room as a whole.
No one seemed to have that answer. Pumpkin had only ever seen Steel with his SIG Sauer M18. Keys had other weapons stashed for when the club might need it, but none of that was registered or could be traced back to the club.
“Are there any fingerprints on the casing?” Bulldog asked Keys when no one could answer his other question.
Keys didn’t look happy to say, “It hasn’t been processed yet.”
Bear’s face darkened from his usual jovial expression as he satforward. “How much do you want to bet that Steel’s fingerprint will be on there?”
There were no takers.
Lucky cracked his neck. “We need that shell casing. If Steel’s fingerprint is on it, it won’t matter what alibi we give him, he’s going down for murder.”
“Were you able to give Toni Steel’s alibi?” Bulldog asked Keys.
The kid nodded. “She had it Saturday morning. Said she’d be talking to the prosecutor first thing this morning.” He made a face. “But it’s flimsy at best. All I did was prove what time Steel and Jenna arrived on property Thursday afternoon and that there was no evidence he left again before Friday morning. Jenna is Steel’s only alibi at the time of the murder. Ollie was still at Angel and Cage’s. I can prove his phone was on property, but again, that can be argued.”
“And Jenna gave her statement to Carlos on Friday when I took her over.” Lucky rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache. “He was helping Jenna bathe at the time of the murder.”
“Well, unless they have a photo of that with a credible timestamp, his fingerprint on the shell casing is going to trump a spouse’s alibi,” Demo said, pointing to the monitors.
“Keys, where is this?” Angel asked. “The murder didn’t happen in Mount Grove, did it?”
Keys shook his head. “Cottonville. DEA had them in that seedy motel off of I-99.”
“And where is the tower they think the shot came from?”
The image on the televisions zoomed out, following the red line from the model of Dixie Gilbert’s forehead, out the window, down a line of trees, over a hill, and finally to a cell tower.
A graphic of a large purple thumbtack landed in the grass at the base of the tower. “This is where the shell casing was found.”
That seemed like a good distance away, and outside of the police’s normal search radius. Pumpkin frowned. “Why would they even search all the way out there?”
“They didn’t at first,” Keys answered. “From the initial report, they were only searching the parking lot and questioning witnesses. Fangclaimed from the very beginning that he heard nothing beyond the breaking of the window glass and then Dixie falling. There was no gunshot or muzzle flash. When other guests of the motel claimed the same, the police started searching beyond their initial radius. Problem was, there was nothing there. You saw,” Keys added to no one in particular. “That cell tower is the only thing between it and the motel window. There’s no other perches from that height and trajectory. According to the report, Agent Strouse went out there on a whim and found the shell casing.”
