Four people wearing ugly holiday sweaters lay strewn about the walkway and front porch. Blood oozed from bullet holes that peppered their bodies. The crimson crawled down the walkway toward the street.
The victims were a wholesome, clean-cut bunch. Or so they appeared.
A woman in her early 40s lay slumped in the doorway. She must have been the homeowner.
I recognized one of the victims right away.
The others ranged from young to old. A teenage girl, blonde, wearing a green sweater with reindeer and snowmen. A gentleman in his late 30s with dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp features. A woman in her early 30s with long, wavy chocolate hair, tawny eyes, and a trim figure.
Dr. Hunter Carlson was among the bunch. He wore a red sweater with dancing Santas.
My mind swirled with possibilities. Had all these people been targeted, or just Dr. Carlson? Our visit with him put him at the forefront of my mind.
Dietrich snapped photos, and onlookers sobbed. Camera flashes reflected in the pools of blood.
Sheriff Daniels looked on with a grim face.
"What happened?” I asked.
Daniels exhaled a frustrated breath. "According to eyewitnesses, there was a drive-by shooting.”
This wasn’t the type of neighborhood where drive-bys typically occurred.
"Anybody get a make and model on the assailants’ vehicle?"
“Late-model black Dominator GT. Four-door. According to witnesses, the scumbags drove by, opened fire with automaticweapons, and dropped the Christmas carolers. Cut down the homeowner as she stood in the doorway." The sheriff’s face tightened with sadness. He just shook his head in dismay.
"What's the homeowner’s name?"
"Mary McCarthy.” The sheriff pointed to a distraught man sitting in the back of an ambulance, overcome with grief. “That’s her husband. He’s not taking it too well.”
In his 50s, Mr. McCarthy had dark hair with hints of gray. Slick with sweat, his skin had lost its color. On the verge of shock, his worst nightmare had come true.
“Some type of gang initiation?” I suggested.
The sheriff shrugged. “Could be.”
Paris Delaney and her news crew had arrived, soaking up the grisly footage.
"When did this happen?"
"About half an hour ago now," the sheriff said. He pointed to a blonde woman in her 30s with a black cocker spaniel on a leash. “She was walking the dog when she saw the incident. Her name’s Lindsey Hewitt.”
I wanted to talk to Mr. McCarthy, but I figured I’d give him a few more minutes to compose himself.
JD and I walked across the lawn to Lindsey. She was talking to Deputy Mendoza. Still frazzled, her hands were crusty with crimson, and nervous sweat slicked her skin.
I flashed my badge and made introductions. "I just need to ask you a few questions.”
Lindsey nodded and wiped her weepy eyes with her wrists, since they weren’t covered in blood. "It was just horrible. I was right there," she said, pointing to the street. "They drove past me and opened fire. It was so loud. I didn't realize what was happening at first. The carolers fell, and the car took off. I ran up to them, trying to help, but there was nothing I could do. I'm not a medical professional. I’d never been in a situation like that. I called 911." Her eyes filled, and the tears spilled over. "They were all dying. I tried to stop the bleeding, but I couldn't."
"Did you get a look at the vehicle?"
She nodded and gave the same description the sheriff had told me.
"What about a license plate?"
Lindsey shook her head, and her blonde ponytail swayed. "It happened so fast. I wasn't thinking.”
