"Did you get a look at the assailants inside the vehicle?"
"Not really. The car had dark-tinted windows. The guys with the machine guns wore baseball caps, sunglasses, and bandannas.”
"What color bandannas?"
"Black. Maybe navy blue. I'm not sure.”
Forensic investigators scanned the street, looking for shell casings—of which they found more than a few.
I asked Lindsey to describe the machine gun. She did, and from what she told me, it sounded like a Mac 10. Popular with gang bangers.
"Did you know the victims?”
Lindsey nodded. Her face tightened, then tears spilled over again. "Ivy was so young. 17. She was a senior in high school. Nick is a real estate developer. Sheila was a hospice nurse. She was so kind. Then there’s Dr. Carlson. Everybody loves Dr. Carlson. He takes care of Biscuit for me. I don't know what I'm going to do without him.”
"What about Mrs. McCarthy? Did you know her well?" I asked.
Lindsay nodded. "Super sweet. Her poor husband. He just adored her.” She looked at the ambulance. Mr. McCarthy was just barely holding his grasp on reality—his world turned upside down.
We chatted some more, and I gave her my card.
JD and I stepped away and talked to one of the forensic guys. They had found several 9mm casings, consistent with some Mac 10s. It was a lighter, faster round and allowed higher capacity magazines than the .45 ACP versions.
Judging by Lindsey’s description, the assailants hadn’t used suppressors.
We found Mr. McCarthy still sitting in the back of the ambulance. I asked an EMT, “How is he?”
“Traumatized, but stable.”
I flashed my badge at Mr. McCarthy as we approached. I offered my condolences, then said, “I know this is a terrible time, but I need to ask you a few questions.”
15
“Iwas in the kitchen,” Mr. McCarthy said between jerking sobs. “She had just called me to come see the carolers. Gunshots rang out as I entered the foyer. She dropped right there.” He broke down in sobs.
When he settled, I asked him to describe the assailants, but he said he didn’t get a good look at them. He was still inside the house.
“I need to get a look at your video doorbell footage.”
He nodded, pulled his device from his pocket, and launched the app. He gave the phone to me. “I can’t watch that.”
I cued up the footage and replayed the clip. It started from the moment the carolers rang the bell.
“Hi, Mrs. McCarthy,” Ivy said with a cheery smile. “We’re caroling again. Do you have a request?”
Mrs. McCarthy thought for a moment. “Can you do ‘Silent Night?’”
“We sure can,” Ivy said with enthusiasm.
The quartet broke into song.
They had barely finished the first verse when a hail of copper rained down on them. The minions of death drilled through flesh, splattering crimson, speckling the camera lens. Screeches and screams filled the air. The quartet collapsed, and the camera caught a glimpse of the assailants’ vehicle.
I exported the clip and sent it to my phone, then forwarded it to the sheriff.
On its face, it seemed like a random shooting. Violence for the sake of violence. But I didn't want to jump to any conclusions.
"Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to cause harm to your wife?"
