“So whatever Natalie stirred up,” I said, “it’s stirred.”
“Natalie asked this ME,” Shooter continued, “could the injury have happened in the fire? He told her, ‘No way.’ That’s why he was looking into it. He suspected foul play.”
I felt my nostrils flare outward. Now I understood “the problem.” And it was a big one. Cassie and Richie had established early on that at least one detective and one patrolman in Hambis were on the payroll of J. P. Sandoval.
“The medical examiner was asking Natalie’s permission,” Shooter said, “as a family member. Would she object if he investigated further? He’d have to cut into Freddie’s chest to do so.”
“She said yes.”
“She did,” Shooter said.
“When did this conversation happen?” I asked. “Between the ME and Natalie?”
“Two days ago. And that’s not all, Gardner. This ME is smart. He told Natalie he went through the police inventory of the trailer. Guess what he found—aside from the guns being missing?”
I blinked. “The guns went missing after the fire?”
“Both of them,” she said. “But I presume that’s the dirty cops’ work. Guess what else he found, Gardner?”
She paused. Then said what I knew was coming.
“Liquor bottles.”
“He studied the engraved number on the glass,” I said. “Figured out they were Everclear?”
These were the bottles of grain alcohol I had used to set the mobile home ablaze. At 189 proof, it was a natural accelerant.
“How much of a problem is this ME?” I asked.
“A big one. He’s been studying fires initiated with accelerants. Spoke to someone at the state. Told Natalie about PMCT.”
Postmortem computed tomography, or PMCT, was a cutting-edge tool used in forensic investigations. In the case of burn victims, the technology helped arson investigators differentiate between normal postmortem changes the body undergoes from heat—and those of suspect origins.
I pictured the ragged piece of lead that Shooter had pulled from Freddie’s body and wondered if the antique rifle had left other fragments inside him.
My mind began tracking where this story went next. If the ME was not dirty himself, he would—without knowing—inform the dirty cops, telling them what he’d found. They, in turn, would tell Sandoval.
My mind moved to what J. P. Sandoval would do. One of his men had been burned alive. The other had mysteriously disappeared for three days. Given these facts, Sandoval would know he was under investigation. He’d tell the men inside the Foggy Bottom house that the feds knew they were there. That they should arm themselves and go down swinging.
’Cause cult leaders all knew what Frank had said to Cassie: thatdead men tell no tales. And Sandovalwantedthem dead because it protectedhim. That was his number one concern.
“PMCT has a particular sensitivity to metallic artifacts,” I said. “Especially those of ballistic origin.”
“I know,” Shooter replied. “When I was at ATF, we did a double-blind study with cadavers. I was brought in to shoot them, Gardner. The examiners worked blind of me. They were charged with discerning entrance and exit wounds. In the final radiographic report, they were able to tell the projection of my weapon and guess at the type. Sometimes I’d shot with older hunting rifles that would leave behind fragments. Other times I did through-and-throughs with handguns.”
“This ME,” I said. “Levis. Do we know if he’s clean?”
“No idea. He could have a hard-on because he’s part of the gang and suspects something. Or there’s the other option. He’s a genius like you. Just stuck in Hambis.”
“When did he send the body to the state?”
“Two days ago, on a rush. It’s headed back today,” Shooter said. “Levis has been texting Natalie updates. She thinks he’s sweet on her.”
“Today when?” I asked.
“Well, it’s interesting you ask that. I reached out to a buddy at the state. Apparently they send their reports back to locals at 6:01 p.m. every day. That way no one calls them about any results until the next morning.”
I pulled the phone from my ear to check the time. It was 5:03 p.m.
