Decker glanced at the clock. “It’s almost four. We’ve all been working overtime. Pack it in, Detective.”
Marge sat down, dropped her head in her hands. “Honestly, Pete, I’m all right. Just give me an assignment that doesn’t involve counting bullets.”
Decker smiled. “How’s it coming?”
“I wouldn’t have made a good accountant.”
“Why?” Decker’s interest suddenly perked up. “You’ve got discrepancies?”
“I don’t know yet.” Marge lifted her head. “Because we’re not through. So far we’ve recovered an awful lot of shells for one shooter … even if the shooter was using a double automatic.”
“Interesting.” Decker started making notes. “Tell me.”
Marge was thoughtful. “We picked up lots of strays, Pete. In the walls, in the floor, in the furniture. Which puzzled Scott. He mentioned the same point that you did yesterday. That mass murderers often hunt their victims. Part of the thrill.”
“But that wasn’t what happened,” Decker said.
“No, not according to witnesses. The killer just sprayed the place.”
No one spoke. Then Marge said, “You know, it’s a miracle that more people didn’t die.”
“How many bullets did you recover?”
“So far enough to account for around … ten, maybe twelve magazines. We’ve found eight empty cartridges.”
“About a hundred and fifty rounds upward. And Harlan’s shooting time was what … three to six minutes?”
“It’s possible to peel off twelve rounds in a double automatic in six minutes if you’re not aiming at anything. But you’d have to work quickly. Go in and blast the place and hope the sucker doesn’t jam.”
Marge studied Decker, reading his face not as her boss but as her ex-partner.
“You’ve got something on your mind, big guy?”
“Just speculation.” Decker began to doodle. “Doesn’t amount to much.” Marge pushed hair out of her eyes, stared at him with purpose. “Out with it.”
“I’ve been going over some of the prelim autopsy reports on the victims.” Decker paused. “I’m … disconcerted by them.”
“What in particular?”
“The bullet trajectories. People at the same table being hit with shots at different angles.”
“They were probably facing in different directions.”
“I took that into consideration. Still, there are things that don’t make sense.” Decker spread out several police photographs. “For instance, look at this couple. Victims numbers nine and ten—Linda and Ray Garrison.”
Marge’s eyes swept over the snapshots. She winced.
“The couple was seated … here.” Decker showed Marge a floor plan of Estelle’s. “Right here. At table number fifteen. I figure they must have been among the first to be hit because they died in their seats. Didn’t even have enough time to duck under the table.”
Marge studied the prints. “They weren’t really close to the entrance to the restaurant.”
“About a hundred feet away. If the shooting took place as soon as Harlan entered the place, they should have realized what was going on … had enough time to duck or run for cover.”
“Which may mean that the shooting broke out closer to them.”
“Or possibly they both just froze,” Decker added. “Anyway, look at the photograph. They died in their chairs, sitting opposite each other, slumped over the table. Both of them … riddled with holes. On the surface, no difference. Except Forensics tells us an alternate story. The bullets entered Linda Garrison’s back and exited through her chest. Mr. Garrison was also shot from back to front.”
Decker paused.
“Think about it, Margie. If Harlan was shooting from one position—say he stood in back of Mr. Garrison—the bullets would have entered Garrison’s back and exited Garrison’s chest. Agreed?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“Those same bullets … flying in the same direction … should have entered Mrs. Garrison through her chest and exited her back. Instead, it’s just the opposite. What’d Harlan do? Shoot in one position, then move to the opposite side and shoot in the other?”
Marge was silent. “Weird.”
“Perhaps a bit suspicious,” Decker said.
“Maybe Harlan immediately picked off one of them, walked around and shot a little bit more, then changed his direction and picked the other one off.”
“But that contradicts what you just reported … that the shooter wasn’t picking people off.” Decker sat back in his chair. “Taken out of the context of Estelle’s … even forgetting about all the eyewitness accounts … just looking at the forensics … it looks deliberate. It warrants further investigation.”
“I concur.”
“So this is what I want you to do. I want you to go over the list of the victims and find out if any of them belonged to Greenvale Country Club.”
Marge stared at him. “Now there’s a non sequitur. Why?”
“Because Harlan once worked there.”
“So?”
“Well, it’s like this. I see lots of stray bullets and unexplained bullet trajectories. Suggestive of maybe more than one shooter—”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly. I told you this is speculation.”
“Go on,” Marge urged.
“I’m just wondering if this isn’t a botched hit masked as a mass murder. Looking at the case from that perspective, I’d like to see if maybe we can find a connection between Harlan and a specific victim.”
“Harlan Manz committed suicide, Pete. Most hit men don’t whack themselves.”
“Maybe he didn’t whack himself. If it was a botched hit, maybe the second shooter whacked him by accident—”
Marge made a face.
“I know I’m stretching. Ballistics confirms that the bullet in Harlan’s head matches the gun.” Decker paused. “I’m trying to make sense out of it … looking for a catalyst that drove him over the edge. Even if I’m completely off base, it wouldn’t hurt us or LAPD to be thorough. Get all the possible connections so we don’t get caught with our pants down.”
Marge nodded. “No big deal to cross-check the victims against Greenvale’s membership list. How do I get hold of the names?”
“Uh … that might be a bit of a problem.”
Marge stared at him. “You’ve asked them for a list?”
“Yes.”
“And they’ve refused.”
“That sums it up.”
“So now what?”
“Harlan’s employment at the club was kept secret … off the record. Now you could go down and be intimidating … threaten you’ll leak the information to the press unless they help you out. Or you could be quiet and discreet.