“So whoever murdered him was a lousy shot. Probably missed him with two rounds altogether.”
“Could be. Something peculiar, though. The victim had a large garbage bag over his head and torso.”
“How was he able to run so far down that path?” asked Connie.
“It wasn’t the dark-green type of bag. Made of clear plastic. The type you would use for disposing of leaves and stuff in the fall.”
“Someone figured it would help eliminate DNA from their vehicle.”
“That’s what I figure. The victim was coughing up blood before he got here. The inside of the bag was sprayed from blood coming out his nose.”
“Maybe the bullet in his back went through a lung.”
“No. Wait until you see the bag. There was quite a bit smeared around inside. I think the bullet in his back was followed in short order by one to the skull.”
“What’s your guess on why he was bleeding prior to arrival? Think he was punched in the face?”
“No, it’s not a broken nose. I’ve seen this type of blood pattern before. My guess is someone took a bat or pipe to his ribcage to subdue him. Autopsy should confirm it, but I bet one of his lungs is punctured with a broken rib.”
“A tough way to die.”
“Yeah. I bet he knew it was coming. Slow and painful way to go. I’ve uncovered the route the victim took after arriving and have a theory from what I’ve seen. Where do you want to start? At the body or do you want me to show you the evidence leading to the body?”
“May as well start at the beginning. If he was bagged, I doubt that there is much blood in the parking lot.”
“There’s always some when someone is shot. Bagged or not.”
“Too dry for foot or tire tracks,” said CC, thinking aloud.
“This is the beginning as I know it,” said Dallas, pointing to an area in the gravelled lot. “You can see a double set of scuff marks in the dirt. Like a bounce followed by short drag marks that match the heels of his shoes. My guess is he was dragged out of a van by two people. If it was a car —”
“He would have been lifted from the trunk. There wouldn’t be these patterns in the gravel from being set down.”
“Exactly.”
“Thought your specialty was blood?”
Dallas smiled and said, “If you look closely, you’ll see a little blood smeared in the gravel.”
“Got it,” said CC.
“The pattern is repeated about two shoulder widths away and then repeated a third time.”
“What the hell? You’re right.”
“Let me take you through it,” said Dallas. “He was dragged backwards out of a van and dumped on the ground. Someone tried to shoot him in the face, but he likely saw it coming and moved. The first shot took out a piece of his ear and tore the garbage bag. He then rolled two complete turns, leaving blood from his ear about two shoulder widths away on each roll.” Dallas looked at CC and said, “Are you with me so far?”
“Hang on,” said CC, clasping one hand over her ear and then stepping sideways while spinning around to simulate a roll. “Got it. Explains the gap in between.”
“Exactly. And here we have a small ball of duct tape. I think he got that off while being transported and it probably stuck up inside his pant leg. He still has a short piece of it on his ankles, but I figure he was kicking in his panic. His legs broke free at this point and he got to his feet and started running.”
CC then followed Dallas a short distance down the path, where he used a flashlight to point to a new blood trail that was easily visible.
“Here is where he took one to the inside of his thigh, but kept running,” explained Dallas. “By the large amount of blood, I’m sure the bullet hit his femoral artery. If whoever murdered him hadn’t finished the job, he would have bled out pretty quick.”
CC paused to envision the nightmare. Beaten with a bat or pipe … broken rib through your lung … bound in duct tape … kidnapped and laying on the floor of some van … dragged out and shot in the face … escape while more bullets are flying … trying to run with your hands tied behind your back … shot through the thigh … staggering … unable to gasp for air through your mouth … shot in the back … face down in the dirt … feel the gun on the back of your head —
“And here,” said Dallas, waving his flashlight beam over a spray of dark red blood in a contrasting splatter against the bright green leaves on a bush beside the trail, “is where he took one to the back. See where the blood from his leg changed direction? He spun around, staggered, and went down.”
CC looked at the man lying face down along a short embankment beside a small creek.
“The killer then put the last shot into the back of his skull,” continued Dallas.
CC paused and looked around. She knew that Dallas thought she was searching for clues. In reality she was trying once more to grasp the inhumanity of the human race. She sighed and looked at Dallas and said, “Guess it leaves us with who and why. Also, who is the victim? You said you checked for a wallet?”
“I only patted his front and back pockets. Nothing. Maybe he has it in his jacket. I didn’t want to move anything until the Forensic Identification Section does their thing.”
“I want to identify this guy. I’m not going to wait for FIS,” said CC. “I’ll be discreet. The sooner we can ID him the better.” She bent over the victim and gently started to roll the body over on the side, but her attention was diverted to a shadow cast by a fern growing out from the side embankment on the other side of the body. “Dallas, over there!” said CC. “Under the fern … see it? In the shadow. There’s something there.”
Dallas pushed the fern aside and shone his light. “Bingo! We’ve got a footprint.” Dallas squatted and examined it closer. “Too smudged to match, but gives us an idea of size.”
“Maybe the couple who found him,” suggested CC.
“They said they didn’t come down off the trail. Plus she was wearing short heels and he is big. I’m betting size ten-to-twelve range. This is much smaller. Not the vic’s. Maybe a woman?”
“Pretty wide for a woman,” commented CC, turning her attention back to the body. “Hang on, hand me your light.”
Dallas passed CC his flashlight and saw her direct the beam through the front of the clear plastic bag that was still covering the head and upper torso. She then squinted, peering closer through the bloodied plastic and reached her hand inside and took out a prescription pill bottle from the victim’s shirt pocket.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
“What is it? Got something?”
“Yeah, we got something all right. Do you know Corporal Jack Taggart from the Intelligence Unit?”
“No,” replied Dallas, bending over for a closer look at the pill bottle.
“His wife is Doctor Natasha Taggart,” replied CC, covering her eyes with one hand as she unconsciously massaged the sides of her temples.
Dallas paused for a moment, glancing at CC. “Do you want me to call her?” he asked.
Connie sighed and said, “No, I will.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” replied Connie, “but with Jack, there is guaranteed to be one.”
9
It