Brass in Pocket Read Free

sheets and bedspread). Each spot had to be swabbed, and the swabs treated with alpha-naphthyl phosphate and Brentamine Fast Blue. More often than not, the swabs turned purple almost immediately, indicating positive results. All the spots were dry, which made collecting and bagging them easier, but given the sheer number of them in the room, it was still a long process. Each would have to be analyzed back at the lab, where DNA analysis would help determine who had been in the room. Given the age of the stains, she suspected they wouldn’t factor into the investigation, but until she knew for certain when Deke Freeson had arrived at the room, and what he was doing there, she couldn’t afford to discount any potential leads.
    Nick, meanwhile, had been taking a more global approach. After collecting bullets from the ceiling and headboard, he rummaged through drawers and the closet and the single suitcase and purse found in the room. “The purse belongs to Antoinette O’Brady of Las Vegas,” he announced. “There’s a wallet and cell phone still inside. Plenty of cash. She’s fifty-six years old.” He showed Catherine the driver’s license picture. Antoinette O’Brady looked young for her age and wore her long blond hair and makeup in ways that made her look like she was trying to come across as younger still.
    â€œIf she lives in town, what’s she doing staying in a dump like this?” Catherine asked.
    â€œAnd where is she now? Maybe she’s the shooter, not a motel guest. The room was registered to Freeson. He checked in yesterday.”
    â€œWhich doesn’t necessarily mean that one or both of them weren’t here before that, either staying with someone else or registered under a different name. I doubt this place is too picky about checking ID. We’ll have to look for any connections between them,” Catherine said. “What about that suitcase?”
    â€œI’m pretty sure it’s not Deke’s,” Nick said. “Clothing and toiletries are consistent with the woman’s height and weight, based on her license.”
    â€œHow old is the license?”
    â€œLess than a year old.”
    â€œMost people shave a few pounds off when they get a new license,” Catherine said. “But if it’s that recent, chances are it’s in the ballpark. And I’ve never heard of anyone bringing a suitcase on a hit.”
    â€œEven if they did, they wouldn’t unpack their toiletries in the bathroom,” Nick observed. “It looks like she expected to stay for a while. Few days, anyway.”
    â€œA few days in this room might be enough to make me start shooting people too,” Catherine said. She had finished with fluids, and used tweezers to lift a hair from the carpet and drop it into a small plastic envelope. Like the semen and blood, it would go to the lab for analysis. Chances were good it would have nothing to do with Deke Freeson orAntoinette O’Brady, but it had to be done. “What else do we have?”
    â€œWell, blood,” Nick said.
    â€œObviously there’s no shortage of that.”
    â€œThat’s for sure.” He pointed at the bed. “High-velocity spatter here and on the headboard. More on the ceiling. Consistent with the two shots David described. I think the shooter came in the door—”
    â€œUsing the battering ram,” Catherine interrupted.
    â€œâ€”right. Smashed in the door, dropped the ram, and fired the first shot. It hit Freeson just below the collarbone. Freeson was standing in front of the bed—there’s backspatter on the floor in front of his position—when the shooter came in and fired. Blood sprayed his feet and the floor there. Someone—presumably the shooter, since the transfer pattern doesn’t match the shoes Freeson was wearing—stepped in it. The print is a sneaker print. Converse. And there’s a void in the blood